The Naturals, Book 2: Killer Instinct (23 page)

I pieced together what I knew. Scarlett Hawkins and Agent Sterling were friends. They both worked at the FBI. Scarlett was killed. Briggs started going to Dean for help on cases. Agent Sterling
left the FBI…and her husband.

When the director had discovered what Briggs was doing, he’d made it official. Dean had moved into this house. With Judd.

I was so caught up in thought that I almost didn’t see the figure creeping across the front lawn. The sun had fully set, so it took me a moment to recognize the way the person moved, hands
stuffed into his pockets, shoulders rounded and hunched. The hoodie the figure was wearing almost masked his face. His hair—in desperate need of a trim—finished the job.

Dean. Sneaking out of the house.
I was halfway back to Lia’s window before I’d even registered the fact that I was moving. I forced myself not to look down and finished the
journey. Thankful that Lia had left the window open, I climbed back into her room and raced down the stairs.

For once, I didn’t run into anyone. By the time I made out it the front door, Dean was already halfway down the block. I ran to catch up to him.

“Dean!”

He ignored me and kept walking.

“I’m sorry,” I called after him. My words hung in the night air, insufficient, but dear. “Lia and I should have told you we were going to that party. We thought we might
pick up on something the FBI missed. We just wanted this case over.”

“For me.” Dean didn’t turn around, but he stopped walking. “You wanted this case over for me.”

“Is that so bad?” I asked, coming to a standstill behind him. “People are allowed to care about you, and don’t tell me that when people care about you, they get hurt.
That’s not you talking. That’s something you were told. It’s something your father wants you to believe, because he doesn’t want you to be close to anyone else. He’s
always wanted you all to himself, and every time you push us away, you’re giving him
exactly
what he wants.”

Dean still didn’t turn around, so I took three steps, until I was standing in front of him. The tip of his hood hung in his face. I pushed the hood back. He didn’t move. I put a hand
on each side of his face and tilted it up.

The same way that Michael had tilted my face up to his.

What are you doing, Cassie?

I couldn’t pull back from Dean, not now. No matter what it might mean. Dean needed this—physical contact. He needed to know that I wasn’t afraid of him, that he wasn’t
alone.

I brushed the hair off his cheekbones, and dark eyes met mine.

“Anyone ever tell you that you see too much?” he asked me.

I managed a small smile. “I’ve been told that I should keep some of it to myself.”

“You can’t.” Dean’s lips curved almost imperceptibly upward. “You didn’t plan on saying any of those things. I’m not sure you even knew them until they
came out of your mouth.”

He was right. Now that I’d said it, I could see that it was true—Dean’s father didn’t want to share him.
I made him,
he’d said in that interview with Briggs.
He wanted Dean to blame himself for each and every woman Redding had killed, because if Dean blamed himself, if he thought he didn’t deserve to be loved, he’d keep the rest of the world
at arm’s length. He’d be his father’s son—and nothing else.

“Where are you going?” I asked Dean. My voice came out as a whisper. I dropped my hands from his face, but they only made it as far as his neck.

This is a mistake.

This is right.

Those thoughts came on the heels of each other, playing in stereo. Any second, Dean was going to pull back from my touch.

But he didn’t.

And I didn’t.

“I can’t just sit here and wait for the next body to show up. The director thinks that he can just put me in a drawer and pull me out when I’m
useful
. Agent Sterling
tried to cover for her father, but I know what he’s thinking.”

He’s thinking that you owe him this,
I thought, feeling Dean’s pulse jump in his throat under my touch.
He’s thinking that he’s doing the world a favor by
making you his tool.

“Where are you going?” I repeated the question.

“Agent Sterling showed me a list.” Dean put his hands on my wrists and pulled my hands away from his neck. He didn’t let go, just stood there on the sidewalk, his fingers
working their way from my wrists to my fingers, until our hands were interwoven. “She wanted to know if I recognized any of my father’s visitors, if anything jumped out to
me.”

“And did anything jump out to you?”

Dean nodded curtly, but didn’t release my hands. “One of the visitors was a woman from my hometown.”

I waited him to elaborate.

“Daniel killed people in that town, Cassie. My fourth-grade teacher. Travelers just passing through. The people in that town, our friends, our neighbors—they couldn’t even
stand to
look
at me after the truth came out. Why would anyone there go to visit him?”

Those weren’t rhetorical questions. They were questions Dean was set on answering himself. “You’re going home,” I said. I knew it was true, long before Dean confirmed it
for me.

“Broken Springs hasn’t been home for a very long time.” Dean took a step backward and dropped my hands. He pulled his hood back up. “I know the type of women who visit
men like my father in jail. They’re fascinated. Obsessed.”

“Obsessed enough to re-create his crimes?”

“Obsessed enough that they won’t cooperate with the FBI,” Dean said. “Obsessed enough that they’d
love
to talk to me.”

I didn’t tell Dean that everyone from Briggs to Judd would kill him for doing this. I did, however, take issue with his timing. “How late is it going to be when you get there? And
for that matter,
how
are you going to get there?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“Wait,” I told him. “Wait until morning. Sterling will be out with Briggs. I can go with you, or Lia can. There’s a killer out there. You shouldn’t be going
anywhere alone.”

“No,” Dean said, his face twisting like he’d tasted something sour. “That’s Lia’s job.”

I’d apologized for digging into this case without him. She hadn’t. I knew Lia well enough to know that she wouldn’t. Dean knew that, too.

“Go easy,” I told him. “Whatever you said to her, she’s taking it hard.”

“She’s supposed to take it hard.” There was a stubborn set to Dean’s jaw. “I’m the only one she listens to. I’m the one who cares if she goes off with
two strange men in the middle of a murder investigation. You think that anything anyone else says is going to keep her from doing it again?”

