The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(86)

“But—”

“You are not going to be any help to that young man if you are falling over yourselves. Go.”

“But—”

“Victor Hanoverian, do not make me call your mother.”

He grins at her and gives her a sweet kiss. “I just wanted to see how long it would take you to pull out Ma.”

She returns the kiss with a smile and a hand to his cheek, which becomes the hand twisting his ear painfully as he cringes and follows the movement of her hand to lessen the strain. “Not even a year ago it was you in that bed, Victor, and the doctors weren’t sure you were getting out of it in any way but a sheet and a bag. It’s going to be a few more years before you get to joke with me in hospitals.”

Properly abashed, he gives her another kiss. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. It was insensitive.”

“Thank you.”

Sterling glances at me, her hand in Eddison’s, though he’s fast asleep. “Relationship goals?”

“Definitely.”

Vic rubs his ear with a grimace. “Were you talking about the communication or the abuse?”

“Yes,” we answer decisively, and Jenny grins as she returns to shooing us out the door.

Priya takes Sterling’s chair beside the bed, feet propped up on the mattress. “Don’t worry; if he tries to get up, I’ll threaten to yank out his catheter. He’ll be so mortified he’ll have to behave.”

Which is how I half-carry the hysterically giggling Eliza out of the hospital room.

Despite orders from his wife to take us home, Vic does the appropriate thing and drives us back to Quantico. Both our cars are there—I’m assuming Watts brought Sterling’s car back—as well as our purses, but there’s also something I have to do.

At Agent Dern’s desk in Internal Affairs, I hand over my badge and gun, and she swivels away to store them securely in a wall safe. I’m not going to lie—it’s painful to see them disappear like that. Usually when my gun is in a safe, I know the combination, whether it’s the temporary combo in a hotel room, the date of the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre (Sterling), the date Priya came into our lives (Eddison), or the birth years of Holly, Brittany, and Janey (Vic). Or mine, the date Vic pulled me out of the cabin.

“We’re not expecting the investigation to produce any surprises,” Dern tells me, handing me a mini bag of M&M’s from the top drawer of her desk. “We’ll take a few days to get everything together on our end before we call you in. I’d say it will give you time to prepare what you need, but you’ve kept us in the loop every step of the way, so use the time to rest. I don’t imagine you’ll be on leave for more than a week or two before we can get your badge back to you.”

I’m not sure what my face does, at that moment, because she sits up with interest and concern. “Agent Ramirez? Do you not want your badge back?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” I confess softly. Despite what Cass and Sterling said this morning—hell, despite what I said to Vic—I’m not sure that I can keep doing this without incurring wounds I’m not strong enough to bear.

The initial surprise in the Dragonmother’s expression melts into understanding, and she settles back into her chair. She plucks the reading glasses off her nose and folds them, letting them drop on their chain to sit crookedly against her chest. “Every agent hits this moment, Mercedes,” she says gently. “At least every good agent. That you’ve reached this point in your career without it becoming critical is a testament to you, but also to Hanoverian and Eddison, and the way you all support each other. Questioning your future with us doesn’t make you a bad agent. So. You’ve got some time to think through things.”

“Have you ever—” I bite off the rest, but she smiles.

“Forty-one years ago,” she answers. “We had an agent who was chasing after a suspect and used lethal force. No witnesses, but his team and the local LEOs he was working with had all commented that something about the case seemed to rub him the wrong way. In the end, our investigation wasn’t able to prove one way or the other what actually happened in that confrontation. We recommended suspension and a full psychological evaluation before he could be returned to duty.”

“So what happened?”

“He surrendered his badge and gun, went home, took his personal piece out of the closet, and shot his wife and two children before shooting himself.”

“Jesus.”

She nods, her smile turned sad. “I think you’re familiar with the kinds of questions I asked myself over the next few weeks, and even after. Had I caused this? Was I responsible for their deaths? Had I missed something during the investigation that would have told us he would do this? How good could I be at my job if I hadn’t realized that could happen? How could I stay in this job with that? This isn’t the first time you’ve asked yourself these questions, Mercedes, though it may be the first time you’ve had to delineate them so clearly. Whether you stay or not, it won’t be the last. Moments like this, questions like this, they become part of you.”

“How did you decide?”

“My daughter was worried. If I left the FBI, would I still be Wonder Woman?” She laughs at my startled expression. “My little girl thought all FBI agents were superheroes, and her mom was Wonder Woman, wielding a lasso of truth. I didn’t just bring down villains; I protected the other superheroes. She was four. She didn’t understand that there was so much more to it. As far as she was concerned, I was Wonder Woman, and Wonder Woman never lets the bad guys win.” She shakes her head and pulls out another snack bag of M&M’s, spilling some into her palm. “How could I argue with that?”