On one of the other screens, I saw Beau Donovan, standing near the stage. He didn’t look like he’d just killed someone. Without Michael to read him, I couldn’t tell if that was satisfaction on his face.
You don’t have to say anything, Agent Sterling had told Beau during his interrogation. But I think you want to. I think there’s something you want us to know.
Michael had indicated that Agent Sterling was right. There was something Beau wanted them to know, something he wouldn’t say. You wanted them to know how superior you are—better than the FBI, better than the group you’re emulating.
He’s got the potential for violence, Dean had told us. The rest of Dean’s assessment echoed in my head. I’m guessing he’s spent a lot of his life being tossed aside like garbage. Given the opportunity, he’d enjoy playing a game where he came out on top.
We’d known the Vegas UNSUB was capable of arranging deaths that seemed like accidents. It wasn’t much of a leap to think he might be able to plan an attack that looked like self-defense. You picked a fight with Aaron. The Majesty’s head of security came after you. You knew he would. You picked the fight with Aaron so that he would. Beau had probably hypnotized that girl into joining Aaron at Tory’s show, to give him an excuse to pick the fight. You didn’t kill Victor McKinney. You never meant to kill him—because he wasn’t number five.
He was your defense.
What better way to avoid suspicion than being arrested for the crimes and then exculpated and released?
You wrote the wrong number on his wrist. Misdirection.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling said again.
On the floor, Sloane rocked back and forth, shuddering in Lia’s arms.
I told Agent Sterling what she needed to hear. “I’m sure.”
The FBI took Beau Donovan into custody. He didn’t evade arrest. He didn’t resist.
He didn’t have to.
You know we don’t have proof. You’ve already constructed your defense.
You’re going to enjoy this.
At the time of arrest, Beau had no weapon on him. Thanks to the blackout, no one could place him near the body. You’re better than that. I’d spent enough time in our UNSUB’s head to know that Beau would have had a plan for disposing of the weapon. You didn’t expect to be arrested, but what does it matter? They can’t prove it. They can’t touch you.
Nothing can touch you now.
“Seventy-two hours.” Sloane’s voice was barely more than a whisper, rough and raw in her throat. The video feeds had been cut, but she was still staring at the blank screen, seeing Aaron’s body the way I could close my eyes and see my mother’s blood-spattered dressing room. “In most states, suspects can be held up to seventy-two hours before charges are filed,” Sloane stammered on. “It’s forty-eight in California. I’m…I’m…I’m not sure about Nevada.” Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “I should be sure. I should be. I can’t—”
I sank to the floor beside her. “It’s okay.”
She shook her head—shook it and shook it and shook it. “I told my father this was going to happen.” She just kept staring at the blank screen. “January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom. I told him, and now—I’m not sure. Is it forty-eight hours in Nevada or seventy-two?” Sloane plucked at the air, her hands trembling. “Forty-eight or seventy-two? Forty-eight or—”
“Hey.” Dean knelt in front of her and caught her hands in his. “Look at me.”
Sloane just kept shaking her head. I glanced helplessly at Lia, who hadn’t left Sloane’s side.
“We’re going to get him,” Lia said, her voice as quiet as Sloane’s, but deadly.
Somehow, the words permeated Sloane’s brain enough that the younger girl stopped shaking her head.
“We are going to nail Beau Donovan to the wall,” Lia continued, her voice low, “and he is going to spend the rest of his life in a box with the walls closing in on him. No hope. No way out. Nothing but the realization that he lost.” Lia sold every word of that statement with 100 percent conviction. “If we have to do it in forty-eight hours, we’ll do it in forty-eight hours, and if it’s seventy-two, we’ll do it in forty-eight anyway. Because we’re that good, Sloane, and we are going to get him.”
Slowly, Sloane’s breathing evened out. She finally met Dean’s eyes, tears spilling out of her own. I watched them carve their way down her face.
“I was Aaron’s sister,” Sloane said simply. “And now I’m not. I’m not his sister anymore.”
My throat tightened around the words I wanted to say. You’re still his sister, Sloane. Before I could manage a verbal reply, I heard the front door open. A heartbeat later, Michael appeared at the threshold to the living room.
The full truth of the situation broadsided me with physical force. It could have been Michael. If we’d never left Vegas, if Beau hadn’t changed the plan, it could have been Michael. I couldn’t let myself think about it. I couldn’t stop. Michael’s throat, slit with that knife. Michael, gone in an instant…
Michael paused, his eyes on Sloane. He took in the tear tracks on her face, her rounded shoulders, a thousand and one cues I couldn’t even see. Being a Natural meant Michael couldn’t turn off his ability. He couldn’t stop seeing what Sloane felt. He saw it, and he felt it, and I knew him well enough to know that he was thinking, It should have been me.