All In: (The Naturals #3) (20 page)

T
he girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. She collapsed. Tory leapt forward. In the row in front of us, Aaron pushed his way
to the aisle.

The curtain came down. An uneasy murmur spread through the audience. The people around us had no idea what had just happened. They had no idea what it meant.

You.

Need.

Nine.

The thought came to me in pieces. I forced air into my lungs.

“Nine.” Sloane’s voice somehow managed to reach my ears through the dull roar of the crowd. “
Tertium. Tertium. Tertium.
Three. Three times
three—”

“Please remain in your seats,” a deep voice commanded over the loudspeaker. “The show will resume momentarily.”

Judd took one look at the potential for chaos and jerked his head toward the nearest exit.

“What about Townsend?” Dean said as we pushed our way through the crowd. “He’s still onstage.”

Judd deposited us safely in the hallway. “I’ll go get Michael,” he told Dean. “You stay here and watch the girls.”

That got a substantial eyebrow raise out of Lia. “I do hope my dowry is large enough to attract a virile man,” she told me wistfully. “I’m so very helpless on my
own.”

Dean was wise enough not to reply.

Once Judd was out of earshot, Lia lowered her voice. “So are we all thinking that either Aaron’s little girlfriend is our killer and she just had a psychotic break, or that our
killer somehow hypnotized her into delivering that message?”

I nodded. After a second or two, Dean agreed. “Yes.”

“Tertium again,” Lia commented. “You think our guy considers that his name?”

Tertium,
I thought.
Meaning the third time.

The third time. The third time. The third time.

I need nine.

“It’s not a name,” I told Lia. “It’s a promise.” I turned to look at Sloane, to get her read on the numbers—but she wasn’t beside me. I whirled,
doing a three-sixty.

No Sloane.

Lia cursed, then slammed back into the theater. An instant later, Dean and I were on her heels. Sloane was usually easy to spot, but in a crowd this large, the best I could do was follow Lia and
think,
Sloane came here to see Aaron. And the last time I saw her, she was talking about the numbers.

That meant that she was either trailing after Aaron or she’d gone straight to the source of the numbers.
The girl.
Either way, she was probably—

“Backstage,” I yelled to Lia, struggling to keep up with her as she pushed her way to the front of the auditorium. Two bouncer-types were positioned on either side of the stage. Lia
leaned forward and whispered something in one of their ears. The man paled and stepped aside, allowing us to pass.

I truly did not want to know what Lia had told him, but I had to admit that her particular skill set
definitely
had its uses.

Backstage, I spotted Michael crouched near the girl, who was sitting up now. Judd stood behind Michael. Sloane wasn’t with them. That left one likely option.

“Find Aaron,” I said, “and we’ll find Sloane.”

“You son of a bitch.”

I turned, just in time to see Beau Donovan slam Aaron Shaw up against a wall. Aaron had three or four inches and a good thirty pounds on Beau, but Beau came at him like he was completely unaware
of that fact.

“I found Aaron,” Lia said.

Aaron threw Beau off him. Beau skidded backward on his heels, then came at Aaron again. This time, a small blond blur stepped in front of Aaron.

Sloane.

Dean lunged forward. He hated violence. He avoided it at all costs because he could never be sure that he wouldn’t wake up one day and like it too much. But if anyone laid so much as a
finger on Sloane…

Aaron stepped in front of Sloane a second before Beau collided with her. Dean latched a protective arm around Sloane’s waist and pulled her back. Beau shoved Aaron again, and Aaron snapped
and surged forward. They both went down. Within seconds, Aaron was on top and unquestionably in control. Beau’s gaze locked onto Aaron’s face with intense hatred.

“What is your problem?” Sloane’s brother spat.

In answer, Beau resumed his struggle for the upper hand. Aaron held him in place, the way a wolf might pin a pup.

“My problem?” Beau said. “My problem is
you
. You bring your little high-class, never-worked-a-day-in-her-life girlfriend
here
? To my sister’s
show?” Beau didn’t give Aaron time to respond. “You think that you can treat people like they’re nothing—”

Beau surged again, and this time, he ended up on top just long enough to land a solid punch to Aaron’s jaw before security swarmed them. The guards pulled Beau off of Aaron—a little
harder than necessary—and then looked to Aaron for instruction.

“Allison is not my girlfriend,” Aaron said calmly. “She’s just a family friend, and I was as surprised to see her here as you were.”

“I doubt that.”

Aaron and Beau turned in unison to look at Tory. She was still dressed in her costume from the show, but she was fully herself again.
No muss. No fuss.

Nothing can hurt you unless you let it.

“You’re the one who called her up on stage,” Aaron told Tory. “What the hell were you thinking, Tory?” He paused. “What did you do to her?”

“She didn’t
do
anything!” Beau struggled beneath the security guard’s hold. “You probably set the whole thing up, you sick son of a—”

“Enough!” Tory shouted. Beau stilled. Tory dragged her gaze from him to Aaron, and her eyes hardened. “I want you both out of here. Now.”

The
now
seemed to be directed at the security guards.

“Sir,” one of them told Aaron, visibly uncomfortable with the words exiting his mouth. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Aaron’s eyes never left Tory’s face. “Tory, let me explain.”

“You don’t need to explain.” Tory’s voice was emotionless, but there was steel underneath. “Our relationship is strictly professional.” She looked around at
the audience they’d gathered—including Sloane, Lia, Dean, and me—and her voice hardened. “It always has been.”

“You heard her,” Beau told Aaron, his eyes hard.

