Now, he was yelling.

Dean opened his car door. He didn’t get out. He didn’t even look at me. Briggs exhaled. I could practically see him counting to ten in his head. “I’m not going to ask where you went,” he told me, each word measured and full of warning. “I’m not going to tell you that it was stupid and reckless, although I am certain that it undoubtedly was. I’m going to ask you—once and only once, Cassandra—who told you about the professor and the girl?”

I swallowed, hard. “My source’s name was Derek. He was working on a group project with Emerson in Professor Fogle’s class. There were two other students in the group—a girl named Bryce and a boy named Clark.”

Briggs’s gaze shifted briefly to Dean.

“What?” I said. I caught the significance of the look that passed between the two of them, but couldn’t figure out its meaning.

Dean was the one who answered, as Briggs headed back for the car.

“My father said that if we were looking for a copycat, we were wasting our time with the professor.” Dean ran a hand roughly through his hair, closing his fingers into a fist and pulling at his roots. “He said that the only truly remarkable letters he’d received were from a student in that class.”

By the time Briggs pulled up to the house, the silence in the car was clawing at me. Dean hadn’t said a word since he’d told us about the letters.

We wanted to protect you, I thought, willing him to profile me and see that. But it was like someone had flipped a switch, and Dean had gone into lockdown mode. He wouldn’t even look at me. And the worst part was that I knew he was sitting there thinking about the day the two of us had spent together and what a mistake it had been for him to have believed, even for a second, that he could let someone in.

“Dean—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything.

I was the first one out of the car once Briggs put it into park. I started toward the house, then slowed when I saw a heap of junk in the driveway. Calling the mound of metal a car would have been generous. It had three wheels, no paint, and a spattering of rust along the bumper. The hood—if you could call it a hood—was popped. I couldn’t make out the person inspecting the engine, but I could make out his jeans. His well-worn, formfitting, oil-smudged jeans.

Michael?

When I’d first met Michael, he’d changed his clothing style every day to keep me guessing. But this Michael—wearing jeans and a ratty old T-shirt, buried elbow-deep in a junkyard car—was new.

He stood up, wiping a hand across his brow. He saw me looking at him, and for a split second, his expression hardened.

Not you, too, I thought. I couldn’t deal with Michael being mad at me, too.

“I’ve decided to take up restoring cars,” he called out, answering the question I hadn’t asked and giving me some hope that I’d imagined the look on his face a moment before. “In case something happens to my Porsche.”

The reference to my proposed threat did not go unnoticed.

You saw Dean and me in the kitchen, I thought, slipping into his perspective. You got sick of watching us together. You left.…

“I’m a man of many mysteries,” Michael said, disrupting my thoughts. He always knew when I was profiling him and never let me get away with it for long. “And you,” he added, his gaze flitting over my face, “are…not happy.”

“All of you, inside!” Briggs snapped.

Dean headed for the house, hunched, his eyes locked straight ahead as he brushed by us. Michael tracked Dean’s movements, then glanced back at me.

I looked down and started walking. I made it halfway to the front door before Michael caught up with me. He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly. I stopped, but still didn’t look at him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” The hand on my shoulder traced the edge of a tensed muscle, then turned me to face him. “What did Dean do?”

“Nothing,” I said. Dean had a right to be angry. He had a right to want nothing to do with me.

Putting two fingers below my chin, Michael angled my face toward his. “He did something, if you’re looking like that.”

“It’s not his fault,” I insisted.

Michael dropped his hand to his side. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Colorado, but I’m getting really tired of watching you make excuses for him.”

“Enough.” Briggs put one hand on Michael’s shoulder and one on mine and steered the two of us into the house. “Get Lia,” he said. “And Sloane. I want all of you in the living room in five minutes.”

“Or else,” Michael intoned in a whisper.

“Move!” Agent Briggs’s voice edged up on a yell. Michael and I moved.

Five minutes later, we were gathered in the living room—Michael, Lia, Sloane, and I on the coach, Dean seated on the edge of the fireplace. Briggs loomed over us. Sterling stood back and watched.

“Tell me something: in the history of this program, have any of you ever been authorized to approach witnesses?” Briggs’s voice had become deceptively pleasant.

Lia processed that question, then turned to me. “Seriously, Cassie, are you the single least stealthy person on the face of the planet, or do you just habitually want to get caught?”

“Lia!” Briggs said sharply. “Answer the question.”

“Fine,” Lia said, her voice silky. “No, we’ve never been authorized to approach witnesses. We’ve never been authorized to do anything of interest. We stay locked in the metaphorical tower while you run out and catch the bad guys. Satisfied?”

“Do I look satisfied to you?” A vein in Briggs’s forehead throbbed. “Dean went to see his father today.”

Nothing Briggs could have said would have had a bigger impact on Lia. Her eyes flickered over to Dean’s. She sat there, frozen.

“Dean went through hell because I asked him to,” Briggs continued mercilessly. “Because it was crucial for this case. I want this solved as badly as any of you, but unlike you, I’m not playing games here.”

“We weren’t—” I started to say.

Briggs cut off my objection. “Every second I have to spend policing you, making sure that you’re not taking matters into your own hands and compromising this entire investigation, is a second that I could be spending catching this killer. Right now, I should be following up a lead on the professor’s writing cabin, but instead I’m here, because you seem to need a reminder about what this program is and what it isn’t.”

Lia finally managed to look away from Dean. She turned to Briggs, her eyes flashing, her fingers curled into fists. “You’re reading us the riot act for trying to put our abilities to use, but letting that SOB play with Dean’s head in exchange for whatever table scraps of information you can get your hands on, that’s okay?”

“Enough.” Dean didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Lia turned to him. For five or six seconds, they just sat there, staring at each other.

“No, Dean. It’s not enough.” Her voice was soft, until she turned back to Briggs. “You need to let me watch the tape of your interview with Redding. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t tape it. You tape every conversation you have with the man. The question isn’t if he’s lying—it’s what he’s lying about, and we both know that I’m your best chance at answering that question.”

“You’re not helping,” Briggs told Lia. He held her gaze, and I realized that he wasn’t just denying her request. He was telling her that we really weren’t helping the situation, that everything we’d done up until this point had hurt Dean.

Maybe he was right, but I couldn’t help thinking that Lia was right, too. What if she could see something in the interview that the rest of us had missed?

Briggs’s phone rang. He answered it, turning his back on the rest of us. Agent Sterling stepped forward.

Dean preempted whatever she was going to say. “I’ll stay out of it.” His tone was expressionless, but there was something bitter in his eyes. “That’s what I excel at, isn’t it? Staying out of things until it’s too late.”