The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(14)

She gives me a sidelong look. “Were you ever adopted?”

“No. I was in the last home for a little over four years, and I’m still in touch with the mothers. They offered, but . . .” I shake my head. “I wasn’t ready to have family again.”

“Well, there’s no reason not to let you come home. We’ve got a patrol coming through a couple times a night. If you get a case out of town, will you let me know?”

“Absolutely. For right now, we’ve got a conference out in California that we’re leaving for Thursday morning. We’ll be back sometime on Sunday.” Crap. Sunday. It was supposed to be a very big day for Sterling, but will likely be a painful one instead. Eddison and I need to think of something good to do for her. “It’ll be next week before we get the cameras up.”

“All right.” Putting a hand on my shoulder, Holmes levers herself to standing. “I’ll let you know if we learn anything.”

My cozy little home looks the same, which feels odd. It should feel different, shouldn’t it, knowing what happened the other night? Everything is just slightly out of place, moved and moved back by officers looking to see if the killer entered and left something behind, but it doesn’t really account for the sense of change that isn’t. There’s probably a word for that, German or Portuguese or Japanese or something. Not English or Spanish, anyway, or what little is left from my high school Italian. How can you be homesick when you’re home?

But that’s what it feels like, a longing for the moment just before, when this was still my sanctuary, the place that was mine and mine alone unless I specifically invited someone over. The place I could lock out the rest of the world for a few hours, my little paradise with its green open spaces and no woods till several streets over.

By the time I’ve marched myself through a succession of chores and repacked my bags, I am beyond ready to leave again. I’ve sometimes run to work, or to Siobhan’s or Vic’s or a date, but it’s always been running to, not running from. I can’t stand feeling like I need to run away from my home.

Picking up the bear on the nightstand, I run my thumbs over his worn, fading velvet nap, the nubby bow tie, the plastic eyes that have been sewn back on many times. I remember when he was given to me, and by whom, and all the comfort I’ve gained from him over the years. What kind of comfort is Ronnie going to get from the bear the killing angel brought him? After a minute, I put him back down and walk away, locking the handful of locks behind me.



Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of doctors.

It wasn’t the shots that worried her, unlike most of the kids in the waiting room. She was in so much pain every day she barely noticed the pinprick of the clean slide of the needle into her arm.

No, she was scared of doctors because they lied.

They told her she was perfectly healthy, that everything was wonderful. Daddy was more careful about leaving marks if she had an appointment coming up, but she wasn’t sure it mattered. Even when there were bruises, the doctors would just cluck and tell her to be more careful when she was playing. They asked how she felt but didn’t listen when she told them everything hurt.

Her left arm, all the way up near the shoulder, had a bruise that refused to heal, because her daddy grabbed her there and squeezed, over and over and over. They told her mama to be careful of shirts with elastic bands in the sleeves while she was growing, that they could cut off circulation and leave lasting bruises.

Once, and only once, she decided to be brave and tell the whole truth. The doctor was young and pretty, and had the kindest eyes. She wanted to trust eyes that kind. So she told the doctor everything, or tried to—until her mama cut her off and scolded her for watching the wrong kinds of TV and getting confused. The doctor nodded along and laughed about fertile imaginations.

Mama told Daddy as soon as he got home.

For two weeks, his temper prowled like a tiger through the house, but he didn’t touch either of them, just in case someone was coming. The little girl was scared out of her mind, but they were the best two weeks. Even her arm started to heal.

But no one came. No one was coming.



6

I stay at Eddison’s on Tuesday because my house still feels unsettling, and Siobhan still isn’t talking to me. For all our fights over the past three years, and there have been many, we’ve never had this cold silence.

I stay at Eddison’s again on Wednesday because we have to be on our way to the airport at half past fuck it’s morning. Sterling joins us for the second sleepover, stretching out on the couch in leggings and a giant navy blue T-shirt that says “Female Body Inspector” in tall yellow blocks. Eddison stares at the lettering, blinks, opens his mouth . . . and then buries his face in his hands with a pained groan before disappearing back into his bedroom.

Sterling and I look at each other, and she shrugs before digging out five dollars from her purse. “You win. I thought for sure he’d say you should be wearing it,” she admits, handing me the bill.

“Until he accidentally tells you to calm your tits, he isn’t going to make any other sex-adjacent commentaries,” I tell her, tucking the money behind my credentials and dropping the case back on top of my bag. “He’s still feeling out boundaries, so to speak, and he’s under pretty strict orders not to break you.”