I startle awake. Darkness consumes the room and I can only assume the early hour to be just that. Too early. A cold sweat takes residence on my skin, the whistling sound of the wind outside making goosebumps arise along my arms. I can't quite remember the nightmare I'd had, but I know it revolves around the same topic all of my dreams sync too. Though I know that that's not the only reason I woke up.
Things are changing. For the better, I know. Christopher was arrested and now resides in prison. God knows whether or not Brecken will resurface into the hands of Aspen and her team. And Dean. Dean...
Sloane once asked me, during a game of truth or dare, how many people I'd loved. Not just romantic love— any kind of love. At that moment I had worried that given my past and the way I'd found out about my parents' schemes, my possibilities of ever falling in love again were severed. Because if the two people in the world that mattered the most— the two people who loved me the most had been liars, what did that mean for me? Trusting anyone at all since then has been a feat hard won, but after meeting the McPhersons it gave me the hope I needed.
My answer was five.
But now?
I raise my head, peaking over my shoulder to look at the boy asleep behind me. Though locked in slumber, his arms tighten around my waist. I can't suppress the smile that graces my lips.
You want to know why you in particular scare me, Kathy? Sterlings words ring in my ears. You're the one who really feels things. You won't ever be able to stop caring. Things will always be personal.
I care about the victims we fight for. The Mackenzie McBrides and nameless women at coffee shops. I care about the people in this house— not just Dean and Maddox, but Sloane, Lia and Michael.
Sliding my eyes shut, I try to find things that can lull me back to sleep. The electricity running through the walls. The rise and fall of Deans chest against my back. Anything to silence my thoughts.
Mackenzie McBride. The girl at the coffee shop. My thoughts circle back. Why? I let my head flop back down to the side, taking steady, even breaths.
The FBI had gotten Mackenzie McBrides case wrong. The FBI had gotten the Florence case wrong. We'd missed the killers hiding in plain sight. But we haven't missed anything on this case. Christopher Simms is the villain. They caught him in the act. He had supplies in his truck— bindings for the girls ankles and wrists, a knife, the brand.
The girl at the coffee shop. That's what I keep circling back too. An uneasiness roots itself deep in my stomach. Who was Christopher's intended victim? Redding knew that someone was scheduled to die. He told us to expect it.
How do you choose who dies?
I don't.
Clark chose Emerson.
Christopher chose his mother.
Fogle was nothing but a complication that needed to be dealt with.
So who chose the girl?
There's no getting that question out of my mind. Maybe it's nothing. Nothing at all. But that doesn't stop me from attempting to carefully slip out of Deans grasp. At first he pulls me back, and it takes studious Truth Seeking to determine that he's still dormant. I sit up, checking the time on my phone. 2:04. I leave my cell there, tiptoeing out of the room. The house is silent, the sound of my footsteps nothing but small thuds as I make my way down the stairs. The door to the study —Agent Sterlings temporary lodging— is open a crack. The faint glow of lamplight coming from inside the room tells me that she isn't asleep, either.
I hover at the door. I can't quite bring myself to knock, but without warning the door flies inward anyways. Sterling stands on the other side, her brown hair loose and messy, her face free of makeup, and her gun at the ready. I raise a brow in perplexity, and as she sees me she lets out a breath, lowering her weapon.
"Kathy," she says. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here." The answer leaves my lips easily.
"You live directly outside my door?"
"You're on edge too," I estimate, judging by the sheer fact she'd opened her door with a gun in hand. "You can't sleep. Neither can I."
She shakes her head in chagrin, though I can't determine whether it's directed at herself or at me, but emotions aside she steps back, inviting me in. I cross the threshold, and she closes the door behind me, flipping on the overhead light.
Glancing around I'm almost surprised at the sight of the familiar taxidermy predators, frozen seconds before they'd strike. "No wonder you can't sleep," I note sarcastically.
She bites back a smile. "He's always had a flair for the dramatic." She sits down on the edge of the foldout couch. With her hair down she looks years younger. "Why can't you sleep?" She asks. "Ankle tracker giving you problems?"
I glance down at me feet, mouth set in a pout as I shake the implied limb around. The constant weight should probably be more bothersome than it is, but with everything that's gone on these past few days, I'd completely forgotten it existed.
"No, this isn't my first rodeo so I'm fairly used to it. Yes, seeing as to how it's not even activated I'd love for you to take it off, but that's not why I'm up." She rolls her eyes in annoyance at the reminder. At this point, I'm sure she must know everything. "It's about the girl, the one that Christopher was meeting at the coffee shop. The one he was planning to abduct."
"What about her?" Sterlings voice is slightly hoarse. I wonder how many nights she spends like this, unable to sleep.
"Who was she?" I ask. "Why was she meeting Christopher?"
