The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(89)

Sterling stands beside him with a small smile and a cardboard carrier with four hot drinks.

“Bells,” mutters Eddison. “I’m putting bells on you.”

“Promises, promises.” She hands Vic a cup that smells strongly of black coffee and hazelnut creamer, then hands one to me with the rich scent of chocolate. “I figured you’d be jittery enough,” she says with a shrug, “but if you’d rather coffee, we can switch.”

“No, hot chocolate is good. Hot chocolate is . . .” The hand not holding the cup is still tapping rapidly against my phone, a little rabbit heart about to burst from fear. “This is good. Thank you.”

Eddison eyes the two cups remaining in the carrier. “One of those is mine, right?”

“Yes, black as your soul even. You can have it once we’re inside.”

“Decaf?” asks Vic.

Sterling shrugs again. “I’d be worried about the caffeine if he was taking his drugs, but he’s not, so . . .”

“I am taking my drugs! Vic, don’t give me that disappointed look, I am taking my drugs.”

“Not all of them,” Sterling announces in a singsong voice, and from the beautiful look of disgust and betrayal Eddison gives her, I’m going to guess that she’s the one who sprung him from the hospital, and this is her price. I’m also going to guess she didn’t tell him that price up front.

“I will take the painkillers when we’re done for the day, but I’d like to not be a drooling, incoherent mess in front of IA, thank you very much.” He reaches out for the nearer cup, but she pulls it away.

“And how are you going to manage it with your crutches?”

“I’ve seen you do it.”

“You don’t have the figure to do it the way I do.”

The tips of his ears turning pink, Eddison sends a quick look down both stretches of hallway. “Do you mind? I’m trying to limit myself to one sexual harassment seminar a year.”

“Children,” Vic rumbles. Eddison glowers, but subsides. Sterling doesn’t bother with the glower; even at her most mischievous, she pulls off the innocent look too well to manage anything else well. For the first time, she’s wearing color here at work, her blouse a vivid royal blue that makes her eyes pop. It’s still a power color, not soft or especially girly, but I’m glad she finally feels comfortable enough to stray from straight black and white.

Does it say anything about me that this is helping me center? If they were genuinely worried about how this investigation was going to turn out, they’d either be very quiet (Vic and Sterling) or blatantly obnoxious (Eddison. Always Eddison). This is business as usual.

Behind the two agents on their feet, the door creaks open. Every conference room on this floor has a door that creaks, no matter how much WD-40 maintenance applies. Rumor has it some enterprising agent went through and put pins in every hinge, so anyone waiting in the hall for an IA deposition or disciplinary meeting has warning when the door opens. I have no idea if the rumor is true or not, but I also know that no agent will ever try to find out.

We’re not immune to superstition even if we are supposed to know better.

A young man, probably fresh out of the academy, stands in the doorway and clears his throat. “We’re ready for you, agents.”

Vic squeezes my knee. “Mercedes?”

I nod, take another minute to breathe, and finally stand up.

Eddison bumps his shoulder into mine, nose pressed into my cheek. “Remember, we’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone in there, chula.”

I breathe him in, his familiar scent altered by lingering hospital smells. For ten years, these two men have been my family, and Sterling is part of it now too. I’d have their backs through hell and beyond.

And they’ve got mine.



31

Two and a half days later, the interviews are basically done, and Agent Dern dismisses us for lunch. The verdict, such as it is, will come down when we reconvene. We retreat to the conference room off the bullpen to wait, and the girls are there, visitor badges clipped to their shirts. They brought the food, insistent on giving us moral support. Inara and Victoria-Bliss actually had to return to New York on Friday, but they came back down last night to be here, and that means a lot.

Eddison pokes at his food. He hasn’t had much of an appetite since he got shot, which is normal but still not great. He’s almost squinting against the pain, and the muscles at the left side of his mouth keep twitching. As gently as I can, I hook my foot under his and lift his leg until I can discreetly grab his ankle and prop it across my lap. Proper elevation won’t make it stop hurting, but at least it’s something. He lets out a soft sigh and nudges my elbow with his.

To be honest, I thought we were being wonderfully subtle, but Vic catches my eye and smiles slightly, shaking his head at Eddison’s stubbornness.

Priya slides a pair of scrapbooks in front of me, folding her hands on the table. “Vic, Eddison, you have copies coming of the first one, but it felt important to get this one done in time.”

I lift up the front cover, aware of Vic and Eddison pressing closer on either side. Sterling smiles and starts cleaning up the boxes. The first picture is of Inara, in those first few days after the Garden, the wings of the Western Pine Elfin emblazoned on her back in pale browns, jewel-like pinks and purples, her sides and hands cut and burned from the glass and explosion. She looks back over her shoulder, slightly, eyes narrowed at whoever else was in the room. On the opposite corner of the page, though, is a newer picture of her, topless and from behind, a few thin scars showing where the wounds used to be, a rainbow mess of full skirts heaped around her as she peeks over her shoulder. She’s teasing in this one, the colors of the wings only slightly faded, her arms crossed in front of her with just the tips of her fingers curling over her shoulders. Tiny butterflies and stacks of books decorate the blank corners of the page.