Disclaimer: I do not own Divergent because that belongs to Veronica Roth. Nor do I take credit for The Naturals by Jennifer Lynn Barnes.
Enjoy :)
Beatrice POV
9 years old (Prologue)
The hallway in the auditorium is cold and dark. I sit in the chair as my mother gets ready. She has a gift in entertainment. She comes here to perform. My mother loves to sing.
She takes me with her sometimes. She's trained me to help people—to help them cope. Not many people like her for some reason though, they call her a scam.
She says she's psychic. She's taught me how to be psychic too. We play this game sometimes when we go out. We sit at the fountain at the mall and guess what makes people happy. She'd point out someone and I'd tell her what would make them happy. Those are the days she's the happiest. It brings her joy in helping others.
I hear the sound of breaking glass in the dressing room. She doesn't like to be interrupted when getting ready, but I just want to make sure she's okay.
"Mommy?" I beckon. No answer. I hop off the chair and walk over to the door. "Mommy!"
I turn the knob on the door. The lights are off in the room. It's really dark. I'm too short to reach the lightswitch so I go back to grab the chair from the hallway. I hear glass crunch under someone's feet on my way back.
I slide the chair into the room and kneel on the chair so I can reach the lightswitch. My hands find the switch. It's warm unlike the rest of the room.
The lights flicker on and I fall back onto the floor. I look to the lightswitch, there's blood on it. I look too my hand—blood, not mine. Shards of glass lay on the floor. The walls are red… so much red.
I feel someone pulling on me, but I can't peel my eyes away from the scene. "Mommy!" I scream, hoping she'll say it's okay and she's fine—that she loves me.
I don't know where she went. She must be okay if there is no body there.
But the blood—so much blood. It seems almost impossible that all that blood can come from one person.
Beatrice POV
19 years old
Chapter 1 (Late September)
My eyes dart to the entrance of the café as the bell dings. Enters a man with messy black hair. He wears tight fitted jeans and a red, plaid shirt—too nice for this place. To top it off he wears brown shades. He holds onto a green string that is tied around his neck.
He sits down in the corner at a two person table. The way he puts his feet out in front of him and crosses them at the ankles, he's not waiting for anyone. Not going to lie… He's kind of cute.
I get out my notepad and pen as I walk over to him. "What can I get'cha?" I ask. They guy takes his shades off and and I see his dark slanted eyes.
"Eggs," he says. I can tell he's checking me out, which isn't uncommon here. I raise my eyebrows in annoyance. "Uh… sorry."
"How do you like em?" I ask, putting on a fake smile that usually gets me tips. The guy fiddles with a card in his hands, flicking it back and forth with his thumb.
"You tell me?" He says with a smile. I'm taken back by his response.
"You want me to guess your order?" I ask.
"Why not?" I scan over him quickly and go over the possible options. Not scrambled. Scrambled is too ordinary, and this guy is anything but that. He's clean and neat so that rules out sunny side up, which is too messy for this guy. Hard boiled is too out there.
"Over easy?" I ask sure of my outcome. He smiles more. "Aren't you gonna tell me if I'm right?"
"Where's the fun in that?" He asks. I go to sit behind the counter while I wait for the man's order, but he grabs my wrist. Not in an aggressive way so I turn back to him.
He hands me the card he was fiddling with. "I'm Matthew," he says. "I'm with the Behavior Analysis Unit." I look down at the card.
Amar Hijazi: Name
Special agent: Title
Behaviour Analysis Unit: Occupation
This probably has to do with my mother's murder.
"So you're a profiler?" I ask. He doesn't seem like one, not that I've met many.
He laughs under his breath. "Uh… no, I'm a technical analyst." It make sense, he has a geeky charm.
The bell dings, signalling for me to bring him his order. Matthew places a fifty dollar bill, which is way too much and starts for the door. He opens the door and turns back to me. "We'll be expecting your call," he says without a trace of doubt. We?
~o0o~
When I get home I can't help but stare at the card Matthew gave me. My mother has been dead for years, why would they be interested in the case now. Maybe they found some leads? I can't help but wonder.
I fiddle with my phone thinking over the possible scenarios: What if they found her body? What if they found her murderer? Or maybe it's something bad. I don't know what's worse than having no leads.
I let my curiosity get the better of me and I type in the number.
"This is Agent Hijazi." A man's voice says from the other side.
