Page 95 of Fatal Pattern

The call involved her.

Blade ended the conversation and walked back to the group.

“We have to go,” he said. “BSO just arrested a man who walked into Broward General with a gunshot wound. Nine millimeter. Matches the caliber of your Glock.”

Luna leaned forward on screen. “Is it the stalker?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Blade said.

Harlee’s chair squeaked as she swiveled around. “Whoa. You might be about to meet your brother for the first time.”

Tori’s heart skipped, then hammered against her ribs. The room tilted slightly, but she straightened her shoulders and compartmentalized the fear. Professional distance. She was FDLE’s behavioral analyst first, the shooter second, sister last.

Tori stood in the BSO corridor, staring at the reinforced glass of Interview Room B.

“You don’t have to do this right now,” Blade said quietly behind her.

Her reflection stared back at her from the glass. Professional blazer, notebook clutched against her chest, the scab across her throat barely visible above her collar. She looked composed. Steady. Everything she didn’t feel.

“Yes, I do.” She turned to face Blade. “If he is Nikos, if he’s my brother, I need to understand what happened to him. What turned a terrified four-year-old into this.”

He moved in, closing the space between them, and caught her hand. His grip pulled her back from the edge.

“Hey. Look at me.” His words carried the same quiet command that had pulled her through the darkest nights.

She met his blue eyes, finding the steady anchor she’d always found there.

“You survived that night when you were four,” he said. “You survived foster care, the streets, everything that came after. You became someone who helps people, who fights for justice. That’s who you are.”

“And he became a killer.”

“Maybe. We don’t know for sure yet. Whatever he became, that’s not on you. That’s not your responsibility to carry.”

She nodded, though the heaviness pressing behind her eyes refused to budge. “I keep thinking about what Damien said. About patterns. What if seeing our parents murdered was just the beginning of his pattern? What if he’s been killing ever since?”

“Then we stop him,” he said with absolute certainty. “Together. Like we always do.”

She drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders.

“Ready?” Blade asked.

Tori gripped her notebook tighter and nodded. Time to meet the monster who might share her DNA.

She pushed through the heavy door into the BSO interview room and claimed the consultant’s chair and angled herself slightly back from the metal table to maintain professional distance. Deputy Worth Edwards settled into the lead detective’s position across from her, his posture relaxed.

“Remember, you’re here to observe,” Edwards said. “Redirect questioning if you see an opening. Only take the lead if you spot a way through his lies or denial, capiche?”

“Sure.” She’d done this a thousand times. “I’m here to watch for tells and cracks in his story.”

She glanced at the one-way mirror, where Blade stood behind the glass. The glass showed nothing but the reflection of the room and her own face staring back, but his presence steadied her racing pulse.

The door opened with a metallic click. A uniformed officer guided Jeremy Hoult into the room, and Tori’s breath caught.

This wasn’t the terrifying monster who’d attacked her in the dark. Hoult was small, maybe five-foot-eight, with pale skin that looked yellow under the harsh lighting. His left arm hung in a blue sling, and his entire frame trembled like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

He looked like a victim, not a killer.

The Mandelbrot Killer was organized, controlled, sophisticated. Hoult appeared to be falling apart.