All In

“‘I ought to tell you that hunting down the person who killed her won’t bring her back.’ […] ‘I ought to tell you,’ he continued, ‘that obsessing over this case won’t make it hurt any less.’ ‘But you won’t,’ I said.”

This exchange between Cassie and her guardian, Judd, highlights their bond, which is built on shared trauma rather than conventional mentorship. The anaphora in Judd’s dialogue—repeating “I ought to tell you”—functions as a rhetorical device to acknowledge conventional wisdom while simultaneously rejecting it. Cassie’s simple retort, “‘But you won’t,’” confirms their mutual understanding, rooted in Judd’s own loss, and develops the theme of The Redefinition of Family Through Shared Trauma and Trust.

“You made it look like an accident, but left something to tell the police that it wasn’t. If they were smart enough, if they connected the pieces of the puzzle, they’d see. See what you were doing. See the elegance in it. See how clever you are.”

Cassie’s internal profiling of the UNSUB, framed in the second person, immerses the reader in her analytical process while characterizing the killer. The syntax reveals the killer’s primary motivation as a narcissistic need for intellectual validation, connecting to the motif of games and puzzles. The repetition of the imperative verb “See” emphasizes this desire for recognition, framing the murders as an arrogant performance intended for a discerning audience.

“Beside me, Sloane was staring at the hotelier’s son like he’d just reached into her rib cage and ripped out her heart. […] ‘There are 4,097 rooms in this hotel,’ she told him, an oddly hopeful tone in her voice. ‘And the Majesty serves over twenty-nine thousand meals a day.’”

This passage juxtaposes a violent simile with mundane dialogue to characterize Sloane’s response to trauma. The visceral image of having her heart “ripped out” conveys the intense pain of seeing her estranged half-brother, while her retreat into reciting hotel statistics demonstrates her primary coping mechanism. This contrast illustrates how her talent for data recall is inextricably linked to her inability to process overwhelming emotion, highlighting The Relationship Between Talent and Trauma.

“‘She was your whole world, your alpha and your omega, and then she was gone.’ His thumb gently traced the line of my jaw. ‘Letting your father and his family be there for you would have been the worst kind of betrayal. Letting anyone be there for you would have been a betrayal.’”

Here, Dean profiles Cassie, articulating the psychological root of her isolation. The use of the phrase “your alpha and your omega” elevates Cassie’s mother to a foundational figure in her world, explaining why accepting comfort from others felt like a “betrayal.” This moment of understanding between Dean and Cassie reinforces how their shared traumas allow them to see and support each other in ways their biological families cannot, validating the Naturals’ found family as a space for healing.

“Between overhearing his conversation with Lia and telling Dean about the update in my mother’s case, I felt drained, empty, but for a dense ball of emotion, barely contained in the pit of my stomach, like a grenade. Get it under control, Cassie. If you feel it, he’ll see it. So don’t feel it.”

This passage uses a simile, comparing Cassie’s contained grief to a “grenade,” to illustrate the volatile nature of her trauma. Her internal command, “If you feel it, he’ll see it,” directly links her emotional state to Michael’s emotion-reading ability, defining their relationship as one where her need for privacy is in constant conflict with his talent. This dynamic shows how the Naturals’ gifts force them into complex, psychologically demanding interactions with one another.

“‘The Fibonacci sequence appears throughout the biological world: the arrangement of pinecones, the family tree of honeybees, nautilus shells, flower petals […] It’s beautiful,’ Sloane continued. ‘It’s perfection.’”

Sloane’s dialogue reveals the killer’s mindset by framing the Fibonacci sequence and the spiral that it graphs as symbols of natural, beautiful perfection. The list of natural examples—“pinecones, honeybees, shells, flower petals”—serves to emphasize the sequence’s ubiquity and inherent order. This connection between a mathematical pattern and the natural world is crucial to the theme of The Inevitable Collapse of Ordered Systems of Violence, as it establishes the intellectual justification the killer uses to impose a calculated design upon his violent acts.

“You close your eyes and remember coming up behind her. You remember closing your hands around the chain. You remember her fighting. You remember the moment when she stopped.”