"Hi, this is Beatrice Prior…" I say because there's nothing else to say. I don't even know why I'm calling.
"Miss Prior," He says. "Please, call me Amar."
"Call me Tris," I say back.
"You're probably wondering why I got Matthew to contact you," He says. "This would be better to talk about in person. Do you have somewhere in mind where we can meet?"
"Do you have an office?" I ask. I'm testing to see if he is a legitimate or if this is some cruel joke. Wouldn't be the first time.
"Yes, I'll send you the address," Amar says. "I'm free before dinner."
"Okay."
"Oh, and Beatrice…" He says. "This is not about your mother."
Four POV
I'm on my way to Amar's office. He said he had a meeting, but it wasn't on his schedule. Amar isn't the kind of person to just add people in whenever so I thought I'd go check it out. God, I hate elevators. The doors start to close when I hear a girl say something.
"Hold the door please!" She says. I'm praying for the doors to close already. I should have just taken the stairs! The girl pushes the door back open and hits her elbow hard on the wall. I stare at her for a few second before pretending I didn't notice her.
She has long, blond hair, tied up in a bun which has strands falling out. The strands frame her small face, while her eyes are a grey-blue. I can't get anything out of her other than she's in a hurry.
"Would have thought this elevator was empty, considering I almost snapped my arm in half," she says. She doesn't press an elevator button as it closes, so I assume this is who Amar's meeting. What makes her so special?
I can't read her though. Her posture says welcoming and laid back, while her rushing here speaks otherwise. "Holding the door for someone rewards people who are late," I tell her. If she is late for a meeting with Amar… she must not know him.
"It's just basic human decency," She remarks quietly. She doesn't seem shy. Why is she being so rude to me? I mean, I know I'm rude to everyone… but that's just me. What if she knows me? My family. Stop it, Tobias. You're being paranoid.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to start a conversation here." She's rude to me, I'll be rude back. I stare at the doors, wanting to pry them open.
"Oh, cause you're used to people just shutting up after you say rude things to them?" She says raising her eyebrows. Her eyes lock with mine and I freeze. I want to figure her out. She seems to have already figured me out.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" I ask finally, not wanting it to look like I was checking her out—which she probably gets a lot.
"Now who's starting a conversation?" She remarks. She crosses her arms under her chest—which pushes up her boobs… I look away, hoping she didn't notice me stare.
"What's your name?" I ask her as politely as possible—which still comes out a little harsh.
"What's yours?" She counters. She's really stubborn. In a cute way though, not an annoying way. Wait, since when do I think of girls as cute? I can tell she's annoyed though so I answer her question.
"Four," I tell her. The elevator doors open and I see Amar in a dark blue suit. He never wears suits. Who is this girl? Not to mention how much gel it probably took to grease his hair back. I hate the feeling of product in my hair.
"Beatrice," he greets her. That name does not match her at all. "It's so nice to meet you in person, I'm Agent Amar Hijazi." He extends his hand to her and she takes it hesitantly. She can't be part of the FBI if she doesn't shake hands often. I don't shake hands often, though… I can't read her!
They walk inside his office and I go to follow, until Amar blocks my way. I end up waiting outside trying to listen to the conversation. "... Special interest in you," I hear Amar say.
"Flagged?" She says.
"You are what we call a natural." Amar says. Before my mind can say 'no', I stumble in—tripping over myself. I regain my balance quickly.
"Amar, you can't just let random Stiffs off the street join the BAU!" I say aggressively. He needs to know that this is the FBI, not some club where we recruit members.
"This is my program, Four." He says sternly. Yes, it is his program, but he's not the one who has to train the new guys. Amar and I stare at each other, neither one of us wanting to be the first one to look away—you lose if you look away.
"Umm… program?" The girl asks. She spins her chair to look between Amar and I. "You do realize I sell coffee, right?"
I give Amar a 'I told you so' look. "You are a natural profiler," Amar says.
"I like to observe people," she says crossing her arms. I can't take how slow this is going. I decide to take things into my own hands. I sit down in the chair across from Beatrice, which gives me a look from Amar.
"You think you're good?" I ask sarcastically. I place my hands on my knees and make eye contact with her. She doesn't look away, which is strange. I profiled her as someone shy… but she demands my attention. "Would Amar play basketball or golf?"
"Basketball, but he'd like people to think it'd be golf." She says in a challenging way. She doesn't like to be doubted.
