The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(56)

“We’ll be in the waiting room,” Eddison tells Holmes and the Smiths. “They don’t need more people in those cubbies right now.”

“We’ll send someone,” the taller Smith promises. They’ve been partnered up for thirteen years, six of them on Simpkins’s team, but I have never heard the Smiths referred to as anything but a cohesive unit. I honestly do not even know their first names, because they are always, always the Smiths.

The waiting room is nearly empty. In one corner, a sobbing woman rocks back and forth in an uncomfortable chair, her fingers moving along her rosary. In her other hand, she clutches a passport and a work visa. Eddison drops into the chair beside me, taking my hand to lace our fingers together, and I lean against his shoulder.

“Have you updated Vic and Sterling?” I mumble.

“Yeah. I’ll send another in a minute.”

My eyes are burning, and I want to say it’s just from castoff somehow, but it’s exhaustion and rage and fear, and the twisting claw in my gut from wondering if we’re actually going to catch this person, and what kind of reaction the community will have if it happens. In the same breath that people abhor those who break the law, they also love vigilantes with an appealing cause.

Rescuing children from abuse? The public will eat that up when it all comes out. So far the papers have been quiet about the details. The murders have happened in different parts of town or even outside of it but still in-county, so no one’s drawn big blinking lights around them to connect them. And, too, the editor down at the main paper is usually good about squashing stories that exploit kids as victims.

I want to go home.

I’m not sure home is home anymore.



20

Zoe Jones dies at 2:13 in the morning, when a series of hyperthermic seizures causes a massive stroke.

Caleb Jones dies three hours later of rapid organ failure, including his heart.

Brayden’s doctor tells us the boy is physically stable for now, though they’ll be monitoring him closely as he starts into withdrawal symptoms. Emotionally? Brayden isn’t talking to anyone. Not to me, not to Simpkins or Holmes, not to any of the doctors or nurses. He cries when they tell him about Zoe, but when they have to come back and tell him about his twin, he just shuts down.

Tate, the social worker who’d been with Mason on Wednesday, shows up around six, and listens gravely as we fill him in. “It took me longer to get here because I stopped to get their case file,” he explains, holding up the folder. “A home inspection was done four months ago based on an anonymous complaint, likely from one of their previous neighbors, but they had just moved into the house. Everything was still clean. When we interviewed the children, Zoe and Caleb said they played outside most of the time. Brayden stayed inside the house more. Presumably, he was the one who would go into the kitchen to get supplies if they ran out of food. They had a mini-fridge in the boys’ room, tubs of food under the bed they said were snacks. I think if they ran out, Brayden was the only one to go into the kitchen.”

“He built up a slight tolerance, so he didn’t overdose as badly last night,” I translate, and he nods. “But yesterday their parents broke pattern. They made dinner for their kids and sat down together to eat in the kitchen. The other two were exposed in greater quantity than they’re used to, and even Brayden was probably in there longer than usual.”

“We requested a drug test on the children following the inspection, but it was rejected because the house was clean.”

“What about a drug test on the parents?” Eddison asks.

“House was clean,” Tate repeats. “We don’t think the Joneses were purposeful users; our theory was that they rode the contact high from cooking it, and sold it for income. They didn’t demonstrate the more overt symptoms of tweakers. Their prior residence had already sold, so we were refused permission to test there.”

“And so the kids fell through the cracks because of technicalities.” I scrub at my face, which is itching like crazy from the combination of old makeup, chlorine, and hospital. “Do you happen to know if the warrant for who had access to each CPS file has been finalized?”

“I believe so. I know Lee has been working on things. He and Gloria had their heads together.”

That . . . does not fill me with confidence.

Vic and Sterling come in not much later, laden down with coffees and tinfoil-wrapped plates of baked goods, courtesy of Marlene staying up all night worrying about us. Sterling pads up behind Eddison, but rather than trying to spook him like she normally does, she lays a hand against the back of his neck and holds up a large travel mug of coffee. He still flinches at the unexpected touch, but it’s smaller, more contained, and he leans into her side, mumbling a thank-you.

Vic carefully lowers himself into a chair across from us, leaning forward so he can keep his volume low. “Simpkins called Section Chief Gordon to bitch about your being here,” he tells us. “He checked in with Detective Holmes before calling me, and we’re going to pretend I’m not sharing this, but you should have the heads up.”

“Así que esto va bien entonces,” Eddison mutters.

“Her team will still be working the case, but she won’t be. He’s pulling her up on administrative review.”

We both blink at him, then look at Sterling, who settles in next to Vic and shrugs. We look back at Vic.