The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(48)

“Come on in,” calls a warm male voice.

“Rule of the room,” whispers Nancy as she turns the handle. “No women past the track of the privacy curtain. He seems to do okay with that amount of space.”

Seven-year-old Mason Jeffers sits on a beanbag on the floor in the far corner of the room. A few feet away, a very tall, lean black man sits on the floor as well, long legs stretched out in front of him. Mason’s socked feet rest on Tate’s legs, just below the knee. Mason’s shoulders hunch when he sees us, fear jumping into his eyes, but otherwise he doesn’t move, just watches us with his hands around what I’d guess is Tate’s iPad.

He’s too thin, almost to the point of sickly, but otherwise he looks physically unharmed. I know that’s not the case, especially not with what Cass told me in the car, but even with that visible fear, he’s unnervingly calm.

“Mason, these are the agents Nancy and I were telling you about,” Tate informs the little boy. “That’s Mercedes Ramirez”—I give Mason a nod and a little wave—“and this is . . .”

“Cass Kearney,” she says, echoing my gestures.

“This is Mason Jeffers.”

Eyeing the curtain tracking in the ceiling, I sit down on the floor against the same wall as Tate, making sure not even a hair is over the line. It puts me about ten feet away, with Tate in between us. “You’ve had a pretty bad morning, huh?”

He nods solemnly.

“This might be a pretty difficult question to answer, but are you doing okay right now?”

He seems to think about that, then shrugs.

“Okay, let’s try something easier: As long as we stay over here, are you okay with us being in here with you?”

He frowns a little, then shrugs again.

“Okay. If that changes, Mason, if you want or need us to leave, just let Tate know, okay? And we’ll go. This is your space, and we don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He doesn’t look like he knows what to make of that, which isn’t as surprising as I’d like it to be. He’s never really been allowed to have any idea of what “his space” should be.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions? They’ll be yes or no, and if you don’t know the answer or don’t remember, that’s perfectly okay.”

There are times in this job when I say okay so many times it no longer feels like a real word in my mouth. But Mason nods, after an uncertain look at Tate, so I settle more comfortably against the wall, crossing my legs tailor-fashion and keeping my hands on my knees, palms up and fingers loose, to be as nonthreatening as possible.

“Did the person who brought you to the hospital talk to you?”

He nods slowly.

“Was it a lady?”

Another nod.

“Was she wearing a mask over her face?”

His nod is more confident this time.

“This one is important, Mason: Did she hurt you?”

He shakes his head.

“Did she mention any other kids or families?”

He shakes his head again.

“When you were in the car, did she bring you straight to the hospital?”

He nods.

That’s . . . odd.

“Was she as short as Agent Cass?”

She’s only five-foot-one, so it’s a fair question, however much the discreet kick to my thigh tells me she’s unhappy about it. Mason looks her up and down, his eyes sliding over to Nancy before he finally shakes his head.

“How about Miss Nancy, then: Was she as tall as Miss Nancy?”

He pulls one hand away from the tablet to wobble it in midair.

“How about a thumbs-up for taller, or a thumbs-down for shorter. Can you do that for me, Mason?”

He studies Miss Nancy again, who gives him a soft smile and stays precisely where she is. Slowly, uncertainly, he gives a thumbs-up.

“This is going to be a little bit harder: thumbs-up if she’s closer to Miss Nancy’s height, thumbs-down if she’s closer to my height.”

He looks between us for several moments, then puts his hand back to the iPad and shrugs, his shoulders staying up near his ears. Why the hell did I ask that sitting down?

“That’s okay, Mason. It’s okay if you’re not sure. I know there was a lot going on all at once.”

He doesn’t smile, but his shoulders drop a bit and his lips twitch in something that’s probably as close to a smile as he gets.

I want to keep that almost smile. I ask him more open questions, ones that turn it into a silly guessing game, like what’s his favorite color, or who’s his favorite superhero, and gradually, as my guesses get more and more off the wall, he starts leaning forward in the beanbag, eager to nod or shake his head to each one, and Tate gives me a broad smile. When Mason starts yawning, we say our goodbyes, leaving him with Tate, and follow Nancy out the door.

“Does he have family who can safely take him in?” asks Cass.

Nancy nods and walks with us to the elevators. “His uncles are making arrangements to get here; they’re hoping to arrive tonight or tomorrow if they can get things squared away with their bosses. His father’s brother and his husband, I believe.”

“If he’s comfortable with the iPad, can you ask Tate to show him different kinds of cars? If we can narrow down the make and model of the car, that would be a big help.”