Page 33 of Bad Blood
“I meant it when I said you should leave,” I told Celine, my voice sandpaper-rough in my throat. “But before you do, I need a favor.”
The face that stared back at me from Celine’s drawing was one I recognized.
Nightshade.
The likeness Michael’s half sister had drawn was eerily accurate, down to the boyish expression on the murderer’s face.
Seven, I thought, my heart pounding viciously in my chest.Seven Masters, seven ways of killing. The progression went in a predictable order, starting with the Master who drowned his victims and culminating in poison.Nightshade is Seven.
Nightshade is Mason Kyle.
The part of me that had felt numb and hollow from the moment I’d realized that the Masters had Laurel began to crack, like ice under the force of a pick. In the past ten weeks, the FBI hadn’t been able to uncover anything about Nightshade’s background. Now we had his real name. We knew where he’d been born. And—most importantly—we knew that he’d tried very hard to bury that information.
You’re the one who brought Laurel to Vegas. You’re the one who told me where she was.
I felt like my gut had been ripped open, like everything inside of me was leaking out. The man in this drawing had killed Judd’s daughter. He’d stalked us, and when we’d caught him, he’d wrapped Laurel up for me in a tidy little bow.Why?Had he been instructed to do so? Had it all been part of some twisted game?
I found Agent Sterling in the kitchen sitting opposite Briggs. Her hands were folded on the table, inches from his.You won’t let yourself touch him. You won’t let him touch you.
She was the one who’d brought me to Laurel. She wouldn’t blame Briggs for this. She wouldn’t blame me. After Scarlett’s death, Agent Sterling had left the FBI—because she blamedherself.
“Celine Delacroix is a Natural.” I spoke up from the doorway. Right now, wallowing in guilt wasn’t a privilege any of us could afford. “She did an age progression of a photo Sloane found. Nightshade’s name is Mason Kyle. We can use that.” My voice broke, but I forced myself to continue talking. “We can use him.”
It took sixteen hours to set up the interview. On one side of the glass, Briggs and Sterling sat opposite Nightshade. On the other side, Dean, Michael, Lia, and I watched.
We’d left Sloane at home with Celine and Judd. The only adult on our side of the glass was Agent Sterling’s father.
This will work, I thought, my throat tightening.It has to.
“I understand that you feel you have nothing to say to us.” Agent Sterling began the interrogation like it was a conversation, treating the serial killer’s feelings and desires like they were completely valid. “But I thought this picture might change your mind.”
She laid an image on the table—not Mason Kyle, not yet. For now, Agent Sterling needed an entry point, something to tax the killer’s capacity for silence—in this case, a picture of Laurel.
“Did you call her Laurel?” Agent Briggs asked. “Or Nine?”
No answer.
“They have her, you know.” Agent Sterling’s voice was even and calm, but there was something intense about it, like each word that passed her lips was a living, breathing thing. “We hid her, but not well enough. They found her. Maybe they always knew where she was. Maybe they were just biding their time.”
I should have protected her, I thought fiercely.I should have been there.
Beside me, Dean laid a hand on the back of my neck. I wanted to lean into his touch, but didn’t. I didn’t deserve to be touched. I didn’t deserve to feel safe. I didn’t deserve to do anything but sit here and watch the man who’d killed Judd’s daughter reach for the picture of Laurel.
“You brought her to Las Vegas with you,” Agent Sterling said. “Why?”
“If I didn’t know better,” Briggs commented, once it became clear that Nightshade wasn’t going to say anything himself, “I’d think that you cared for the child. That youwantedto get her away from the life she was living.”
All Nightshade offered up in response to those words was another stretch of deafening silence.
“He wasn’t happy when he found out the Masters had her again,” Michael informed the agents. We were miked. Briggs and Sterling could hear us; Nightshade could not. “But he’s not surprised, and he’s not upset. If he’s feeling anything right now, it’s longing.”
What are you longing for? Not Laurel. Something else. Someoneelse…
“Ask him about my mother,” I said.
When the FBI caught you, you cashed in your last chip—your only chip—to speak to me. You took Laurel away from the other Masters. You told me things that no one outside of your hallowed walls was ever supposed to know.
“Did Lorelai ask you to get her little girl out?” Agent Briggs asked. “Did she whisper a desperate plea in your ear?”
