Page 82 of Bad Blood
“Were you the one who suggested my mother as Pythia?” I asked. “You knew that she was alone in the world, except for me. You had to have at least suspected that there was abuse in her past.”
Ree didn’t reply.
“You told me once that we, every one of us, reap what we sow. To become one of the Masters, you had to kill nine people.” I paused, thinking of the victims on the wall back at Quantico. “You chose people who deserved it. People like your husband. People wholeft.” When I didn’t get a reaction, I continued. “Life is full of drowning people,” I said, continuing to parrot her own words back at her, “ready and willing to drown you, too—unless you drown them first.”
For a moment, I thought Ree might snap. I thought she might reach for me. But instead, she closed her eyes. “You have no idea how different the world looks once you know what it’s like to watch some son of a bitch who abandoned his four kids crumple to the ground. His eyes roll back in his head. His body seizes. Then the pain comes. He scratches at himself, at the walls, at the floor—until his nails are bloody. Until there’s nothing left but pain.”
The picture Ree was painting was familiar. Beau Donovan had died from Nightshade’s poison. He’d scratched at himself, at the floor…
You chose Nightshade. You trained him. You have a gift for poisons. It made sense. Statistically, poison was a woman’s weapon. And when the patrons of the Not-A-Diner had started answering our questions about Mason Kyle’s family, Ree had shut the conversation down with a single word.Enough.
I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet. I was still weak—too weak to be a threat.
“The people you killed deserved to die,” I said, playing into her pathology. “But what about me? Is this what I deserve?”
I willed her to see me as the child I’d once been—one that she’d been fond of.
“I don’t leave people,” I continued. “I’m the one who gets left.” My voice shook slightly. “What about my friends, back at the diner? Did they deserve to die?”
Until now, I hadn’t let myself even think those words. I hadn’t let myself remember Celine slumped in the booth across from me.Michael and Lia and Sloane and Dean. Agent Sterling. Judd.
I stared at the psychopath across from me.Tell me they were unconscious. Tell me you just drugged them. Tell me they’re alive.
“You came to Gaither asking questions,” Ree said sternly. “Running around with your FBI friends, making us wonder if there was some memory buried in your head—some clue—that would lead you straight to our door. You found Malcolm. It was only a matter of time before you found the rest of us, too.”
“Are we still in Gaither?” I asked. “Are we nearby?”
Ree didn’t answer the question. “There were some who wanted you dead—allof you,” she said instead. “Others made a case for an alternative solution.”
I thought about what Nightshade had told me about the Pythia. She was judge and jury. She was the one they tortured, purifying her so that she could pass judgment.
Again. And again. And again.
My mother had tried to get me out of Gaither. Had they broken her? Had she told them to bring me here?
The sound of a door creaking open ripped me from those thoughts. A figure in a hooded robe stood in the door. The hood fell down over his face, obscuring his features.
“I’d like a word with our guest.”
Ree snorted. Clearly, she didn’t think too much of the guy in the hood. The exchange told me something about the power dynamics at play here.You’re a veteran. He’s a blowhard on the front lines for the first time.
I turned my attention from Ree to the man in the hood.You’re young, and you’re new. She’s a Master, and you’re not—not yet.
I was looking at the man who’d killed my cousin. The one who’d killed Tory and Bryce. And there was something familiar about him, something familiar about his voice….
“I told you once,” the hooded figure intoned, “that if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
“Friedrich Nietzsche.” I recognized the quote—and the haughty, overblown delivery.“TA Geoff?”
I’d met him on the Redding case, when he’d attempted to pick me up in the wake of a girl’s death by sharing his “vast” knowledge of serial killers. I’d spent an evening in an abandoned lecture hall with this guy, Michael, and Bryce.
“It’s Geoffrey,” he corrected tersely, lowering his hood. “Andyourname isn’t Veronica.”
The last time we’d met, I’d given him a fake name. “Really?” I said. “That’s the issue you really think is worth discussing here?”
When last we’d met, I’d pegged Geoffrey as being low on empathy and high on himself—but he hadn’t struck me as a killer.You weren’t then. You weren’t even an apprentice. Death was a game to you. It was abstract.
How had the Masters found him?
