The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(19)

“Sarah?” I say gently. “When did your stepdad start hurting you?”

She looks startled, then defensive, but when she sees neither of us is judging her, accusing her, her shoulders slump and her eyes fill with tears. “A little before Sammy was born,” she whispers. “Mom was really sick all the time, and he said . . . he said she w-wouldn’t m-m-mind, and that he needed it. But then he kept doing it. I wanted him to stop, and I was going to tell Mom, b-but h-h-he said if I w-wouldn’t, he’d go to Ashley.” The tears fall thick and heavy, and my arms ache with the need to hug her, be a shield from the rest of the world, even just for a few minutes. Instead, I clench my hands tightly around the rail. “I d-didn’t t-tell,” she continues, her voice starting to choke. “I never told.”

“Oh, mija . . .”

Sarah kicks off from the swing and hurls herself at me, her skinny arms wrapping around my waist as she buries her face in my chest. With a muffled oomph, I hook a foot through the thin rail posts to keep myself from pitching off the porch. One arm against the girl’s back, enough to comfort without making her feel trapped, I stroke her matted auburn hair with the other hand, crooning softly in Spanish.

Behind me, I can hear other cars approach, Eddison’s and Vic’s voices mingling with Sterling’s as she updates them with what she can from my passenger seat. I tune them out, focused on the girl weeping against me. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Sarah,” I murmur, timing the motion of my hand to my breathing. Gradually, Sarah starts to time her breaths to mine and calm. “You never should have had to, but you’re such a good sister to protect Ashley that way. And you were looking out for them so well tonight, Ashley and Sammy both. I know that can’t be easy.”

“One of the girls in my class, her dad did the same thing,” she mumbles into my T-shirt. Guido and Sal may never be the same. “She told our teacher and the school nurse. Her mom told everyone she was lying, that she was just trying to cause trouble.”

“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

“I’m glad he’s dead,” she gasps, her tears gaining strength again. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be, but I really am.”

“Right now, Sarah, it’s been a very long and scary night, and you’re allowed to feel anything you want to feel.” I squeeze her shoulder. “It doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“She knew. The angel, she knew what he did. I never told anyone, though.”

“Has anyone asked you? Someone at school, maybe?”

Sarah stands up a little straighter, her arms still around my waist. “Um . . .” Her eyelashes are clumped together into little spikes, the pale red tear-darkened to brown. “We had scoliosis checks in PE a few months ago,” she says after a minute. “The nurse and one of the lady coaches checked us in the coach’s office. We had to lift our shirts. Fifth period, I got called to the office. My guidance counselor asked if everything was okay at home.”

“Do you remember if she asked anything specific? Any hint what made them think something was wrong?”

Blushing fiercely, Sarah nods. “He . . . he grips hard. His hands leave bruises.”

“Never again,” I remind her. Holmes nods absently, her gaze on the small notepad in her hand. She looks pissed, but like she’s trying to hide it for Sarah’s sake. “He can’t touch you ever again, and he will never touch Ashley.” I wait until Sarah nods again. “What happened with the counselor?”

“I told her I fell off the counter putting dishes away, and that my stepdad caught me before I hit the floor. I know I shouldn’t have lied, but . . .”

“But you were protecting yourself and your sister. I’m not trying to blame you for anything, Sarah. You did what you had to do, especially if you saw your classmate get in trouble for telling the truth.”

“That was all I could think about,” she admits. “She told the truth and everyone yelled at her, and what if . . .” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “A couple days later, I was pulled out of class again, and there was a social worker with the guidance counselor. I told her the same thing. She . . . she asked if they could see the bruises, and I . . . I told them no. There were fresh ones, and I knew they’d know, but I also knew they couldn’t make me show them without my mom’s permission.”

“Sarah? Do you think your mom would have given permission?” asks Holmes.

Sarah starts shaking, and I hold her closer, sure enough of her now to wrap both arms around her for warmth and security. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “She really loves my stepdad. She always says she doesn’t know what we’d do if something happened to him, she doesn’t know how we’d live without him.”

I close my eyes against her hair, consciously keeping my breathing even. Her mother knew.

“The social worker drove me home and told my mom everything. When he found out I didn’t say anything, my stepdad bought me a bicycle. I’ve been wanting one for ages, but he always said no, and then he bought me exactly the one I wanted.”

Abusers commonly reward their victims for staying silent or lying. I’m not about to tell her that, though, especially not when she already seems to know. Sarah seems so smart, and sweet, and so protective of her siblings. I’m not giving her any more to carry than I absolutely have to.