“What about Dean?” I asked.
“We don’t tell Dean.” Lia’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a whip. “He needs this case solved. He doesn’t need to know what we’ll do to see that happen.”
Dean wouldn’t understand why we would go out on a limb for him, because deep down, he believed he wasn’t worth saving. He would have taken a bullet for any of us, but he wouldn’t want us risking anything for him.
Most people built walls to protect themselves. Dean did it to protect everyone else.
For once, Lia and I were in total agreement. “We don’t tell Dean.”
“Deviant Behavior, Criminal Minds: An Introduction to Criminal Psychology, Eighth Edition.” Bleary-eyed and only half awake, I looked from the textbook sitting on the kitchen table to Dean, then back again. “Seriously?” I said. “Agent Sterling wants us to read an introductory textbook?”
After the night Lia, Michael, and I had had, my head was pounding, and all my body really wanted was to go back to bed.
Dean shrugged. “We’ve been assigned chapters one through four.” He paused, his eyes drinking in my appearance. “You okay?”
No, I thought. I’m sleep-deprived, and I can’t tell you why.
“I’m fine,” I insisted. I could see Dean piecing his way through the dozens of ways that I was just a shade off this morning. “I just can’t believe Agent Sterling’s idea of training us is…this,” I added, gesturing toward the textbook. From the moment I’d joined the program, I’d learned by doing. Real cases. Real crime scene photos. Real victims.
But this textbook? Bryce and Derek and Clark had probably all read one just like it. There were probably little worksheets to go with it.
“Maybe it is a waste of time,” Dean said, plucking the thought from my mind. “But right now, I’d rather waste our time than Sterling’s.”
Because Agent Sterling was hunting down Emerson’s killer.
I took the textbook from him and turned to chapter one. “‘Criminal Psychology is the subset of psychology dedicated to explaining the personality types, motives, and cognitive structures associated with deviant behavior,’” I read, “‘particularly that which causes mental or physical harm to others.’”
Dean stared down at the page. His hair fell into his face. I kept reading, falling into a steady rhythm, my voice the only sound in the room.
“‘Chapter Four: Organized vs. Disorganized Offenders.’”
Dean and I had taken a lengthy break for lunch, but my voice was still getting hoarse.
“My turn,” Dean said, taking the textbook from me. “If you read another chapter, you’re going to be miming things by the end.”
“That could get ugly,” I replied. “I’ve never been very good at charades.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?” Dean’s lips twisted into a subtle smile.
I shuddered. “Let’s just say that family game night is a competitive affair, and I’m also pretty dismal at Pictionary.”
“From where I’m sitting, that’s not exactly a character flaw.” Dean leaned back in his chair. For the first time since we’d seen the body on the news, he looked almost relaxed. His arms dangled loosely by his sides. His chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. His hair still fell into his face, but there was almost no visible tension in his shoulders, his neck.
“Did someone say character flaw?” Michael sauntered into the room. “I believe that might be one of my middle names.”
I glanced back down at the textbook, trying to pretend that I hadn’t just been staring at Dean.
“Middle names, plural?” I asked.
Michael inclined his head slightly. “Michael Alexander Thomas Character Flaw Townsend.” He shot me a lazy smile. “It has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”
“We’re working,” Dean told him flatly.
“Don’t mind me,” Michael said, waving a hand in our general direction. “I’m just making a sandwich.”
Michael was never “just” anything. He might have wanted a sandwich, but he was also enjoying irritating Dean. And, I thought, he doesn’t want to leave the two of us in here alone.
“So,” I said, turning back to Dean and trying to pretend this wasn’t awkward. “Chapter four. You want to take over reading?”
Dean glanced over at Michael, who seemed amused by the entire situation. “What if we didn’t read it?” Dean asked me.
“But it’s our homework,” I said, adopting a scandalized expression.
“Yeah, I know—I’m the one who talked you into reading it in the first place.” Dean ran his fingertip along the edge of the book. “But I can tell you what it’s going to say.”
Dean had been here five years, and this textbook was Profiling 101.
“Okay,” I said. “Why don’t you give me the abbreviated version? Teach me.”