Lia answered my question with an order. “Put this on.”
She thrust the shirt at me. I took a step back. “Why?”
“Because,” Lia said, like the two of us hadn’t fought twice in the past forty-eight hours, “you can’t go to a Colonial University frat party dressed in your pajamas.”
“A frat party,” I repeated. Then the rest of her statement sunk in. Colonial University. The scene of the crime.
“This is a bad idea,” I told Lia. “Judd would kill us. Not to mention the fact that Agent Sterling’s already on the warpath, and all Sloane and I did was build a mock-up of the crime scene in the basement.”
“Sloane built a mock-up of the crime scene,” Lia corrected. “You didn’t do anything other than get caught.”
“You’re a crazy person,” I told Lia, struggling to keep my voice to a whisper. “You want us to sneak out of the house to attend a college frat party at a university where there is an ongoing FBI investigation. Forget about Judd and Agent Sterling. Briggs would kill us.”
“Only if we get caught,” Lia retorted. “And unlike certain redheads in this room, I specialize at not getting caught. Put on the dress, Cassie.”
“What dress?”
Lia held up the glittery thing I’d mistaken for a shirt. “This dress.”
“There is no world in which that is long enough to be a dress.”
“It’s a dress. In fact, as of this moment, it’s your dress, which you are going to put on without complaining, because frat boys are more talkative when you’re showing a little leg.”
I inhaled, preparing to counter Lia’s statement with one of my own, but she took a step forward, invading my personal space and pushing me back against the bathroom counter.
“You’re the profiler,” she said. “You tell me how okay Dean is going to be if the FBI botches this case. Then tell me that you are one hundred percent certain that we won’t pick up on something they miss.”
The FBI had profilers and interrogators. Those agents had training. They had experience. They had a million and one things that we didn’t—but no one had instincts like ours. That was the whole point of the program. That was the reason Judd was afraid that if the FBI started using us on active cases, they wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Who do you think college students are going to get chatty with,” Lia asked me, “FBI agents or two scantily clad and passably nubile teenage girls?”
Even setting aside our abilities, Lia was right. No one would suspect we were part of the investigation. They might tell us something the FBI didn’t know.
“If Sterling implied that she could, in any way, get the director to disband this program, she was lying. I can guarantee you that’s outside her purview. At most, she could send one of us home, and I would bet you a lot of money that the director wouldn’t let her send you home, because you’re a nice, shiny alternative to Dean, who the director has never trusted and never liked.” Lia took a step back, allowing me some breathing room. “You say you care about Dean,” she told me, her voice low. “You say you want to help. This will help. I’d lie to you about a lot of things, Cassie, but helping Dean isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t do this for you, or for Michael, or even for Sloane. But I would waltz into hades and make nice with the devil himself for Dean, so either you put on the damn dress or you get the hell out of my way.”
I put on the dress.
“Are you sure this isn’t a shirt?” I asked, eyeing the hemline.
Lia manhandled my face and slathered it with base before brandishing a tube of pink lip gloss and a container of black mascara. “It’s a dress,” she swore.
It was times like these I really wished Lia weren’t a compulsive liar.
“How are we even getting to this party?” I asked.
Lia smirked. “It just so happens I know a boy with a car.”
Michael’s Porsche was a remnant of his life before the program. Watching him behind the wheel, it was easy to picture the person he’d been then, the trust-fund brat bouncing from one boarding school to another, summering in the Hamptons, jetting out to Saint Barts or Saint Lucia for a long weekend.
It was easy to picture that Michael bouncing from girl to girl.
Lia sat in the front seat beside him. She was leaning back, the leather seat caressing her cheek, her long hair whipping in the wind. She’d rolled down her window and showed no signs of wanting to roll it back up. Every once in a while, her gaze flitted over to Michael. I wished I could read the inscrutable expression on Lia’s face. What was she thinking?
When she looked at Michael, what did she feel?
Michael kept his eyes locked on the road.