“You made your point,” I told him. “But you’re not just the only person she listens to. You’re the only person she trusts. She can’t lose that. Neither can
you.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “I’ll wait until morning to head for Broken Springs, and I’ll talk to Lia before I go.”

Once Lia was involved, I doubted she’d sit back and let him go off on his own. If he wouldn’t take her or me, he could at least take Michael. That might be a recipe for a road trip
that ended in a fistfight, but at least Dean would have backup.

Michael doesn’t hate Dean. He hates that Dean is angry and holding it in. He hates that Dean knows what his childhood was like. He hates the idea of Dean with me.

I turned and started walking back toward the house, my mind a mess of thoughts about Michael and Dean and me. I’d made it six feet when Dean fell in beside me. I didn’t want to think
about the heat of his body next to mine. I didn’t want to want to reach for his hand.

So I forced myself to stick to safer ground. “Have you ever heard of Judd having a daughter named Scarlett?”

T
he next morning, I woke up to find that Michael was outside working on his car again. I stood at my bedroom window, watching him going at the
bumper with the power sander like rust removal was an Olympic sport.
He’s going to destroy that car,
I thought. Restoration was not Michael’s strong suit.

“You’re up.”

I turned from the window to face Sloane, who was sitting up in her own bed. “I’m up.”

“What are you looking at?”

I grasped for a way to avoid answering the question, but came up empty. “Michael,” I said.

Sloane studied me for a moment, the way an archaeologist might look at paintings on the wall of a cave. Given the way her brain worked, she probably would have had better luck reading
hieroglyphics.

“You and Michael,” Sloane said slowly.

“There’s nothing going on with Michael and me.” My reply was immediate.

Sloane tilted her head to one side. “You and Dean?”

“There’s nothing going on with Dean and me.”

Sloane stared at me for another three seconds, and then: “I give up.” Clearly, she’d expended her capacity for girl talk. Thank God. She disappeared into the closet, and I was
halfway out the door before I remembered my promise.

“I may be going somewhere today,” I told her. “With Dean.”

Sloane popped out of the closet, half-dressed. “But you said—”

“Not like that,” I cut in hastily. “For the case. I’m not sure what the plan is, but I’m getting ready to find out.” I paused. “I promised I’d
deal you in next time. This is me dealing you in.”

Sloane pulled on a shirt. She was quiet for several seconds. When she spoke, she beamed. “Consider me dealt.”

We found Dean in the kitchen with Lia, who was sitting on the kitchen counter, wearing white pajamas and red high heels. Her hair was loose and uncombed. The two of them were
talking softly enough that I couldn’t make out the words.

Lia caught sight of me over Dean’s shoulder, and with an unholy glint in her eye, she hopped off the counter. Her heels didn’t so much as wobble when she landed.

“Lover boy here says you stopped him from doing something stupid last night.” Lia smirked. “Personally, I don’t want to know how you
persuaded
him to hold his
horses. Horses were held. Let’s save my tender ears the details, shall we?”

“Lia,” Dean barked.

Sloane raised her hand. “I have questions about these tender details.”

“Later,” Lia told Sloane. She reached over and patted Dean’s cheek. He narrowed his eyes, and she folded her hands primly in front of her body. “I’ll behave,”
she promised. “Scout’s honor.”

Dean muttered something under his breath.

“Blush. Grimace. Smirk.” Michael strolled into the room, labeling each of us as he passed. “And Sloane is perplexed. I miss all the fun.”

I could practically feel him trying not to read anything into Dean’s grimace and my blush. Michael was
trying
to give me space. Unfortunately, he couldn’t turn off his
ability, any more than I could turn off mine.

“Townsend.” Dean cleared his throat.

Michael turned his full attention to the other boy. “You need something,” he said, studying the set of Dean’s jaw, the thin line of his lips. “You really hate
asking.” Michael smiled. “It’s like a Band-Aid—just pull it off.”

“He needs a ride,” Lia said so Dean wouldn’t have to. “And you’re going to give it to him.”

“Am I?” Michael did a passable job of sounding surprised.

“I’d appreciate it.” Dean shot Lia a look, which I read to mean
Stay out of it
.

“And where, pray tell, are we going?” Michael asked.

“To talk to someone.” Dean clearly didn’t feel like sharing more than that. I expected Michael to draw this out, to actually make Dean ask, but Michael just stared at him for
several seconds and then nodded.

“No comments on my driving,” Michael said lightly. “And you owe me.”

“Deal.”

“Excellent.” Lia looked altogether too pleased with herself. “So Michael will go with Dean and Cassie, and Sloane and I will provide the distraction.”

“I like this plan,” Sloane declared brightly. “I can be very distracting.”

Michael and Dean weren’t so enthused. “Cassie’s not going.” The two of them spoke in unison.

“Well, this is awkward,” Lia commented, looking from one boy to the other. “Are you two going to start braiding each other’s hair next?”

Someday, I was fairly certain that Lia would write a book entitled
Making an Awkward Situation Worse
.

“Cassie’s a big girl,” Lia continued. “She can make decisions for herself. If she wants to go, she can go.”

I wasn’t sure why she was so gung ho on my accompanying them, or why she was volunteering to stay home herself.

“Dean and I are both profilers,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t that make me kind of redundant?” The only thing I would bring to this venture was objectivity. Lia’s
ability made her the more obvious choice.

“No offense”—Lia began her next sentence in a way that more or less guaranteed the next words out of her mouth would be insulting—”but you simply cannot lie,
Cassie. Agent Sterling got the truth about our last little
adventure
out of you so quickly, it’s embarrassing. Really. If you stay here, you’ll get us all caught. Besides,”
she added, a smirk settling over her features, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here will be less likely to get themselves killed—or to kill each other—if you’re along for
the ride.”