A maternal streak? I wondered. That didn’t fit with the way she was dressed, her super-erect posture, the way she talked about the rest of us rather than to us. My first impression of Agent Sterling was that she was hypercontrolled, professional, and kept other people at a distance. She either didn’t like teenagers, or she disliked us specifically.
But the way she’d looked at Dean, even if it was only for a second…
You weren’t always this way, I thought, slipping into her head. Tying your hair back in French knots, keeping your every statement clinical and detached. Something happened to send you into hyperprofessional mode.
“Is there something you’d care to share with the class, Cassandra?”
Whatever sliver of softness had crept into Agent Sterling’s expression disappeared now. She’d caught me profiling her and called me out. That told me two things. First, based on the way she’d chosen to do so, I sensed a hint of sarcasm buried beneath her humorless exterior. At some point in her life, she would have said those words with a grin instead of a grimace.
And second…
“You’re a profiler,” I said out loud. She’d caught me profiling her, and I couldn’t keep from thinking, It takes one to know one.
“What makes you think that?”
“They sent you here to replace Agent Locke.” Saying those words—seeing her as a replacement—hurt more than it should have.
“And?” Agent Sterling’s voice was high and clear, but her eyes were hard. This was a challenge, as clear as the earlier subtext between Michael and Dean.
“Profilers put people in boxes,” I said, meeting Agent Sterling’s eyes and refusing to look away first. “We take in an assortment of random details, and we use those details to construct the big picture, to figure out what kind of person we’re dealing with. It’s there in the way you talk: Michael’s ‘the emotion reader with the attitude problem,’ you didn’t ‘peg me’ for being the type to play strip poker.”
I paused, and when she didn’t reply, I continued, “You read our files, and you profiled us before you ever stepped foot in this house, which means you know exactly how much it kills us that we didn’t see Agent Locke for what she was, and you either wanted to see how we’d deal with you mentioning it, or you just wanted to pick at the wound for kicks.” I paused and raked my eyes over her body, taking in all the tiny details—her fingernail polish, her posture, her shoes. “You seem like more of a masochist than a sadist, so I’m guessing you just wanted to see how we’d respond.”
The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Agent Sterling wielded that silence like a weapon. “I don’t need you to lecture me on what it means to be a profiler,” she said finally, her voice soft, her words measured. “I have a bachelor’s in criminology. I was the youngest person ever to graduate from the FBI Academy. I clocked more field time during my stint at the FBI than you will see in your entire life, and I’ve spent the past five years with Homeland Security, working on domestic terrorism cases. While I am residing in this house, you will address me as Agent Sterling or ma’am, and you will not refer to yourself as a profiler, because at the end of the day, you’re just a kid.”
There it was again in her voice, the hint of something else beneath her frosty exterior. But like a person staring at an object trapped under several feet of ice, I couldn’t make out what that something was.
“There is no ‘we’ here, Cassandra. There’s you, and there’s me, and there’s the evaluation I’m writing of this program. So I suggest that you all clean this mess up, go to bed, and get a good night’s sleep.” She tossed Michael his shirt. “You’re going to need it.”
I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to shake the fear that if I closed my eyes, there would be nothing to keep the ghosts at bay. When I slept, it all ran together: what had happened to my mother when I was twelve; the women Agent Locke had killed last summer; the gleam in Locke’s eyes as she’d held the knife out to me. The blood.
Turning over onto my side, I reached toward my nightstand.
“Cassie?” Sloane said from her bed.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Go back to sleep.”
My fingers closed around the object I’d been looking for: a tube of Rose Red lipstick, my mother’s favorite shade. It had been a gift from Locke to me, part of the sick game she’d played, doling out clues, grooming me in her own image. You wanted me to know how close you were. I slipped into Locke’s head, profiling her, the way I had on so many other nights just like this one. You wanted me to find you. The next part was always the hardest. You wanted me to be like you.
She’d offered me the knife. She’d told me to kill the girl. And on some level, she’d believed that I would say yes.
Locke’s real name had been Lacey Hobbes. She was the younger sister of Lorelai Hobbes—fake psychic, presumed murder victim. My mother. I turned the lipstick over in my hand, staring at it in the dark. No matter how many times I tried to throw it away, I couldn’t. It was a masochistic reminder: of the people I’d trusted, the people I’d lost.
Eventually, I forced my fingers to set it back down. I couldn’t keep doing this to myself.
I couldn’t stop.
Think about something else. Anything else. I thought about Agent Sterling. Locke’s replacement. She wore her clothes like armor. They were expensive, freshly pressed. She’d had a coat of clear polish on her nails. Not a French manicure, not a color—clear. Why wear polish at all if it was transparent? Did she enjoy the ritual of applying it, putting a thin layer between her nails and the rest of the world? There was subtext there: protection, distance, strength.
You don’t allow yourself weaknesses, I thought, addressing her, the way I’d been taught to address anyone I was profiling. Why? I went back over the clues she’d given me about her past. She was the youngest person to graduate from the FBI Academy—and proud of that fact. Once upon a time, she’d probably had a competitive streak. Five years ago, she’d left the FBI. Why?
Instead of an answer, my brain latched on to the fact that sometime before she’d left, she’d met Dean. He couldn’t have been more than twelve when you met him. That set off an alarm in my head. The only way an FBI agent would have interacted with Dean that long ago was if she was part of the team that took down his father.