“The UNSUB is Beau Donovan, and he’s targeting Aaron Shaw,” I plowed on. “Michael was only ever a stand-in. Beau saw him with Lia, and it was like looking at Aaron with Tory. If Beau thought, even briefly, that Michael wasn’t an option, he’d compensate by going for the real thing.”
“Briggs.” I heard Sterling call out, even though she was keeping her voice low. “We’re looking for Beau Donovan, targeting Aaron Shaw.”
On-screen, the lights flickered back on. Over the phone, I heard a piercing scream. My eyes darted from one video feed to the next. Beside me, Sloane slipped off the sofa and to her knees in front of the coffee table, her hands on either side of one of the tablets.
The agent wearing the camera ran forward. The image shook. A crowd formed. The camera was jostled, and then the agent knelt.
Next to the body of Aaron Shaw.
A high-pitched wheezing sound filled the air. Lia sank to the floor and wrapped her arms around Sloane.
“I told him,” Sloane whispered. “I told my father. January twelfth. The Grand Ballroom. I told him. I told him. I told him.”
He should have listened. But he hadn’t, and now Aaron was pale and still and covered in blood. Dead.
“Cassie?” Agent Sterling’s voice came back over the phone. I’d forgotten I was even holding it. “How sure are you about the UNSUB’s identity?”
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.