“Don’t.” Tory rounded on Beau, her voice cracking whip-loud through the air. “I didn’t ask you to do this, Beau, and I am done cleaning up your messes.” She
swallowed, and I got the sense that sending Beau away was even harder for her than ending things with Aaron. “Leave,” she said, her voice lower. “Now.”

Without waiting for a response, Tory turned back to the stage and started yelling out directions for the stagehands. “Get a doctor up here for Ms. Lawrence. Then call the head of security
and inform him that we have a situation. I want this show back up and running in five minutes.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” Agent Briggs knew how to make an entrance—in this case, with his badge held high for everyone to see. “Special Agent
Briggs, FBI,” he said, his voice carrying. “I’m going to need to ask you all some questions.”

YOU

Could you be any clearer? The numbers. The spiral. The dates. It’s an act of contrition. An act of devotion.

An act of revenge.

You’ve waited so long. You’ve waited, and you’ve planned, and now that you’re this close, you can feel it. The old anger, creeping back into your veins. The
power.

The fear.

You will finish it. Three times three times three. You will be worthy.

This time, you will not fail.

T
he dream started the way it always did. I was walking through a narrow hallway. The floor was tiled. The walls were white.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. On the ground, my shadow flickered, too.

At the end of the hallway, there was a metal door. I walked toward it.
Don’t. Don’t open the door. Don’t go in there.
The warning came from my conscious mind, which
knew all too well what lay down that road.

But I couldn’t stop. I opened the door. I stepped into the darkness. I reached for the light switch on the wall. I felt something warm and sticky on my hands.

Blood.

I flipped the switch. Everything went white. All I could do was blink until the scene settled in front of me.

A spotlight.

A crowd.

I was onstage, wearing the royal blue dress I’d tried on in the store. My gaze traveled over the audience, picking out the ones I’d marked in advance for readings. The woman in the
white vest, clutching her purse like it might sprout legs and run away. The teenager whose eyes were already tearing up. The older gentleman in the pale blue suit, sitting dead center in the front
row.

This isn’t right,
I thought frantically.
I don’t want to do this.
I turned, and in the wings, I saw myself. Younger. Watching. Waiting.

I woke with a start. My hands were wound tightly in the sheets. My chest heaved up and down. I was alone in the room.
No Sloane.
Processing that, I rolled over to look at the clock and
froze.

The walls were completely covered. Sheet after sheet of paper, marked in red.
This must have taken Sloane all night,
I thought. She hadn’t said a word when we’d gotten back
to the room—not about the message from our killer, not about Aaron and the accusations Beau had flung at him.

Rolling out of bed, I went to examine Sloane’s work more closely. Twelve sheets of printer paper had been affixed to the wall in four rows of three.

January, February, March…

I was looking at a handwritten calendar. Dates had been circled at seemingly random intervals.
Six in January, three in February, four in March.
I scanned the next row.
A handful in
April, only two in May.

“Nothing in June or July,” I murmured out loud. My hand lifted. I pressed my fingers to the day that would always jump out at me in any calendar.
June 21st.
That was the day
my mother had disappeared. Like the rest of the days in June, it was unmarked on Sloane’s calendar.

I scanned the remainder of the months, then moved on to the rest of the walls in our room. More calendars. More dates. Taking a step back, I took in the full scope of what Sloane had done. There
were years’ worth of calendars on these walls, with the same dates marked on every one.

“Sloane?” I called toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but a moment later, I got a reply.

“I’m not naked!”

In Sloane-speak, that was as good as an invitation to come in. “Did you sleep at all last night?” I asked as I opened the door.

“Negative,” Sloane replied. She was wrapped in a towel and staring at the mirror. Her hair was wet. On the mirror’s surface she’d drawn a Fibonacci spiral. It covered her
face in the reflection.

Sloane stared at herself through the spiral. “My mother was a dancer,” she said suddenly. “A showgirl. She was very beautiful.”

That was the first time I’d ever heard Sloane mention her mother. I knew, then, that she’d been awake all night for a reason beyond the papers on the walls.

“My biological father likes beautiful things.” Sloane turned to look at me. “Tory is aesthetically appealing, don’t you think? And the other girl with Aaron was very
symmetrical.”

You’re wondering if Aaron takes after your father. You’re wondering if Tory is his secret, the way your mother was his father’s.

“Sloane—” I started to say, but she cut me off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sloane said, in the tone of someone to whom it mattered very much. “January twelfth,” she said fiercely. “That’s what matters.
Today’s the ninth. We have three days.”

“Three days?” I repeated.

Sloane nodded. “Until he kills again.”

“Tertium. Tertium. Tertium.”
Sloane stood in the middle of our suite, gesturing to the paper-covered walls. “Three times three is nine.”

I need nine.

“And three times three times three,” Sloane continued, “is twenty-seven.”

Tertium. Tertium. Tertium. Three times three times three.

“Remember what I said yesterday about the dates and how I think they’re derived from the Fibonacci sequence?” Sloane said. “I spent all night going through the different
possible methods of derivation. But this one”—she pointed to the first wall I’d investigated—“is the only version where, if you end the sequence twenty-seven dates in,
you also end up with exactly three repetitions within the sequence.”

Three. Three times three times three.

“It was just a theory,” Sloane said. “But then I hacked the FBI’s server.”

“You
what
?”

“I did a search over the past fifteen years,” Sloane clarified helpfully. “For murders committed on January first.”

“You hacked the FBI?” I said incredulously.

“And Interpol,” Sloane replied brightly. “And you’ll never guess what I found.”

Security holes that the world’s most elite crime-solving agencies seriously need to patch?