"She worked at the coffee shop," Sterling replies. "She'd been conversing with someone on an online dating site. He used a fake name and only accessed the account from public computers, but it stands to reason it was Christopher, taking things to the next level with victim selection. His mother was dead. He'd killed Emerson— that could have given him a taste for college aged girls."
Strangers on a train. "Christopher had an alibi for his mother's murder. Clark had one for Emerson's." I swallow. My mouth is dry, and it takes a lot of effort to keep talking. "Maybe that was it. Maybe now that Clark was dead, Christopher was on his own, but that doesn't explain how Redding knew someone was going to die, besides Clark. It was planned. And if it was planned..."
My feet carry me to the bed. Willing Sterling to understand I sit down beside her. My hands run down the length of my bare thighs. Shorts and a tee shirt have become the new normal for nighttime, but at the moment, the air is thick with a chill that grasps my spine.
"What if Christopher wasn't the one communicating with the girl online? What if he didn't choose her?"
Clark chose Emerson.
Christopher chose his mother.
They both had ironclad alibis for the murders of the women they'd chosen. What if someone else had an alibi for this one? What if they aren't the only ones?
"You think there's a third." Sterling puts the possibility into words and more than anything else that makes it real. My palms grip my knees.
"Did Christopher confess to Emerson's murder?" I ask. "Is there any physical evidence tying him to the scene? Any circumstantial evidence? Anything, other than the fact he was going to kill the other girl?"
Sterlings phone rings. The sound is garish, jarring in contrast with the muted stance of my questions. Phone calls at two in the morning never bring good news.
"Sterling." Her posture changes as she answers the phone. This isn't the woman sitting on the edge of her bed with tussled hair. This is the Agent. "What do you mean 'he's dead?'" A short pause. "I know the literal meaning of the word, Dad. What happened? When did you get the call?"
Someone is dead. Even the thought has my heart beating roughly against my rib cage. The way she's talking means it's someone we know, and a plea wrenches it's way through my mind, begging louder than the rest of the voices. Don't be Briggs. Don't be Briggs.
"No, this isn't a blessing," Sterling says sharply. "This case isn't closed."
Not Briggs. No matter how inconsiderate and repulsing the director may be, he'd never refer to the death of his former son-in-law as a blessing.
"Are you listening to me, Dad? Director, we think there might be—" she cuts off. "Who's we? Does it matter who we is? I'm telling
you—"
She isn't telling him anything. Because he isn't listening.
"I know it would be to your advantage, politically, if this case was closed and if it never had to go to trial because our first killer took out our second killer and then strung himself up by the bedsheets once he was caught." She takes a breath. "That's neat, and it's tidy. It's convenient. Director?" She pauses. "Director? Dad?" She punches her thumb viciously against her touch screen and throws her phone down.
"He hung up on me," she says bitterly. "He told me he'd gotten a call from the prison, that Christopher Simms had been found dead in his cell. He hung himself— or at least, that's the going theory."
I read the implication clear as day: Sterling believes there's a chance Christopher Simms was met with foul play.
"He wouldn't kill himself," I state. "That doesn't work with his profile at all. As Redding's apprentice and an organized killer he'd consider it futile and weak not to go through with his sentence. To cut it off before it starts."
Did Redding manage a way to have him killed? No. Because Redding is in solitary. He's not allowed visitors. He's not allowed mail. He hasn't for days. He has no clue that we even found Christopher.
Or does he?
He's not allowed mail.
The reminder is stifling. If Redding doesn't get mail— if Zander didn't tell him about Brecken, who did?
And if Redding himself didn't kill Christopher, then that means UNSUB one, Emerson's killer and very well Clark's as well, came back to finish the job.
Three UNSUB's. Two are dead.
If there's a third. If he's still out there—
The lines connect— my GOD, they all connect but before I can even comprehend the answer Sterling is slamming her suitcase open, cutting off my discovery at the stem.
"What are you doing?" I ask, my question a thick rasp.
"Getting dressed," she says tautly. "If there's even a sliver of a chance that this case isn't over, I'm working it."
"I'll go with you."
She doesn't even look up. "Thank you, but no."
"That wasn't an offer," I argue.
"I still have a few scruples," she tells me. "If there's a killer out there, I'm not putting your life on the line."
But it's okay to risk yours?
"Brecken's still out there. My life is already on the line," I snap, but my eyes begin to blur, my gaze stuck to the floorboards.
Redding doesn't get mail. Redding doesn't get mail. Redding doesn't—
Somebody told him about Brecken— all about Brecken. Somebody told him about me. Somebody killed Christopher; he'd messed up, just like Clark. He got caught. Sloppy. Weak.
One last puzzle piece falls into place; after the professor was found by the FBI— alone and in the middle of nowhere, his death was all over the news.
Who leaked it?
Somebody with the knowledge. Somebody with the resources. Somebody with access.
Access to Redding. Access to the letters. Access to Brecken.
