The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(77)

26

“We’re on our way,” I promise immediately, and Sterling has her keys and phones in hand before we even get to the door. She tosses me her keys so she can get the phones ready. “Emilia, are you safe? Are you hiding?”

“No, I have to warn my uncle.”

“Emilia, you need to hide.” My hands are steady as I jam the keys in the ignition, training beating adrenaline. I can see Sterling texting Cass with one phone and looking up the number for the Chantilly police with the other.

“I can’t let him die like my mom did. He’s been taking real good care of me. He’s nice, and he doesn’t hurt me. I can’t just leave him.”

“Is she in the house?” I ask, pulling out of the driveway. Sterling grabs the phone from my shoulder and switches it to speaker, sliding it into a cradle sticking out of the cigarette lighter.

“No. She’s walking around it.”

“Is it just you and your uncle in the house?”

“No. His girlfriend’s here.”

“Okay, Emilia, run to their room if you can do it without being seen through a window. Wake them up. But be sneaky. If they’re loud, you could all get hurt. Keep the phone with you.”

I can hear her heavy breathing over the line. Mother of God, this girl is brave. Sterling cups her hand around her mouth and the mic on her phone to muffle her conversation with the dispatch officer in Chantilly. Driving like a bat out of hell, I tap her other phone and make a swirling motion with my finger, the closest I can get to lights.

She gets it, though, and starts punching in another text, this one to Holmes, to let her know we’re driving like LEOs in a personal vehicle without lights or sirens. She tells the dispatch officer, too, so hopefully we’ll be able to get to Chantilly without a well-meaning officer pulling us over for violating a dozen or two traffic laws.

Lincoln Anders’s groggy voice comes through the background. “Emilia? What is it, Emi?”

“The lady who killed my parents. She’s outside,” she tells him, and the phone is right up against her face.

“Did you have a nightmare, sweetheart?” asks a female voice, just as sleep muddled. God, it’s later than I thought.

“No, she’s here, she’s just outside. We have to hide.”

“Emilia, put the phone on speaker,” I tell her. “Let your uncle hear me.”

“Okay,” she pants, and I hear the change in the background.

“Mr. Anders, this is FBI Agent Mercedes Ramirez. Emilia called me. If she says the woman is outside, believe her. The Chantilly police are on their way to your address. Is there a cellar or basement where you can hide?”

“No,” he answers, suddenly sounding much more awake. “There’s a root cellar—”

I cringe.

“—but the entrance is outside. You can’t get there from here.”

“Do you have any weapons in the house?”

“N-no.”

“The address is outside city limits,” Sterling whispers. “Dispatch says two cars will be there in ten.”

Ten minutes. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Can you get out of the house?” I demand. “Can you get to a neighbor?”

“Come on, Stacia, get up. We’ll just—” He cuts himself off, and Emilia whimpers. “She’s inside the house,” he hisses.

“Get out. Get out now!”

Sterling holds her phone near the microphone, the recording function lit up, and gives me a wide-eyed look.

A gunshot cracks through the silence, followed by a grunt and two screams.

“Emilia, RUN,” I yell through the gunshots that follow. Emilia is the only one screaming now. I don’t even know if she heard me.

“Stop,” a muffled voice commands on the other end. “Stop, you’re safe now.”

Emilia is sobbing now, and then there’s a startled grunt.

“Stop fighting me,” the voice snaps. “You’re safe now. You’re going to be okay.”

“Emilia!”

More grunts, and Emilia’s screaming again, feral, broken things that must be shredding her throat, and then— Another gunshot, and a heavy thump.

“No, no, no,” whines the voice. “No, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. No. NO. You’re supposed to be SAFE! I’m making you SAFE!” She screams, and it tangles off into a choking rasp. I can barely hear footsteps. The time between treads says she’s running, and shit, the police aren’t there yet, they can’t get there in time to stop her!

“Cara!” I yell, wondering if she can hear me. “Cara, it’s Mercedes. Do you remember me?”

But the only thing I can hear is the pained groans of someone still alive. Tears running down bloodless cheeks, Sterling tells the dispatch officer to send ambulances.

Too many minutes later, we hear the officers arrive, calling into the house. “This one’s alive!” one shouts, and someone steps on Emilia’s phone before they say who it is.

I’m doing 110 in a 45, and I wasn’t anywhere near fast enough.

When we screech to a halt in front of the Anders house, lights are flashing everywhere, pressing in on wounds that are far more raw than usual. Two ambulances are in the drive, and as we run up to the front door, two paramedics rush out with a gurney.