Bad Blood (The Naturals, #4)

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

You’ll try to burrow into my mind, to plant questions and doubts so that when I walk out of this room, a part of you goes with me. That was what Redding had done months ago when he’d dropped that bombshell about my mother. And that was why I was here now.

“Tell me what you know,” I said, the words ripping their way out of my throat.

“I swear,” Lia continued with a wave of her hand, “serial killers are so predictable. It’s always all ‘I want to watch you suffer’ and ‘let me quote Shakespeare while I imagine dancing on your corpse.’” The fact that Lia was being so dismissive told me that the conversation she’d just witnessed had gotten to her almost as much as it had gotten to me.

He wants to kill me himself.” Lia arched one eyebrow. “You do seem to have that effect on people.” I snorted. Considering not one but two different serial killers had targeted me since I’d joined the Naturals program, I couldn’t exactly argue the point.

Next to deception detection, Lia’s biggest specialty was providing distractions—some of which came with collateral damage.

Michael chose that exact moment to saunter into the kitchen carrying a fire extinguisher. “You’re alarmed,” he said, taking in the expression on my face. “Also: mildly concerned I’ve lost my mind.” He let his gaze travel to Lia. “And you’re—” “Not in the mood to have my emotions read?”

Dean and Lia had been the first two Naturals in the program. They’d been together for years before any of the rest of us had arrived on the scene. She was, in every way but blood, his sister.

Sloane blurted out. She had no filter, no protective layer to keep her raw spots from the world.

We moved. On my way out, Agent Briggs caught my arm. “Find Michael,” he told me quietly. “And make sure he doesn’t do anything…” “Michael-ish?” I suggested. Briggs eyed Director Sterling. “Ill-advised.”

“Question.” Michael held up his index finger. “I know why Lia is looking particularly pleased with herself and why Cassie’s wearing her profiling face, and I could make an educated guess about why Redding looks downright constipated every time Lia touches me, but why is Sloane wildly avoiding my gaze and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet like the effort of not saying something might actually cause her to explode?”

That pierced Michael’s bravado enough that he actually paused. “Celine Delacroix is the only person from my life before the program who ever gave a crap about me or bothered to see the kind of person that the great Thatcher Townsend really is,” he told Dean. “If she’s in some kind of trouble, I’m going. If I have to go through you to do it, I will.”

Near the front of the plane, Briggs checked his watch. Across the aisle from him, Agent Sterling thumbed through a copy of the case file, like she hadn’t already memorized the entire thing. The lengths the two of them were going to in order to avoid eye contact might have triggered my interest if I hadn’t been more focused on the fact that Celine Delacroix might be victim number one—of nine. I felt the weight of that pressing down on me, suffocating me.

My first impression was that Celine Delacroix was the kind of girl who could make anything look elegant while giving off the general impression that she thought elegance was overrated.

Sloane brought her feet up onto her seat and rested her chin on her knees. “It’s statistically unlikely that such a report would be made immediately. The percentage of college students who return late from breaks increases in a curvilinear fashion as the school year proceeds to its close.” Agent Sterling recognized the question inherent in Sloane’s statistic. “The report was made yesterday morning, after Celine’s roommate had been unable to get ahold of her for three days straight and Mr. and Mrs. Delacroix confirmed that they hadn’t heard from their daughter in several weeks.”

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 either lost control or you never had it.

“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 birthday actually is, 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 a good time 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. “Infinitesimal to 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 you don’t let me come, Agent Tightpants?” Briggs didn’t reply, which told me that Michael’s threat ...

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, you make them hit you, because at least then you know it’s coming. At least then you know what to expect.

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.” Michael offered her his most careless smile. “I’m sure my father will remedy any disappointment. We Townsends pride ourselves on hospitality.” Your father arranged for transportation. Four SUVs, when two would do. I tried not to read too much into the way Michael had grouped himself in with his father, like Townsend men were Townsends first and anything else was a distant second—no matter how far they’d run.

“Based on the set of Agent Sterling’s mouth, not to mention those impressively deep brow ridges Agent Briggs is working, I have inferred that the FBI won’t be accepting dear old Dad’s gesture of goodwill.” Michael gave the keys another toss. “But I will.”

“I call shotgun.” Judd knew how to pick his battles. My gut said that, on some level, he knew that Michael saw accepting his father’s gifts as akin to taking punches. You take whatever he dishes out. You take and you take and you take—because you can. Because people would expect you to turn down his gifts out of spite. Because anything you could take from him, you would. Michael caught my gaze. He always knew when I was profiling him. After a long moment, he spoke. “It appears we’re going to the safe house. Judd’s got shotgun. Lia?” He tossed her the keys. “You’re driving.”

If Michael was going to crack jokes about his own personal hell, Lia would find a way to one-up him. They’d both had plenty of practice over the years at making the things that mattered most matter least.