Somebody who lied to me. Somebody who refused to let me stay in the car the first time I ever went to Virginia state. Somebody who is disgusted by Deans very existence, and has a problem with female FBI Agents.
The whys have been answered with one horrifying accusation.
My head snaps up, and I look around the room in a frenzy. Sterlings gone. I rush out of the room and catch her in the driveway, headed towards her car.
"At least have Briggs meet you there," I call out as I run to catch up, my words flustered, my heartbeat in my ears. "Wherever there is."
She hits the unlock button on the car. The headlights flash once before darkness settles back in.
"It's two in the morning," she says, clipping her words. "Just go to bed."
A week ago I'd have argued. I'd have resented her for pushing me to the sidelines. But now I understand— after everything she's had us do, her first instinct is still to protect us. Protect me. She'll take risks with her own life, but not mine.
"Call Briggs, and then I'll go to bed," I say. Even in the dark I can see the annoyance on her face. "I know who did this— you have to be careful." Immediately her aggravation turns to curiosity.
"Okay, I—I'll call him." She takes a small step forward, pulling her phone from her pocket. She opens her mouth to ask the mother of all questions, but she's interrupted.
"No," a voice mutters, directly behind me. A voice that sucks all of the oxygen out of the air. Quite literally. "You won't." Webber.
I don't have time think, to turn, to process. An arm is locked around my throat in an instant, cutting off my air and jerking me to my toes. I gasp, my body pulled flush against Webbers. Clawing at his arm does nothing but make him grip me tighter. There's a split second of panic, one that quickly fades.
Don't panic. Oxygen lasts longer when you stay calm.
I can't breathe, and something cool just grazed my cheek— something metal, that rests on my temple.
"Put your gun on the ground. Now."
It takes me a moment to realize that those words weren't said by Sterling but to her. Another moment to realize that there's a gun to my head, and Sterling is doing what she was told.
I've got to get air— I've got to remember. How do I get out of this? Do I feign myself unconscious, or do I try to head-butt him?
"Stop struggling," the silky voice whispers in my ear. He presses the gun harder into my temple. I freeze, my mind scrambling to find the remnants of my memories, some scrap of training that can get me out of this. Don't panic. Don't panic.
But then I see the figure moving behind the car. "No—" the word comes strangled from my throat, and before I know it the person emerges into the light, thrusting Sterling back into his own gun.
Brecken.
His brown hair is shaggy, and when he swings it out of his face I get a glimpse of the signature Qwynn eyes. His freckles like stars in the night sky. He's gotten rid of the disguise, clearly holding on to the fantasy of a happy ending.
"I'm doing what you asked. Let the girl go." Despite the gun to her back, Sterling sounds calm. Far away. I blink away the fog. It's already dark outside, but things get darker as inky blackness begins to take over my sight.
"Take me. That's what you came here for. I'm the one who got away from Redding. Proving you're better than his other apprentices, killing them isn't enough. You want to prove you're better than him. To show him."
The grip on my neck relaxes, but the gun never wavers. I suck in a breath, my lungs aching. Gasping for one pump of air. Then two.
"Eyes on me, Kathy," she says. She shifted her gaze from the UNSUB to me to issue that order before returning her eyes beyond me. "Knock her out. Leave her here. She wasn't a part of the plan. Your plan." Sterlings voice is steady, but her hands are shaking. We're playing a dangerous game. One wrong move and he can kill me just as fast as he can knock me out. "By the time she wakes up, you'll be long gone and I'll be all yours. You won't lose me the way Redding did. You'll take your time. You'll do it your way, but they won't find you. They won't find me if you stick to the plan."
Sterling is targeting her words at the UNSUB behind me, targeting his fears and his desires. But the truth hurts me. If they take her, if they leave me unconscious in the driveway, when I wake up it'll be too late.
They'll have too much of a head start.
But there is one way to make sure Briggs can find her. One way to make sure it won't be too late.
The UNSUB let's go of my neck. My knees are weak and I land on the concrete, clutching my throat.
"Look here, Kathy. Look right here." I can hear the desperation in her voice. She needs this. Needs me to keep looking. Needs me to survive. Slowly, I shake my head at her.
Tapping into the dark side I listen to my surroundings. For one real moment I am so so glad my mother isn't dead, and oh Lord please let her be listening.
"Young," I say out loud, my scratchy voice projecting into the silence as I describe his appearance. "Early twenties. Tall. Built like a runner." I stand. "Redding would take me too. He'd kill me too." Catching everybody off guard, I let my elbow fly backwards. It connects with Webber's mouth, and he jerks back.
"No!" Sterling shouts, but I ignore her, turning around.
"You mad, big guy?" I ask. His eyes are black with fury. Blood leaks from his lower lip, his face drawn in a sneer. "Do it," I whisper. He can shoot me. Right now, he can shoot me. Or my taunt can pay off.
All I see is a flash of movement, the glint of metal. And then everything goes black.