In this interlude narrated from the killer’s perspective, the use of second-person “you” creates a disquieting intimacy between the reader and the antagonist. The anaphora, or repetition, of “You remember” gives the memory a detached, procedural quality, contrasting sharply with the brutal violence being described. This passage marks a shift in the killer’s methods, moving from staged accidents to direct, physical confrontation.

“‘He might have known her.’ Dean’s voice brought me back to the present. I noticed that this once, with this case, he didn’t use the word I. ‘Or he might have watched her from afar and convinced himself that the interaction went both ways. That she knew he was watching. That he knew her the way no one else ever would.’”

While analyzing evidence from Cassie’s mother’s case, Dean deliberately avoids using the first-person pronoun “I” that is typical of his profiling method. His atypical choice of words underscores his fear of sharing psychological traits with his serial killer father and of Cassie connecting him to her mother’s murderers. Dean’s profile of the killer—a man driven by obsessive, one-sided devotion—also introduces a key psychological motive that foreshadows the complex relationships within the cult.

“If I have to be a real bastard to keep from burying another kid, well then, Cassie, I can be a real bastard.”

Following Michael’s violent outburst, Judd explains his harsh reprimand to Cassie. This line of dialogue solidifies Judd’s role as a surrogate father, whose protective instincts are defined by his past trauma—the murder of his own daughter. The author uses blunt diction (“real bastard,” “burying another kid”) to articulate the high stakes of their work and underscore the fact that in this found family, protective loyalty supersedes social niceties.

“‘I killed a man when I was nine years old.’ […] ‘I’m currently considering shaving Michael’s head while he sleeps. And,’ she finished, her tone never changing, ‘I grew up in a cult.’”

During a game of “Two Truths and a Lie,” Lia presents these three statements with a deliberately flat affect that highlights her mastery of deception. The game motif is used here to expose the trauma underlying the Naturals’ abilities and relationships, forcing both the characters and the reader to question what is real. By juxtaposing a mundane threat against two horrific possibilities, the team uses dark humor and guarded disclosures to build trust and navigate their shared pain.

“‘You liked the town and the house and our little front yard. But home isn’t a place, Cassie. Home is the people who love you most.’”

Cassie’s flashback reveals the core philosophy her mother imparted to her. The memory serves as characterization, defining Cassie’s internal conflict and her search for belonging. The symbolic power of the color blue, which triggers the memory, ties Cassie’s personal grief directly to the ongoing investigation, merging her past trauma with her present purpose.

“But you are at the mercy of the numbers, and the numbers say to wait. So you wait, and you watch, and you listen.”

The author uses a second-person point of view to place the reader directly into the killer’s mind, creating an intimately unsettling perspective. The personification of “the numbers” as an unassailable authority depicts the killer’s acts as adherence to a rigid, external logic. This establishes a central tension between the meticulous planning of the crimes and the violent reality of their execution.

“‘You just can’t see it. You don’t understand it. But just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean you get to ignore it. You can’t just pretend the pattern doesn’t exist and hope it goes away.’”

In a moment of character development, Sloane confronts her father after he dismisses her theory about the killer’s pattern. Sloane’s dialogue operates on two levels: She is simultaneously defending her intellectual discovery, and articulating the pain of his lifelong emotional neglect. By conflating the killer’s pattern with her own existence, she reclaims her voice, turning her analytical skills, born from trauma, into a tool of personal confrontation.

“Her voice lowered itself to a coarse but powerful whisper that hit me like spiders crawling down my spine. ‘I need nine.’”

During a magic show, a hypnotized woman delivers a message from the killer. Cassie’s internal reaction is conveyed through a simile—“like spiders crawling down my spine”—that translates the auditory event into a tangible sensation of horror. The cryptic demand “I need nine” recharacterizes the murders from a spree into a ritualistic quest with a numerical goal that hints at a larger conspiracy.

