The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(13)

Cass—and this late in the day it is absolutely Cass, even if we are still technically working—drifts over to the Mercers’ yard. A few minutes later, Bran and I follow. It would be better—easier—to wait for Mercedes back at the car, but when everyone is up in arms and scared like this, strangers loitering around a large, dark vehicle make people very nervous. We loiter in the area of a street lamp instead, well-lit and as nonalarming as it’s possible for a group of armed, exhausted federal agents to be.

While we wait for Mercedes to wrap up inside the house, I pull my hair out of its braided bun and fluff it out, trying to relieve some of the headache that’s been building through the day. The concentrated weight of that much hair is definitely a part of that. Without seeming to realize it, Bran reaches over and grips the back of my neck, thumb and forefinger digging into the tense muscle.

Cass sneezes a laugh at my barely contained groan. According to Mercedes, that little sneeze of a laugh is why Cass’s nickname at the academy was Kitten. I asked once—once—why it was Kitten rather than Cat, and Mercedes barely had time to gasp out that Cass was so adorably pocket-sized before said pocket-sized hellcat started chasing her around the bullpen. Someone on one of the other teams there that evening, and I have no idea who, made a desk plaque that reads “Kitten Kearney (Pocket-Sized for Your Pleasure).” Cass loathes it, but it gets passed around the bullpen to see who can sneak it on her desk and how long it takes her to notice.

“Debería haber sido una noche de tequila,” Mercedes sighs as she joins us.

“But it isn’t.”

“But it isn’t,” she agrees. “I think—”

“Agent Ramirez!”

All four of us turn toward the house, Bran’s hand dropping from my neck. A woman steps down off the porch, heading in our direction.

“Agent Ramirez, I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask—” She stops dead at the sight of me, her trembling hand covering her mouth. Suddenly, with a great wail, she throws herself at me in a hug and starts sobbing.

“Alice Mercer,” murmurs Mercedes. Unnecessarily, in my opinion.

I put my arms around the weeping woman and hold tight. I don’t even try to say anything. There’s nothing to say. I’m sorry I look just enough like your missing daughter to be terrifying? I’m sorry you see me and wonder if your daughter will get to grow up to be anything? I’m sorry you’re going to look at every blonde child and want, so desperately, for your little girl to be home and safe? There’s just nothing to say.

A man—presumably her husband—joins us from the porch and tries to disentangle her, tugging gently at her shoulders. Mercedes helps him, and together they turn Brooklyn’s mother back toward the house. She’s still crying, stumbling as they guide her up the steps and inside.

Bran and Cass both look at me. So does Watts, watching from a few feet away with the exhausted Captain Scott, who’s been getting the night shift up to speed at the end of the driveway.

“Yes, all right, I get it. My being here is a bad idea.”

Cass sneezes again, ducking her head to hide the amused gleam in her eyes.

“There’ll be more than enough work for you at the office, Sterling,” Watts says, at least attempting to seem sympathetic. “We’ve got a lot of information to go through.”

It takes a few minutes for Mercedes to return, looking even more worn than before. “Home?” she asks hopefully.

“Home,” Bran replies, and starts shooing us in the direction of the car. He waves at Watts, who nods at him before shaking Captain Scott’s hand and trudging off toward her vehicle.

“Mercedes, can I crash with you tonight?” Cass buckles herself in and kicks off her shoes, curling into the seat. “I don’t want to drive back to Fairfax.”

“Sure. We could probably skip Quantico and go straight to Manassas, shave off the time we’d inevitably spend in the office. Head straight back to Richmond in the morning?”

“Except for Eliza,” Cass says, and wrinkles her nose when she catches me sticking my tongue out at her. I know I’ll accomplish a lot at the office, but I’d rather be in the field with my team.

“Mierda. Is your car at Quantico?” Mercedes asks.

I shake my head.

“It’s at the house,” Bran tells her.

“You mean The House?” I ask innocently, giving the proper emphasis.

It’s been a long, emotionally trying day, which is perhaps why none of us are entirely surprised that Mercedes immediately cracks up. Just fucking loses it, head thumping against the window as she laughs herself to tears. It sets Cass off, but she buries her face in the back of the seat so we can’t hear her as clearly.

Bran looks at me, at the way I’m biting my lip to try to keep a straight face, sighs, and starts the car.

Bran’s had a handful of addresses in the nineteen years since he was assigned to Quantico, but they’ve all been apartments. Finally, five months ago, he bought a house. Not just any house, but The House, the one immediately behind Mercedes’s cottage. They share a property line. They quibble over joint custody of the firepit attached to his back porch. They can literally hold a conversation back door to back door and barely raise their voices.

When Brandon Eddison finally decided to put down roots, he bought The House immediately behind the teammate he regards as a sister.