The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(50)

I hate this, digging through old cases to see which child might have grown up to be a murderer. Not just the kids we rescued but their friends and family, the friends and family of the ones we couldn’t save, even—in some cases—the children of the ones causing them harm. In a few terrible cases, the kids causing the harm. Reading through the files to assess perceived connections, plugging them into our system to find where they are now . . . it’s horrific.

Kids who face monsters can grow up to become monsters, I know that, and some grow up to chase monsters. I just don’t want to think that a child I held and comforted could grow up to do this.

It’s slow, tedious, heartbreaking work, and far too vivid a reminder that a rescue is a moment, not a state of being. Whatever we saved them from, we were powerless to influence what came next. I know that better than most.

This, I think, is exactly why we’re trained to let go of cases once they’re done. How could we do this job if we’re constantly aware that even our successes can lead to terrible things?

By the end of the day, everyone is either short-tempered or walking on eggshells in the bullpen. Sterling and I are sitting atop Eddison’s freakishly organized desk, our feet on his thighs to keep him seated, passing around menus to decide on dinner, when Vic walks up. We all watch him warily.

Because there’s this thing that Vic sometimes does, where he will absolutely have your back in public, but in private he will break down in excruciating detail exactly what you did wrong and why you need to never do it again. It’s not cruel or hateful, it’s not even mean, it’s just . . .

He gets so disappointed when he has to do it. Disappointing Vic makes you feel lower than dirt.

“Stop that,” he chides. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Are you sure?” Sterling asks doubtfully.

“Simpkins was out of line. Yes, you probably shouldn’t have wiggled around the lines as much as you did, but we got a call from the lead social worker telling us how much it helped the kids to see Mercedes, so clearly you did what was needed. Now. None of you are coming in tomorrow.”

“We’re not?”

“No. We’ve been over this. When you’re on desk rotation, there’s this thing called overtime that the Bureau doesn’t want to pay you. You’re done for the week. Go home. Better yet, go to the train station and pick up the girls, because I have to sit down with the section chief and explain the ruckus today.”

Gathering up the handful of menus, Eddison stacks them neatly and tucks them into the top drawer, gently moving Sterling’s legs out of the way to do so. “All right, we’ll take them out.”

“We were just going to do pizza at the house,” Vic tells him.

Eddison just shrugs. “I’m not letting them see that apartment until you’re there to show it to them, and you know Jenny will automatically lead them to it.”

Vic gives him a long look, but surrenders without another word. “I’ll let you know when I’m leaving the office, then.”

Launching herself off the desk, Sterling nearly skips over to her bag, pulling a slim something in a garbage bag out from behind her filing cabinet. “I was hoping we’d get to pick them up.”

“Are you going to show us what that is?” Eddison asks, eyeing the bag.

“Not yet.”

We take Vic’s car to the station, leaving Eddison’s keys with him, as Vic’s is the only one capable of legally seating at least six people. When we get there, Sterling excuses herself to the restroom while Eddison and I figure out where we need to be. It’s a bit of a zoo, with the commuters hitting the road home. Amtrak is the way Inara and Victoria-Bliss prefer to come down. Inara, who never really seems afraid of anything, absolutely hates flying, and has done it all of once. Not once round-trip. Once. She actually cancelled the return flight and caught the train, she hated it so much. Priya has never seemed to care one way or the other, but she’s not going to fly down separately from them for a couple hundred dollars more.

“Has Ronnie’s grandmother called back yet?” Eddison asks when we get vaguely where we need to go.

“Yes. She told Cass that Simpkins had told her not to answer or return my calls, and she was very confused. I didn’t envy Cass having to explain that.”

“You were allowed to speak to Cass?”

“When Anderson went to lunch, I borrowed his computer for the interoffice chat, so if Simpkins gets twitchy, it looks like Anderson did it.”

“She’ll eat him alive.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“It’s not just you, right? All the women in the office hate him?”

“Hate who?” Sterling asks suddenly, popping up behind the violently flinching Eddison.

“Bells,” he mutters. “I swear to God, bells.”

“Anderson,” I tell Sterling.

“Oh. Yes, most of us hate him.”

“And the others?” he asks, one hand still over his heart.

“Don’t have to interact with him. Ooh, that’s them!” She hands the garbage bag to Eddison, tears open the knot, and pulls out a folded posterboard sign with huge, glittering green letters that say, BITCHES BE HERE.

“Christ,” sighs Eddison, staring at the ceiling for inspiration or patience.