Page 9 of Bad Blood
Agent Sterling clicked forward to the next slide in her presentation. “Security footage,” she clarified as a split-screen video began to play.
“Twelve cameras.” Sloane cataloged them instantly. “Based on the coverage and the length of the hallways, I’d estimate the house is a minimum of nine thousand square feet.”
Sterling enlarged footage of what appeared to be an in-home art studio. Celine Delacroix was visible, smack-dab in the middle of the frame. The date on the footage was March 21.
You were painting something. As I watched Celine, I tried to sink further and further into her perspective.For you, painting is a whole-body endeavor. You move like you’re dancing. You paint like it’s a combat sport. The footage on the screen was black-and-white, but the resolution was excellent.You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. There’s paint on your arms, your face. You take a step back and—
Without warning, the footage jumped. One second, Celine was on-screen, painting, and the next there was shattered glass everywhere. A broken easel lay on the floor. The entire studio had been ransacked.
And Celine was gone.
Sterling and Briggs spent the remainder of the flight showing us crime scene photos and briefing us on the facts of the case. One thing was clear: our victim had fought.
She was stronger than you expected. I shifted my focus from Celine to the UNSUB.You either lost control or you never had it. You weren’t ready. Weren’t worthy.
That was guesswork as much as profiling. I needed to see the actual crime scene. I needed to stand where Celine had been standing. I needed to know her—to see her bedroom, examine her paintings, sort out exactly what kind offightershe was.
“We’ll set up our base of operations at a nearby safe house.” As the plane began its descent, Agent Briggs laid out the plan. “Agent Starmans and Judd will accompany the Naturals to the safe house. Agent Vance, you’re with us.”
Usas in Briggs and Sterling. They’d scout out the scene and major players before we were allowed anywhere near the case.
“Is this a bad time to point out that I’m on the verge of turning eighteen?” Michael asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since Agent Sterling had concluded her briefing. For Michael, that might have been a record. “Redding’s eighteen. God knows when Lia’s birthdayactuallyis, but I think we can all agree that she doesn’t need kid gloves.”
“I cannot help noticing that you did not mention Cassie or me,” Sloane told Michael, frowning. “I do not care for gloves of the kid or adult variety. Mittens conserve up to twenty-three percent more heat.”
“None of you are coming with us.” Agent Briggs was used to issuing orders. “The five of you are going to the safe house. We will deal you in on a need-to-know basis once the crime scene has been secured.”
“So what I’m hearing,” Michael replied as the plane touched down, “is that this is agoodtime to remind you that I am the only person here who knows Celine, the Delacroix family, or the local police department?”
“One guess as to how Townsend knows the local police department,” Dean murmured beside me.
The debate continued as we de-planed, until Briggs snapped, “Michael, what are the chances that I’m going to change my mind?”
“Slim to none?” Michael guessed flippantly.
“Infinitesimalto none,” Sloane corrected.
Michael shrugged as he descended the stairs to stand on the runway. “What are the chances that I’ll do something stupid if youdon’tlet me come, Agent Tightpants?”
Briggs didn’t reply, which told me that Michael’s threat had landed. Agent Sterling stepped in front of Michael before he could say anything else. “Briggs understands more than you think,” she told him softly. She didn’t provide any context for that statement, but I found myself wondering how Briggs had grown up, if he had firsthand experience with Thatcher Townsend’s brand of parenting.
There was a long silence as Michael tried to ignore whatever emotions he saw on Sterling’s face.
Agent Starmans, who’d been on our protection detail more than once in the last ten weeks, cleared his throat. “I’d really prefer you didn’t make me spend my afternoon forcing you to stay put,” he told Michael.
Michael offered him a dazzling smile. “And I’d prefer if you didn’t peruse online dating profiles on your work phone.” He winked at the mortified agent. “Dilated pupils, slight smile, followed by visible agonizing about how to compose just the right message? It’s a dead giveaway every time.”
Starmans clamped his mouth shut and strode to stand next to Agent Vance.
“Now that was just mean,” Lia commented.
“Who?” Michael countered. “Me?”
I knew him well enough to know that if he decided to do something stupid, Starmans wouldn’t be able to stop him.When you’re hurting, you hurt yourself. I wanted to stop there but couldn’t, because I knew exactly where Michael’s love affair with self-destruction came from.If you can’t keep someone from hitting you, youmakethem hit you, because at least then you know it’s coming. At least then you know what to expect.
Turning away from Michael before he could read the expression on my face, I saw a row of gleaming black Mercedes SUVs parked at the edge of the private airstrip. Four of them. A closer inspection revealed that the keys were in the ignitions and that each of the four had been stocked with sparkling soda and fresh fruit.
“No warm nuts?” Lia commented, her voice dry. “And they call this hospitality.”