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

After mapping the killer’s pattern, Sloane confronts her reflection, which is obscured by the Fibonacci spiral she has drawn on the mirror. The image of the spiral overlaying her face symbolizes her analytical gift eclipsing her sense of self. Her abrupt, seemingly disconnected statement about her mother forges a direct link between her family history and her obsessive need to find patterns, illustrating The Relationship Between Talent and Trauma.

“Profiling came with a cost. But I would pay it again and again and again to make it so that even just one child never came home to blood on the walls.”

Following the discovery of a vast murder cult, Cassie reflects on the psychological toll of her work. The repetition in “again and again and again” emphasizes the cyclical nature of both the violence she confronts and her commitment to stopping it. This internal monologue explicitly connects her professional motivation to her personal trauma—finding her mother’s bloodstained room—and illuminates her painful past as the source of her resolve.

“Word of your kills is spreading. You know they monitor others with similar proclivities. Looking for talent. For threats. The Masters will finally see you for what you really are. What you have become.”

This passage of interior monologue provides insight into the killer’s motivation, characterizing his murders as a performance for a specific audience: “The Masters.” The language of “talent” and “threats” aligns with the motif of games and puzzles, positioning the murders as a high-stakes audition for a secret society. This narration establishes that the killer’s primary goal is recognition and acceptance into this group, adding psychological complexity to his actions.

“My mother dressed me up in a white dress and left me in the bedroom and told me that if I was a good girl, my daddy would want us.”

Sloane’s confession reveals the origin of her emotional detachment and reliance on logic, illustrating The Relationship Between Talent and Trauma. The innocent image of the “white dress” and the conditional nature of her father’s love (“if I was a good girl”) pinpoint the moment her self-worth became tied to external validation, providing the psychological bedrock for her character.

“It’s personal, I thought. It has to be. You want to be them, and you want to destroy them. You want power where you’ve had none. You want it all.”

Cassie’s internal monologue crystallizes the UNSUB’s paradoxical motivation. The use of paradox—“You want to be them, and you want to destroy them”—identifies the core psychological conflict driving the killer. This piece of profiling suggests that the killer’s methodical violence is rooted in a deeply personal and chaotic history of powerlessness.

“‘I get it. You don’t like running away.’ Dean’s voice was quiet, his eyes never leaving Michael’s. ‘You don’t run. You don’t hide. You don’t cower. You don’t beg.’ Because none of those things ever work. Dean didn’t say that. He didn’t have to.”

Dean confronts Michael by articulating Michael’s trauma-based motivations. Dean’s litany of “don’ts”—run, hide, cower, beg—verbalizes a shared, unspoken code born from surviving abuse. The use of free indirect discourse in the line “He didn’t have to” demonstrates an empathy that transcends typical friendship, conveying that their bond is forged in a non-verbal language of shared experience.

“‘I have the knife,’ he said, his voice pitched unnaturally low. ‘I am the knife.’”

During the team’s analysis, Dean assumes the killer’s perspective to understand his actions. The shift from possession (“I have the knife”) to identity (“I am the knife”) is a metaphorical transformation that identifies the killer’s perspective and also demonstrates the psychological cost of Dean’s profiling ability. Embodying the killer through first-person statements shows that Dean’s gift requires the dissolution of the self.

“Underneath, etched onto his chest, was a series of jagged cuts, halfway healed and on their way to a scar. Seven small circles forming a heptagon around a cross.”

In his interrogation, Beau Donovan reveals this marking, which Cassie recognizes from her mother’s coffin. This moment serves as a plot twist, directly connecting the Las Vegas case to the overarching mystery of the series. The description of the wounds as “halfway healed” gives temporal proof of Beau’s long-standing devotion to the cult, illustrating the depth of his indoctrination.

“‘You want to protect them. From every skinned knee, from hurt feelings and punk kids who push smaller ones into the dirt, from the worst parts of yourself and the worst parts of this world.’”

Judd, the team’s guardian, reflects on his protective instincts. This internal monologue establishes his role as a surrogate father, whose motivations are shaped by his own traumatic loss. Universal parental desires are juxtaposed with the extraordinary dangers the Naturals face, making Judd’s role in his found family particularly fraught.