I run my hand down my face in frustration. "So, I'd like to make a proposition." Amar says. "If you join us, we will take care of any medical expenses you need." Beatrice straightens in her chair. This obviously interests her. She's not sick, but a relative is. Not someone she's close with—but someone she thinks she owes.
I stop myself from profiling her when her eyes meet mine. I feel the urge to hide when she looks at me. You never know what another profiler sees when they look at you. That's why I've tried my whole career to avoid them. I don't think I'm getting out of this one.
"What do I have to do?" She asks. She directed her question at me for some reason. To read me?
Thankfully, Amar answers for me. "You'll be working with people like you and Four on profiling murderers, figuring out why they do what they do."
"Serial killers?" She asks in disbelief.
"Yes," Amar answers simply.
Then it hits me. I tell them, "Doesn't she have to take the test, with the other graduates?" God, I'm smart. This test takes years of classes and studying to pass—let alone complete. She won't pass, and then she'll leave. Like she never existed. Why am I sad about that?
"Yes, that's why I contacted her the day before." Shit!
I notice how confused she looks, but seems wary of asking. "The test is how we determine who joins us," I tell her. She nods to my words in acknowledgement.
Amar stands and makes his way to the door, opening it for both Beatrice and I. "I'll be expecting to see you tomorrow," Amar says.
I walk onto the elevator without thinking and Beatrice follows after. I feel her eyes on me, heating up the side of my face.
"Stop profiling me," I say. She looks towards the doors again and I look at her. She's small—like if I'd run into her, the impact would crush her. She wears a grey shirt that is almost a dress on her thin figure, with black tights.
"I can't profile you, but you can profile me?" She asks turning her head to meet my eyes. I feel my face heat up with embarrassment. I wasn't profiling her, I was looking her over. Assessing her—Who am I kidding… I was checking her out.
"You shouldn't join," I say looking back at the doors. I lean my back against the back wall. "This will wreck you."
Beatrice moves in front of me and places her hands on her hips. "You don't think I can handle it?" She says defensively. "Because I'm a girl, or small, or what?"
"Listen, Beatrice—"
"Tris," She corrects. Tris sounds better.
"You don't understand," I say. I run my hands through my hair in aggravation. "This isn't some game. We deal with murderers… serial killers. You get in their heads—or they get in yours."
The elevator doors open and she steps out first. "I can handle myself," she mutters as she pushes open the doors to the front entrance.
"Undoubtedly," I say. She hesitates her next step out the door. She heard me, but she didn't reply… I don't get her.
Beatrice POV
(Next Day)
I'm sitting in a room with probably more than one hundred people for this 'test' Amar wants me to take. I have no clue what this test is or what to expect.
"Nervous?" The girl beside me asks. I turn to look at her and give her a quick study. Shoulder length, dark brown hair. She has a skinny frame with a figure that complements her brown skin. She has black tights and a white flowy top. The way she can approach a stranger says she's friendly. "I'm Christina."
She extends her hand to me and I take it unsure of the movement. "Tris," I say. She takes the seat next to me and pulls out some notes.
"You don't need to study?" She says flipping through cards. "Quite the confidence."
"Amar just told me to come," I tell her. She stops flipping through her cards and looks at me. I must be missing something, because Christina looks like she saw a ghost. I go over what I said in my head to figure out what must be shocking—other than the fact that I'm taking a test for the BAU when I have no prerequisites. It must be Amar. I guess he's important to the FBI.
I look at her with my eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation for her expression. "You're one of Amar's?" She asks in disbelief. I go to answer her, but a man starts speaking at the front.
"Today's test will take approximately ten to twelve hours to complete," The man says. I look around and notice how nobody is shocked. Twelve hours? "We will take a break for lunch, which will be a one hour break." I check the clock on the wall which reads 5:40 a.m. In twenty minutes I'd be going to the café.
"Everyone please pick up your booklets from the front," The man says. I walk up to the front and run into someone.
"Sorry," I mumble. He just stares at me looking me up and down. I make an assessment of him. He has a kind face and very dark brown eyes with thick eyebrows. He looks tired especially because of the roughness of his cheeks which show that he went without shaving this morning. He has a distinct sweet and fresh smell, like sage and lemongrass. His build is broad and three times the size of me.
