The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(61)

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He nods and hums, waiting for me to continue. I do.

“Someone who chooses to do this can choose to stop. Someone who needs to do this . . .”

“Someone who can’t stop must be stopped. It must be hard to do that, if you can see where your lives diverged.” He pauses thoughtfully. “The agent who carried you out of that cabin: Did he do more harm than good?”

“No,” I answer reflexively. “He saved me.”

“And you save others. What comes after that isn’t your fault, Mercedes. Your job demands a great deal of you, but not this. Don’t take on more than is yours to bear.”

That feels like the end of the conversation, something to mull rather than easily accept. I thank him and stand, dusting off the seat of my pants.

“Mercedes?” He gives me a sad smile when I turn to see him better. He hasn’t moved to stand. “About your father?”

I brace myself.

“Give it to God,” he says simply. “How you feel about it is yours and yours alone. Whether or not you should be judged; that’s for God.”

It’s a lot to think about, and I’m quiet as I rejoin the others and we head back to Vic’s house. We take a detour by my home so I can pick up some more clothing, check the mail, and talk to Jason. He’s kept up with the lawn, and he also shows me the cameras he’s installed on his porch and mailbox, just like mine.

“I haven’t seen anyone,” he tells me regretfully. “I’ve looked.”

“Thanks, Jason. Listen, my normal phone died, so I’m going to give you my work cell, just in case.”

“Gotta say, I miss having you around, kid.”

“Hopefully this will all resolve quickly, and I can come home to stay.”

After dinner, Sterling takes me home with her. Whatever time-share she and Eddison planned out, it’s fully intact. Rather than making up the couch-bed, though, she gives me a gentle push into the bedroom. “Do you really want to be alone right now?” she asks at my token protest.

No.

Knowing what the rest of her apartment looks like, her bedroom is utterly unsurprising, all black and white and blush pink in elegant coordination. A large, light brown teddy bear in an FBI windbreaker sits on the mound of pillows at the head of the bed. I pick it up, touching the black thread nose.

“Priya gave that to me when I got the transfer request.”

Of course she did.

We plug in phones and situate guns, checking emails and messages one last time before setting the alarms. When we’re changed and settled under the fluffy comforter, she doesn’t even blink at me cuddling the teddy bear, even though its jacket is whispering with every movement, like the real ones. She just flicks off the light. Noises drift through the walls: her neighbors walking and talking, playing music or games or watching TV. It’s not obtrusive, just sort of there, comforting in its own way, like Sterling’s steady breathing beside me.

Then my phone goes off.

“It’s only been two days,” Sterling whispers over the ringtone.

I roll over to grab the phone off the nightstand. “It’s Holmes,” I tell her, and answer the call. “What’s happened now?”

“Eleven-year-old Noah Hakken just walked into my police station,” she reports grimly.

“Is he injured?”

“Bruised to hell and back but he swears he’s not abused. We’re taking him to the hospital now.”

“I’ll be there.”

The call drops, but the glow of the screen takes longer to dim.

“Hospital?” Sterling asks, throwing back the blanket to reach for the light.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

The smack upside the head, gentle as it is, still takes me by surprise. “Mercedes Ramirez, don’t you dare apologize for any of this,” she says severely. “It is not your fault.”

I know that, I do, but I still don’t really have a response for that right now. “We should grab our bags for work. I doubt we’ll be getting back before the office.”

The ER isn’t anywhere near as frantic as two days ago. Jesucristo. Dos días. A nurse at the station recognizes me and points me to one of the closed curtains. Sterling stays at the counter to talk to the nurse as I walk over, stepping a little too hard on purpose so the sound can announce my approach. “It’s Ramirez,” I say.

Holmes pulls the curtain back, revealing a pair of calm nurses and a boy sitting on the bed, tear-stained and confused and splashed with blood. He’s in an undershirt and boxers, showing a lean, muscled body that’s unusual for a boy his age. Holmes was right, though, he’s got a lot of bruising, and one of the nurses is bent over a red, swollen ankle.

“My name is Mercedes Ramirez,” I tell him, and he jerks his head up to look at me. “Someone gave you my name?”

He nods slowly. “She killed my mom,” he says. His voice sounds slurred, not mushy so much as drugged, maybe?

“She hit him pretty good on the back of the head when he fought her,” Holmes explains, “and he’s been having problems with allergies the past few days, so his mother gave him some Benadryl to help him sleep. They’ll do a scan for concussion but they don’t want to give him anything for the headache until the Benadryl wears off a bit more.”