The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(17)
“No, they’re—well, they used to be, actually, but . . .” And off she goes, giving us a rambling but mostly coherent history of bridal attendant costumes and traditions around the world, the kind of champion-level nerdery she tries really, really hard not to show at work because it’s difficult enough for her to get taken seriously by anyone outside the team. When she transitions to the soulless takeover by the bridal industry, Eddison discreetly replaces her empty pint glass with a fresh beer.
Somewhere around hour six, as the three of us are eating the scraps of an enormous appetizer platter, he points a chicken wing at me and Sterling, side by side on the opposite side of the booth. “We can all agree I’ve been behaving myself, so I finally get to ask: What the hell do the shirts mean?”
Sterling collapses into gales of bright, unrestrained laughter that make half the bar smile in response. I just grin and drink my gin and tonic. The shirts we’re wearing are plain white cotton, with “I Survived Dinner with Guido and Sal” scrawled across the front, souvenirs from a meal that defies all explanation or retelling. Eddison should be forever sorry he skipped out on that dinner in New York at the beginning of summer.
Sterling has one small bout of tears around eight. It’s six o’clock mountain time, and in another life, she’d be getting introduced as Mrs. Dickhead Umptysquat right about now. It’s not him she’s crying over, but rather, finally coming to grips with the fact that your life has taken an entirely different direction than the one you expected. You draw a map, you make a plan, and then it’s all suddenly upended, and you’re so caught up in the changes as they happen that it doesn’t really sink in until further down the road. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight, and the distinctly uncomfortable Eddison silently excuses himself from the table.
And that’s okay. Dealing with crying people will never be his strongest point, but he’s supportive in other ways that matter just as much.
Like coming back with an overfull basket of fried mushrooms, which he can’t stand but are Sterling’s absolute favorite food. She accepts one with a sniffle and a tremulous smile, and we all politely ignore the faint blush seeping across Eddison’s cheeks.
A little after ten, Eddison and I settle the bill between us, leaving Vic’s contribution as a tip for the very discreet bartenders and waiters who have responded to our hand signals and otherwise left us alone. Sterling slumps against my side, sleepy eyed but curious, occasionally lapsing into soft giggles at nothing in particular. She’s a very tame, happy kind of drunk, affectionate without being effusive.
At Eddison’s, we transfer Sterling and our bags into my car, handing our adorably soused agent a bottle of water for the short trip. My job for the night is to give her as much water as she can manage without feeling sick, so she’ll be more or less presentable for work in the morning. She struggles with the cap until Eddison opens it for her, then gives him a bright little chirp in thanks and chugs three-quarters of the bottle in one go.
Blinking, he opens another bottle and hands it to her.
As we drive, she leans her head against the window, watching the stores and neighborhoods as we pass. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
“You’re ours now,” I answer, and there’s something about the moment, or maybe just the many hours at the bar, that demands nothing above a murmur. “That undeserving bastard didn’t know what a good thing he had in you, but we do. Thank you for letting us do this for you.”
“My dad kept asking if I was sure. Said he didn’t care if we lost money on deposits and dresses and things. Just wanted me to be sure.” She sighs, tugging the band out of her ponytail to let her hair flop around her. “I should have told him. I just didn’t want him to get in trouble with Mom.”
I know something about keeping silent like that. Not exactly like that, but close enough to understand the impulse. I turn onto my street and try to decide if there’s a response that doesn’t start a conversation she is far too drunk to have.
“Mercedes?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“There are children on your porch.”
I slam on the brake, and she hiccups as the seat belt catches, and when I look out her window, sure enough, there are three children on my porch, two sitting on the swing and one pacing back and forth in front of them, her motions keeping the light on, and even from this distance I can see the blood and the teddy bears.
7
I pull all the way up the driveway, because there’s no sense in blocking the way for the emergency responders even as it feels deeply callous to just drive past the children. “Stay here until I call for you,” I tell Sterling, pulling my gun and flashlight out of my purse.
“Because I’m drunk?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“Okay.” She nods quickly, both of her phones in her hand, and I can see Eddison’s name on the screen as she starts slowly tapping out a text. Good girl.
Hands crossed at the wrist, so both the gun and the flashlight can point outward, I prowl around the back of my house to make sure no one is lying in wait. There’s no sign that anyone has come this way in the past few hours, though there are some grass clippings that suggest Jason mowed as soon as the police gave him the okay. The back door is still locked, the glass intact, with no visible blood on the step or handle. Around the far side of the house, the edge of the porch slowly comes into relief, and then the children waiting there. I click off the flashlight and put it in my back pocket.