The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(52)

Priya walks out in a royal blue bikini and an open baseball shirt. I glance over to Eddison, who sighs and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from begging her to put on something more concealing, because, while Eddison is wonderful at respecting bodily autonomy, Priya is his little sister. I don’t know how many brothers are ever comfortable with their little sisters (or sisters in general, I guess) in bikinis. Then Sterling walks out in a bubblegum-pink two-piece with a flirty ruffle along the hips, and Eddison’s cheeks turn a shade close to matching.

As the rest of us settle into deck chairs for some sun, Eddison immediately dives into the pool to start laps. He isn’t going to say it unless I press, but I suspect he’s a little uncomfortable at how his being part of the company could be perceived by people who don’t know us. It does look a little like a harem. I don’t press, though. He’s a genuinely good man, and he’s uncomfortable for our sake more than his. There’s not really a way to talk him out of that one.

“Does your mother know about that?” Sterling asks, pointing to the tattoo that stretches along Priya’s entire left side.

“Helped me pick the parlor and went with me to every session,” the girl answers with a laugh. At the beginning of summer, she kept slipping into French whenever she wasn’t directly addressing one of us, her brain hardwired from three years of living in Paris. She hasn’t done it in a couple of weeks, though.

I lean over in the chair so I can see it better. I knew she was working on it over the spring months, but she didn’t tell us what she was getting. Last time she was down here, at the beginning of summer, the final session was still healing, so she didn’t show us. If the size of it is somewhat surprising, the images are absolutely Priya. A large chess queen, made of colorful stained glass, stands in a base of flowers. Jonquils, calla lilies, freesia, all the flowers left by the serial killer who murdered her sister and then hunted Priya. Chavi’s flowers, sunshine yellow chrysanthemums, ring the queen’s crown. Above the chrysanthemums float two butterflies, large enough to make out their specific coloring.

I don’t have to look them up to know what they are: a Western Pine Elfin and a Mexican Bluewing, which can be found in more detail on Inara’s and Victoria-Bliss’s backs respectively.

“I felt like I could finally leave it behind,” Priya says quietly.

“It?”

“The sense of being a victim. Like somehow it was all finally mine, and under my skin where it belonged rather than shredding me.”

Without conscious thought, my fingers trace the scars on my cheek, covered with waterproof makeup. Priya’s seen them bare, but I don’t think Inara and Victoria-Bliss ever have.

But then, even outside of the tattoos, they have their own scars. Inara’s hands will forever show the trials of the night the Garden exploded, burns and bits of glass leaving their marks when she fought to keep the other Butterflies safe in impossible circumstances. Priya’s hands have thin, pale scars across her palms and fingers where she fought for possession of a knife, and a worse line across her neck, a blade held to her pulse.

Scars mean we survived something, even when the wounds still hurt.

The day offers a much-needed sense of relaxation, even after the heat chases us inside to the air-conditioning. As night falls and the temperature starts dipping a little, we return to the patio with arms overflowing with s’mores fixings, because Sterling learned that Inara has never had a s’more. There isn’t a fire pit in the complex, but shortening the legs on one of the grills places the flames at a comfortable height, and Priya has her camera out to capture Inara’s first bite. She closes her eyes like she’s tasting heaven, a bit of melting chocolate clinging to the corner of her mouth, a blob of marshmallow sticking to her nose, and I can’t wait to show that picture to Vic.

Then my work phone goes off.

We all freeze, staring at it where it sits innocently on top of my shoes. None of us have mentioned the case today. Somehow there was just this sense of agreement to leave it alone for another day, maybe two. Just . . . later.

Sterling leans over to read the screen. “It’s Holmes,” she says quietly.

I grab it and accept the call. “Ramirez.”

“I don’t care what Simpkins says,” the detective says by way of hello, “these kids are hysterical and they need you here.”

“Which kids?”

“The three who wandered into the fire station half an hour ago with teddy bears and your name. Get to Prince William.”



Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was scared of crying.

It seemed she’d spent her whole life crying. Those few days in the hospital, after Daddy was arrested, whenever she cried, a nurse or social worker would hurry into the room if the angel wasn’t already there. They’d comfort her with soft voices and gentle hugs, things she’d never known before, and she would feel stronger until the fear got the better of her again. Then it was off to that first foster home, where only tears given to God had any meaning. She didn’t know how to give her tears to God.

She didn’t know how to give anything to God.

But that home didn’t have children anymore, not since one of the boys passed out in class and a doctor discovered they were all being starved. They all got sent to different homes, and the little girl liked the second home. The woman was funny and kind, and the man had sad eyes and a gentle smile and always seemed to know which of the girls were the most broken because he would speak softly to them, hands by his sides. He never touched them, never cornered them, was so careful to give them space and never called them pet names.