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Lia Zhang, civilian FBI consultant, long-term thorn in my side, Natural, and—against all odds—one of my closest confidantes, appeared in the kitchen of our Colorado house.
My sister was nine years old. She’d spent the first four years of her life being raised by a cult of serial killers. To say that she was different would have been an understatement.
“I’m not going to tell the two of you to get a room,” Michael announced, “because that is geographically impossible. So instead, I will suggest, quite delicately, that the two of you get a metaphorical room.”
We were looking at an UNSUB who’d used a duo of tragic deaths in an attempt to disguise a third.
“Grief turns everyone into liars. It doesn’t, however, make you a good liar—and our victim’s parents, her father in particular, were very, very good.”
“And if you can’t, you need to get her psychologist out of the room. Now.”
Knew it
I’d thought the woman treating Mackenzie was incompetent. She’d said exactly the wrong thing at precisely the right moment to throw a kink in the works. If she’d kept her mouth shut, I could have talked Mackenzie down.
“When he said that what he tried to do to you—what he did to the others—wasn’t a pleasure?” Lia spat in the dead’s man direction. “He lied.”
“In reality,” I continued, opening my eyes to his deep brown ones, “Nichols convinced himself that he had saved his sister. He was there for her, in the end. He told her it was okay. He let her go.”
