Michael shrugged. He reached into his back pocket and removed a wallet. He flashed an ID at the bouncer, who examined it carefully. It must have passed muster, because then he turned to Lia and me. “Ladies?”
Lia opened her purse and handed him not one, but two IDs. He glanced at them and raised an eyebrow at Lia.
“It’s not your birthday,” he said.
Lia executed a delicate shrug. “What’s the fun of only turning twenty-one once?”
With a snort, the bouncer handed the IDs back to her. “This area is closing,” he said. “For maintenance. If you’re looking for poker, you’ll want to hit the tables on the south side.”
When we were a good ten feet away, Michael turned to Lia. “Well?”
“Whatever this area’s closing for,” she replied, “it’s not maintenance.”
I tried to process the fact that Lia had fake IDs for both of us, then caught sight of something about a hundred yards away.
“There,” I told Michael. “By the sign that says restrooms.”
A half-dozen security personnel were directing patrons away.
“Come on,” Michael said, looping around to come at the blocked-off area from behind.
“Back at the restaurant, a man came to get the hotel owner,” I said, processing the situation as we walked. “I’d bet a thousand dollars that he’s in private security.”
There was a beat of silence during which I thought Michael might not reply. “Security was grim, but calm,” he said finally. “Shaw Senior, on the other hand, looked shaken, calculating, and like someone had just offered him a plate of rotting meat. In that order.”
We came out on the other side of the slot machines. From this angle, it was clear that they were redirecting foot traffic long before people could reach the area surrounding the bathroom.
January first, I thought suddenly. January second. January third.
“Three bodies at three different casinos in three days.” I didn’t realize I’d spoken the words out loud until I felt Michael and Lia staring at me. “Today’s day four.”
As if to mark my words, security parted to let Mr. Shaw past. He wasn’t alone. Even from a distance, I recognized the suit-clad pair with him.
Sterling and Briggs.
YOU
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
You strip off your clothes and step into the shower, letting the scalding spray hit you in the chest. The water isn’t hot enough. It should hurt. It should burn.
It doesn’t.
There was blood this time.
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
It’s her fault. If she’d done what she was supposed to do, there would have been no need for blood.
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
It’s her fault for seeing through you.
It’s her fault for resisting.
You close your eyes and remember coming up behind her. You remember closing your hands around the chain. You remember her fighting.
You remember the moment when she stopped.
You remember the blood. And when you open your eyes and look at the angry red surface of your own skin, you know that water this hot should hurt. You should burn.
But you don’t.
The smile spreads slowly over your face.
1/1.
1/2.
1/3.
1/4.
Nothing can hurt you. Soon, they’ll see. Everyone will see.
And you will be a god.
I stayed up until two in the morning, sitting on the couch with my phone on the coffee table, waiting for Sterling and Briggs to call, waiting for them to tell us what they’d found in that bathroom.
Maintenance issues, the bouncer had said.
You didn’t call the FBI for maintenance.
My mind went to the UNSUB. You do everything to a timetable. You’re not going to stop. You’re going to kill one a day, every day, until we catch you.
“Can’t sleep?” a voice asked me quietly. I looked up to see Dean silhouetted in the doorway. He was wearing a threadbare white T-shirt, thin enough and tight enough that I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath.
“Can’t sleep,” I echoed. You can’t, either, I thought. A light sheen of sweat on Dean’s face told me that he’d been doing sit-ups or push-ups or some other form of physical exercise punishing enough in repetition to quiet the whispers in his own memories.
The things his serial killer father had told him again and again.
“I keep thinking about the fact that there was probably a body in that bathroom,” I said, sharing the source of my sleepless night to keep him from dwelling on his own. “I keep thinking that Briggs and Sterling are going to call.”
Dean stepped out of the shadows. “We’re allowed to work active cases.” He moved toward me. “That doesn’t mean they’re obligated to use us.”
Dean was telling himself that, as much as telling me. When I profiled, it was like stepping into someone else’s shoes. When Dean profiled, he gave in to a pattern of thought his early experiences had ingrained in him, a darkness he kept under lock and key. Neither one of us was good at pulling back. Neither one of us was good at waiting.
“I just keep thinking about the first three victims,” I said, my voice rough in my throat. “I keep thinking that if we hadn’t gone to dinner, if we’d worked harder, if I’d…”