Page 13 of The Naturals
He leaned forward, close enough that his forehead was almost touching mine.
“The devil’s in the details, Cassie. I never said that Porsche was my only car.”
YOU
It’s been days since the last time, days of reliving your failure, over and over again. Each minute has been torture, and now you’re on a schedule. You don’t have the luxury of hunting for the perfect girl. The right girl. There’s nothing special about the one you’ve chosen, except for the color of her hair.
It reminds you of someone else’s hair, and that’s enough. For now.
You kill her in a motel room. No one sees you enter. No one will see you leave. You put duct tape over her mouth. You have to imagine the sound of her screams, but the look in her eyes is worth it.
It’s fast, but not too fast.
It’s yours.
You’re in charge. You decide. You slide the knife into the flesh under her cheekbone. You carve the heavy makeup—and the skin—off of her face.
There. That’s better.
You feel better. More in control. And you know that even though you don’t have time for pictures, you’ll never forget the way the blood looks as it stains her hair.
Some days, you think, it feels like you have been doing this forever. But no matter how many there are, no matter how proficient you’ve become at showing them what you are, what they are, there is a part of you that knows.
It will never be quite right.
It will never be perfect.
There will never be another one like the first.
I stepped off the jet and blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sun. A woman with bright red hair strode toward the plane. She was wearing a gray suit and black sunglasses, and she walked like she had someplace to be.
“I heard a rumor we were getting in around the same time,” she called out to Briggs. “Thought I’d come to greet you in person.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned her attention to me. “I’m Special Agent Lacey Locke. Briggs is my partner, and you’re Cassandra Hobbes.”
She timed this speech to end just as she closed the space between us. She held out a hand, and I was struck by the fact that she looked somehow impish despite the sunglasses and the suit.
I took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Most people just call me Cassie.”
“Cassie it is, then,” she replied. “Briggs tells me you’re one of mine.”
One of hers?
Michael filled in the blank. “A profiler.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic about the science of profiling, Michael,” Locke said lightly. “Cassie might mistake you for a seventeen-year-old boy without a strong sense of derision for the rest of the world.”
Michael held a hand to his chest. “Your sarcasm wounds me, Agent Locke.”
She snorted.
“You’re home early,” Briggs cut in, aiming the comment at Agent Locke. “Nothing in Boise?”
Locke gave a brief jerk of her head. “Dead end.”
An unspoken communication passed between the two of them, and then Briggs turned to me. “As Michael so obligingly pointed out, Agent Locke is a profiler. She’ll be in charge of your training.”
“Lucky you,” Locke said with a grin.
“Are you…” I wasn’t sure how to ask.