A breath caught in my throat. Lia slumped back against the mirror.
Clark.
Briggs and Sterling didn’t take us to the crime scene. They dropped us off at the house, then went themselves. No matter how many lines they crossed, there were still limits. They wouldn’t risk anyone—including the killer—seeing us at the crime scene. Not when they could, at least theoretically, bring us pictures that would work just as well.
We waited. By the time Briggs and Sterling got back, a restless pallor had settled over the house.
They didn’t come bearing pictures. They came with news.
“Forensics is still processing the evidence, but they won’t find any trace of the killer,” Agent Sterling said. “This UNSUB bludgeoned the victim with an iron brand, but followed the rest of Redding’s MO down to the tiniest detail. He was confident, not frantic. He enjoyed himself.”
He’s learning, I thought.
“It sounds more like the UNSUB who killed Emerson Cole than the one who killed Trina Simms,” I said out loud, my mind flipping into high gear. Two UNSUBs. UNSUB 1 was organized. He’d killed Emerson and Clark—and quite possibly the professor. UNSUB 2 was disorganized. He’d murdered Trina Simms right after we’d gone to visit her.
“What’s the connection?” Dean asked. “How does someone go from targeting Emerson to targeting Clark?”
“They were in the same group in Fogle’s class,” Lia offered. “Clark was head over heels for the girl.”
“His dorm room was full of pictures of her,” Briggs confirmed. “Thousands of them, under his bed.”
“What about the other two people in their group?” I asked. “Derek and Bryce. Think UNSUB 1 could be going after them next?”
First Emerson. Then Clark. Meanwhile, UNSUB 2 kills Trina Simms….
My thoughts were interrupted by the ding of incoming texts—one from Sterling’s phone and one from Briggs’s.
“Forensics?” Michael guessed.
Sloane naysayed him. “It’s too soon. Even if results are being rushed, they can’t have run more than one or two tests—”
“The tests were rushed,” Briggs interrupted. “But the only thing they’ve managed to do so far is take a sample of our victim’s DNA.”
“Why did that merit simultaneous texting?” Lia asked suspiciously.
“Because a match came up in the system.” Briggs shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over one arm. It was a restrained action, one that didn’t match the look in his eyes in the least. “Clark’s DNA matches the sample found under Trina Simms’s fingernails.”
I took a moment to process the implication. Sloane was obliging enough to put it into words.
“So what you’re saying,” she replied, “is that Gary Clarkson isn’t just victim number four. He’s also our second UNSUB.”
YOU
You can still see the look in that pudgy, pathetic little hanger-on’s eyes when you dug the point of the knife into his chest.
“This is how you’re supposed to do it,” you’d told him, zigging and zagging your way down his abundant flesh. “Every moment, perfect control. No evidence. No chances.”
After you’d received word that Trina Simms was dead, you’d imagined how it should have gone down. You’d pictured every detail—how you would have done it. The pleasure you would have gotten from hearing her scream.
But this imitation, this pretender—he’d done it wrong.
He’d had to pay.
Sweat and tears had mingled on his face. He’d struggled, but you took your time. You were patient. You explained to him that you were acquainted with Trina Simms and that she deserved better.
Or worse, depending on your perspective.
You’d showed that pale imitation, that copy of a copy, what patience really was. The only shame was that you had to gag him—couldn’t risk Joe College next door coming over to see what the little pig was squealing about.
You smile in memory as you clean the tools of your trade. Redding didn’t tell you to kill the pretender. He didn’t have to. You’re a species apart, you and the boy you just dispatched to hell.
He was weak.
You’re strong.
He was painting by numbers and still couldn’t manage to stay in the lines.
You’re a developing artist. Improvisation. Innovation. A rush of power works its way through your body just thinking about it. You thought you wanted to be like Redding. To be Redding.
But now you’re starting to see—you could be so much more.
“Not yet,” you whisper. There’s one more person who has to go first. You hum a song and close your eyes.
What will be will be—even if you have to help it along.
If the evidence was to be believed, Clark was a killer—and Redding’s other apprentice had killed him.
Sibling rivalry. The thought was misplaced, but I couldn’t shake it. Two young men who idolized Redding, who had somehow developed relationships with him—how much had they known about each other?
Enough for our remaining UNSUB to kill Clark.
“Clark killed Trina?” Michael couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice. “I knew there was anger there—about Emerson, about the professor, but still.”
I tried to picture it. Had Clark forced his way into Trina’s house? Did she let him in? Had he mentioned Redding?
“Clark was a loner,” I said, thinking out loud. “He never fit in. He wasn’t aggressive, but he wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to be around, either.”
Dean shot a sideways glance at Agent Sterling. “Just how disorganized was Trina Simms’s murder?”
I saw the logic to Dean’s question immediately: Clark fit the profile for a disorganized killer almost exactly.
“He followed the MO,” Agent Sterling said. “He just didn’t do it well.”
That’s why you killed him, I thought, addressing the words to our remaining UNSUB. You were both playing at the same game, but he messed up. He was going to get himself caught. Maybe he was going to get you caught, too.
“Did they know each other?” I asked. “Clark and our UNSUB—I’m betting they knew about each other, but had they actually met?”
“He’d want to keep them as separate as possible.” Dean didn’t specify who he was. Under the circumstances, he didn’t have to. “The less interaction they have with each other, the more control he has over the situation. This is his game, not theirs.”