Independent, I thought. Passionate. Stubborn. I could see shades of Elise in the Celine from the pictures. Solid colors, not prints. You paint like you’re dancing, paint like you’re fighting—and you look at cameras like you know the secrets of the world.

No matter how much money you make, no matter how high up the social ladder you climb—it will never be enough. You will always be hungry.

Lia’s tone was light and mocking, but I knew with every fiber of my being that this wasn’t a joke to her.

Even though I knew Celine mattered to Michael. Even though he mattered to me.

Dean took one look at my face and his jaw tightened. “What did Townsend do?” “What makes you think Michael did anything?” Dean gave me a look. “One: he’s Michael. Two: he’s scheduled for a meltdown. Three: Lia has been Miss Rosy Sunshine since she got downstairs, and Lia doesn’t do roses or sunshine unless she’s screwing with someone or deeply upset. And four…” Dean shrugged. “I may not be an emotion reader, but I know you.”

The implications of that statement hit me like a semitruck.

“I went above the director’s head on the Naturals program for a reason,” Sterling replied, emotional armor firmly in place.

Sterling dropped those words like a bomb.

“I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight.” Lia sidled up beside me. “Do you think they’re going to get a divorce?” Lia had never met a grease fire she didn’t want to throw water onto. Briggs pinched the bridge of his nose. “Briggs and Sterling are already divorced,” Sloane said helpfully as she peeled off her latex gloves and joined the melee.

There was so much that wasn’t in my control. But this was.

Lia’s finely honed sense of sarcasm was all the more effective when she made the words sound completely sincere.

Sloane cleared her throat and then made an attempt at helping my argument. “I would estimate that Michael’s father is seventy-one inches tall, one-hundred and sixty-one pounds.” When it became clear that none of us saw the relevance of that number, Sloane expanded: “I think we can take him.”

Eventually, she’d make Michael pay for the stunt he’d pulled back in Celine’s room, but she’d come riding to his rescue first.

Fists aren’t your only weapon. You are a man of intellect—unless the boy forces you to become something else.

The gloves were officially off. Thatcher Townsend could have come after me or Lia or Dean and we would have rolled with it. But he’d gone after Sloane, and he’d used her dead brother to do it. From the moment we’d walked into this room, father and son had been engaged in a game, each trying to out-maneuver the other, each determined to have the upper hand, the power, the control. That Thatcher had used Sloane to that end made me want to tell him just how transparent he was.

Michael shrugged. “In particular, the fact that I introduced you to my father as my good friend Barf is a memory that I will treasure forever.”

“Are you okay?” Michael asked Sloane. She was standing beside me, very still, her breathing shallow and her skin pale. Thinking about Aaron. Thinking about what just happened to Michael. Thinking about your father. Thinking about his. Sloane took three tiny, hesitant steps, then threw herself at Michael, latching her arms around his neck so tightly that I wasn’t sure she would ever let go. My phone rang. Once I saw Michael’s arms curve around Sloane, I answered it.

Lia was aiming below the belt. That was the only way she knew how to hit.

“This is what happens when they’re together,” Dean said, and I knew that he wasn’t talking about Michael and Celine. “Michael knows exactly what Lia’s feeling. Lia knows every time he lies to her. They hurt each other, and they hurt themselves.”

“Relax, Dean,” Lia said, coming up behind us. “I’m fine. We found the girl. We saved the day. If you think I’m going to get all emotional over Michael Townsend, clearly I’ve been doing this cold-hearted shrew thing all wrong.”

By midmorning, we were back on the plane, a whole herd of emotional elephants in tow.

“Michael was coming back here.” Judd had never doubted that—not for a second. “And when one of my kids goes down an emotional rabbit hole like that one, he—or she—sure as hell doesn’t do it alone.”

“Cassie-girl, don’t go down this rabbit hole alone.”

Home isn’t a place. Home is the people who love you. Forever and ever, no matter what.

Sloane gave Laurel a companionable smile. “Numbers make sense, even when nothing else does.”

“Knock, knock.” Lia had a habit of saying the words in lieu of actually knocking. She also didn’t bother to wait for a response before sauntering into the room I shared with Sloane. “A little birdie told me there was a seventy-two-point-three percent chance you needed a hug,” Lia said. She raked her gaze over my face. “I don’t do hugs.” “I’m fine,” I said. “Lie,” Lia replied immediately. “Care to try again?” It was on the tip of my tongue to say that, after the debacle at Michael’s house, she probably wasn’t fine, either, but I had the good sense to know that pointing that out would not end well for me. “You don’t do hugs,” I said instead. “What’s your official position on ice cream?”

Beside me, she untied her ponytail, allowing her hair to flow free as she stretched her legs out toward the edge of the roof. Change in appearance, change in posture. I recognized Lia’s method of shedding emotions she didn’t want to feel.

Sloane stood just behind him, a stubbornly protective expression on her face. I wondered if she was feeling protective of Michael—or of Lia.