He shakes his head and his cheeks heat up. "I'm Al," He says handing me a booklet that's about an inch thick. "I haven't seen you here before." I want to get out of this conversation but I don't want to seem rude.
I shrug my shoulders and give him a smile before I turn back to my seat. I run my palms along my thighs to wipe off the sweat. I could run out of here and it won't affect me. I could go on with my life like this never happened. Problem is if I run out of here it will affect my dad. I need to pay his medical bills, and no thanks to Caleb bailing—I have to pay these bills myself.
The man at the front goes on about whatever as people take their seats. Until the clock turns to six and everyone flips open their booklets with a thud.
The first part is multiple choice so this shouldn't be that hard.
~o0o~
I raise my hand and wait for the man from the front to come up to me. "You have a question?" He says taking his glasses out of his pocket and unfolding them. I slide my booklet over to him.
"I'm done," I tell him. Christina flicks her head up.
"You can't possibly be done," he says angrily. "You come here and waste my time—?"
"It's not impossible," Christina interjects beside me. "The lowest time is four hours, and she finished in… six." I check the clock on the wall—11:56.
"You think you're done?" The man says looking back to me. I've checked it over twice, so I assume I'm good. It was pretty easy, I just had to figure out the person who wrote the test.
I nod my head.
"Lunch!" the man yells. He picks up my booklet and flicks the pages over, giving me side glances after each turn. He gets to the end and tucks the book at his sides.
I walk past him and push open the doors to the hallway. When I do, I run into none other than Four. "Hi," he says scratching the tattoo on the back of his neck. I can't tell if he's just itching or nervous. Why would he be nervous?
"Hey," I say as I brush past him into the hall. I hear his footsteps behind me, so I turn to see what he wants. When I turn he crashes into me. How close was he walking? I fall backwards and Four leans forward to catch me, but I end up pulling him down too. Thankfully, Four falls beside me on his shoulder and I fall on mine. "Ow," I wince. "What the hell, Four?!" I slap his arm and he winces again. This is the second time I've injured my arm because of Four.
"Sorry," he says. He sits up and when he does his fingers brush mine. I feel electricity surge through my fingertips. I'm aware of how much space there is between us. Six inches. I push myself up and place my head in my hands. I'm already sore from sitting in there for six straight hours and now I probably have a bruise on my shoulder.
"Why were you following me?" I ask suddenly annoyed. Four stands and holds out a hand for me to take. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and he yanks me up on my feet. "You know, most stalkers stalk from a distance."
"I wasn't stalking you," he says defensively. "Amar wants me to see how the test is going." I start walking and Four follows beside me.
"The professor's a dick," I say. I see the corner of Four's mouth twitch. "Apparently I wasted his time. Which is strange since nobody else is finished." Four stands in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders to stop me. I look up at him and I notice how dark of a blue his eye's are, with a brighter blue in the corner iris.
"You're done?" He says. He must notice his hands on me because he hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans.
"How long did it take you?" I counter. Before he has a chance to say something someone calls his name from the end of the hall. I see a tall and handsome man, with bronzed skin and dark, brown eyes. His smile looks white against his bronze skin. He has brown hair and has a snake tattooed behind his ear.
"Hey, I'm Uriah." He says. He extends his hand and I shake it twice. He has a lift to his steps that tells me he's usually a happy person. "Profiler," he doesn't question, but he states. How would he know that? "You're confused."
"This is Tris," Four tells him. "Uriah's an emotion reader." Four places a hand on the small of my back to guide us down the hall.
"Too bad you have no emotions," Uriah retorts shoving Four's shoulder—the one he fell on. Four rubs his shoulder and shrugs it off. "So, Tris. You wanna come to lunch with us? My brother Zeke is gonna meet us there." Uriah wraps his arm around my shoulder and I notice Four stiffen out the corner of my eye. Why does he distract me so much?
~o0o~
The sun coming from the diner's window puts an uncomfortable glare on my eyes. I sit in a booth and Four slides in next to me, Uriah across from me and Zeke next to him. Uriah and Zeke are a lot alike; Just complete goofballs.
"How did you know I was a profiler?" I ask Uriah. Uriah takes a sip of his coke and pinches his lips into a line. He must do that when he's concentrating.
"You're profiling me right now," he says. He crosses his arms in front of him and leans back. "You have a tell."
