The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(24)

She sips her drink, watching the cars pass by. “You were in foster care?” she asks eventually.

“Eight years.”

“You weren’t adopted?”

“The last ones offered. I said no.”

“Why?”

“Because family hurt me. I wasn’t ready to try again. But I stayed with them for four years, and I’m still in touch with them. We get together a couple times a year.”

“Three years, and you’ve never told me this?”

“You like to edit your world, Siobhan. You can’t tell me you’re not curious about why I went into foster care, but you’ll get angry if I explain it. Because that’s not what you want in your reality. Children don’t get hurt in your little world.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“No, it isn’t, and I’m tired of pretending it’s something I can do.” My thumb taps against the scars on my cheek. I keep them covered most of the time, but not always. She’s seen them, and she’s never once asked how I got them. I used to be grateful for it until I better understood that she wasn’t granting me privacy—she genuinely didn’t want to know, because she suspected it might be something terrible. And it was, and it is, but still. “You constantly punish me for doing a job you think shouldn’t be necessary, while refusing to admit that it is. I’m tired of feeling like I have to protect you from my history simply because you don’t like that the world can be a horrible place.”

“I’m not that na?ve!” she protests, but I shake my head.

“You want to be. You’re not, and you know you’re not, but you want a world that simple, and you lash out at the people who remind you that it isn’t.”

Her hands are trembling. I watch her fingers tighten around the cup to try and stop it, and then she puts the cup down and hides her hands in her lap. “This sounds a lot like you breaking up with me.”

“It isn’t.”

“Really?”

“I should have stopped pretending a long time ago. But you have to understand this, Siobhan: I’m not doing it anymore. You need to decide if you can be in a relationship with someone with a painful personal history, someone who needs to be able to talk about difficulties or triumphs with a job you hate. If you can, or think you can, wonderful. I really hope you do, and that we can figure out how to make this work going forward. If you can’t, I can understand that, but that’s your choice to end it.”

“You’re putting that on me.”

“Yes.” I drain the last of my coffee and stuff the trash into the cup. “Will you let me tell you something else about the children?”

Her expression says, hell no, but after a moment, she nods.

“They were hurt by their parents, and when this woman took them from their homes, she brought them to my house and told them they’d be safe. I would keep them safe. And yes, it’s terrifying that she knows where I live and what I do, but she’s also trusting me to keep these children safe. The history I have with my job, the reputation I’ve made with it, means these children aren’t being left in the house with their dead parents. It’s a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. She isn’t hurting the kids, and she knows I won’t either.”

“I’m not sure I have anything to say to that,” she replies shakily.

“That’s okay. Just think on it while you’re making your decision.”

My phone buzzes with another text, this one from Detective Mignone. Wong took pictures of his stepdaughter. In the photos, she doesn’t seem to be aware of it. Social worker wants you there when they tell her.

It might be close to an hour before I can get there, I reply.

That’s fine. I’ll let her know.

“I have to head to Manassas,” I announce.

“You’re going home? The day just started.”

“My yesterday hasn’t ended yet, and I’m going to the hospital to talk to one of the kids. Do you want to walk back with me or do you need some time?”

She looks at me for a long minute, and her shoulders slump. “I’ll stay for a bit. I guess . . . I guess I’ll talk to you . . . when?”

“Whenever you decide. You’re at bat.”

“At bat?”

“With a brother like Eddison, is it really so shocking baseball has crept into my vocabulary?” I stand and toss my trash, including the crumbled mess of her cannoli when she nods. I’m not sure she ate any of it, honestly. “I won’t show up at your apartment or your desk, won’t send you anything, won’t text or call or email. I’m not going to pass notes like in grade school. This is up to you.”

I hesitate, then decide what the hell and lean down to kiss her. However pissed at me she is, our bodies know each other, and she leans into me, her hand curling around my elbow. She tastes like raspberry and white chocolate and peppermint from that silly drink. There’s a catcall from a passing driver, but I ignore that, focused on the feel of her lips on mine, the small sigh when my finger strokes along her jawline. This may be the last time we kiss, and it’s frightening to realize that I’ve given up any say in that decision. Frightening, but right. When I pull away, it isn’t far, our breaths mingling as my forehead rests against hers. “Te amo y te extra?o y espero que sea suficiente.”