“Where do you get off?” Lia asked Michael. She kept his right arm pinned with her left and brought her right hand up to the bottom of his sleeve. His eyes flashed, but before he could fight back, she’d pulled the sleeve roughly back.
“You just had to come with me,” Lia spat. “You wouldn’t let me walk out of that hotel room alone. I didn’t need you there. I didn’t want you there.”
My eyes landed on the arm Lia had bared. Breath rushed out of my lungs like I’d been hit with a block of cement.
There, raised against Michael’s skin like welts, were four numbers.
7761.
YOU
You plan for every contingency. You see ten moves ahead. This is not supposed to be happening.
Your target had a room booked through the end of the week. He was not supposed to leave.
Nine.
Nine.
Nine.
Your temples pound with it. Your heart races with it. You can feel your plan disintegrating, feel it falling apart. This is what you get for playing it safe. This is what you get for holding back. Are you what you claim to be, or aren’t you?
“I am.” You say the words. It takes everything in you not to scream them. “I am!”
A complication is just a complication. An opportunity. To take what you want. To do what you want. To be what you were always meant to be.
You press the tip of the knife to your stomach. Blood beads up on the surface.
Just a little complication.
Just a little blood.
Circle. Circle. Circle. Around. Up and down. Left and right.
Do it, a voice whispers from your memory. Please, God, just do it.
Everything but true infinity has its end. All mortal men must die. But you were never meant to be mortal. You were born for things such as these.
Tomorrow is the day, and the day will be perfect.
“So it has been decided,” you murmur, “and so it shall be.”
“How long?” I asked Michael, my eyes locked on his wrist.
He knew exactly what I was asking. “It showed up this morning, itching like hell.”
More than thirty-six hours after we’d left Vegas.
“Toxicodendrons.” Sloane pulled her legs back to her chest, her hands worrying at the knees of her jeans. “Plants in the toxicodendron genus produce urushiol. It’s a sticky oil, a powerful allergen. If Michael’s been exposed before, the delay of onset for the rash the second time would be between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.”
“Pretty sure I’d know if I’d been exposed before,” Michael pointed out.
“Poison ivy and poison oak are toxicodendrons.”
Michael did a one-eighty and nodded sagely. “I have been exposed before.”
Lia’s grip on his arm tightened painfully. “You think this is funny?” She loosened her hold and pushed away from him. “You’re scheduled to die tomorrow. Hilarious.”
“Lia—” Michael started to say.
“I don’t care,” Lia told him. “I don’t care that you probably got that coming after me. I don’t care that you wore long sleeves to hide it from the rest of us. I don’t care if you have some sick death wish—”
“I didn’t ask for this,” Michael cut in.
“So you’re not planning to sneak off to Vegas tomorrow by yourself to try to lure this UNSUB out?” Lia folded her arms and tilted her head to one side, waiting.
Michael didn’t respond.
Tomorrow. January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom.
The knife.
“That’s what I thought,” Lia said. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room.
“So,” Michael commented, “that went over well.”
“You aren’t going back there to play bait.” Dean got up and went to stand toe to toe with Michael. “You aren’t leaving this house.”
“I’m touched, Redding,” Michael said, bringing a hand to his heart. “You care.”
“You aren’t leaving this house,” Dean repeated. There was a quiet intensity in his voice.
Michael leaned forward, his face in Dean’s. “I don’t take orders from you.”
There was a beat, during which neither one of them backed down.
“I get it. You don’t like running away.” Dean’s voice was quiet, his eyes never leaving Michael’s. “You don’t run. You don’t hide. You don’t cower. You don’t beg.”
Because none of those things ever work. Dean didn’t say that. He didn’t have to.
“Get out of my head.” Michael’s expression matched the one he’d worn before he’d plowed his fist into that father’s face at the pool.
“Dean,” I said. “Give us a minute.”
With one last hard look at Michael, Dean did as I asked, leaving in the direction Lia had gone minutes before and taking Sloane with him.
Silence sat heavily between Michael and me.
“You should have told us,” I said quietly.
Michael studied my expression, and I didn’t even try to keep him from seeing what I felt. I’m angry, and I’m terrified. I can’t do this. I can’t sit around and wait for them to identify your body, too.
“You know me, Colorado,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ve never been very good at should.”
“Try harder,” I told him fiercely.
“Look what trying gets you.” Michael might not have meant to say those words, but he meant them. He was talking about me. And Dean. He’d spent the past few months pretending he’d never been interested in me. He’d flipped his emotions off, like I’d never mattered to him at all.