"You squint your eyes a little when you profile and you bite the inside of your cheek when you're frustrated," Four says biting into a fry. I didn't expect Four to be a person who eats fast food—seeing as though he probably has a six pack under his shirt. "See?"
Uriah chokes on his drink and laughs staring at me. He can probably see the embarrassment plastered on my face from checking Four out. Zeke and Four look to Uriah for an explanation, which makes Uriah laugh more. I kick his shin under the table and he winces.
"Yeah, profiling." Uriah scoffs sarcastically. I kick his shin again. "Okay, Okay… Jesus. I gotta head back and since Tris is an overachiever I've got to walk alone." Uriah places a ten on the table and shoves Zeke out of the seat. I place a five on the table for my salad.
Zeke's phone rings and he answers as soon as he sees the caller ID. "Okay, I'm on my way." He places money on the table and rushes out the door. Once Zeke leaves a man with black greasy hair and multiple piercings approaches Four and I. He takes a chair from the table beside us and flips it around to sit on it backwards. I see a gun holster on his hip like Four's. When his eyes meet mine I notice how cold they look.
"Four," the man greets with a head nod. Four noticeably straightens his posture. I guess this man has some sort of authority. He doesn't seem to threaten him, but he definitely makes Four anxious. I rest my chin on my hand to show a calm exterior. He turns his attention to me and smiles. "Who's your friend here?"
Four takes a long sip of his drink before answering, "This is Tris." He says it in a mockingly friendly voice. "What do you want, Eric?" He asks the man—Eric, in a now not so friendly voice. I notice how Four tries not to make eye contact.
"Max tells me Amar's got a new Stiff," Eric says. I can tell 'Stiff' is slang for something. Four called me a one when Amar was offering me a job. Max must be someone of higher power, the way Eric mentioned him.
"Like I said," Four claims. "This is Tris."
Eric does a double take. "No shit." He laughs. "But she's… hot." Something about him makes me want to run. I know he sees that as a complement, but to me he seems malicious. He gives me a flirtatious smile which is gratefully interrupted by my cellphone.
"Hello?" I answer, grateful I don't have to talk to Eric anymore. "Hello?" I say after there's no answer. I hear breathing from the other side of the line, but no answer. I hang up the phone and shove it in my pocket. Four looks at me with his eyebrows raised. I shrug, "Wrong number, I guess."
"Hey, can I get your number?" Eric asks me. Eric seems like a man not to mess with. I'm worried about how he will react if I say no. I take out my phone and hand it to him and he wiggles his eyebrows at Four to brag. "I'll see you around," Eric says standing up. He pats Four on the shoulder a little too hard and says goodbye the same way he greeted him, "Four."
"Asshole," Four and I both mutter under our breath. I look at Four to see him already looking at me. I laugh and after a second Four laughs too. His laugh is deep and soft.
"Here," Four says placing a ten on the table and sliding me my five. "Accept it as an apology for being an asshole yesterday." I smile in appreciation. Four isn't as bad as I thought. I profiled him as a closed off person, but he seems to want to be friends with me. I can't profile much about him, though. He's a person who keeps his guard up for sure. For some reason, I want to be someone he can let his guard down with.
You
You've chosen, and you've chosen well.
You kill her in a motel. Nobody sees you enter, nobody sees you leave. You put duct tape over her mouth. You have to imagine her screams, but the look in her eyes is worth it.
You pocket the knife, because the feeling of your hands around her neck is all too exciting.
The first kill should be rushed, but this is only the beginning for you.
You watch as the light leaves her eyes. You keep eye contact with the whore the whole time—not missing even a second. Her pale green eyes all too familiar, but not close enough. She stills in your grasp and you release the poor woman.
She's not her.
You move her hands over her heart. The heart that is no longer beating because of you. You brush her hair away to reveal her face.
She's not her.
You cross her legs at the ankles.
She deserves to die! She left! You look down at the lifeless body again.
She's not her.
The skimpy dress—she would never wear—lays on the floor. You pick it up and fold it neatly, placing it in the hands of the whore.
You stare into her dead eye's.
She's not her.
It can't be her. Her jaw is too soft and her hair is too short. Her cheekbones are high, but that's the work of makeup. This could never be her.
You pick up the brush and comb her hair. You feel the skin on her cheek gently and wipe away the tears under her eyes. The heavy makeup washes off by the touch of your hand. Beautiful.
But she's still not the woman you want.