The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(14)

Yet he cannot bring himself to call it home. Home is the general area of Manassas, or, more specifically, wherever the majority of his team members happen to be at any particular moment. Home is people, not a place, except when he’s planning to face-plant into his mattress and stay there, but a mattress is a little small to refer to as home. He also can’t call it his. It’s been The House for five months, because he can’t even bring himself to say “my house.”

Mercedes, with her postcard-worthy cottage, and Cass, with the duplex she shares with a cousin, think it’s the funniest thing ever.

Even Vic can’t keep from chuckling whenever he refers to The House. You can hear the capital letters. And this team wouldn’t be this team if we didn’t give him shit about it.

But because Bran is a wonderful person even when he’s a prickly bastard, he’s kind enough to ignore the laughter at his expense and pull into a drive-thru so we can get food, as none of us have eaten since breakfast. We were still scattered when Eli Copernik brought out the sandwiches he’d made, and they apparently disappeared very quickly.

We spend the first half of the drive comparing notes; there’s depressingly little to compare. Brooklyn Mercer did not simply vanish from the face of the earth while walking home, but for all the information we’ve got, she might as well have. As the fatigue sets in more heavily, conversation drifts away.

When we get to Bran’s, Mercedes and Cass offer sleepy goodbyes and trudge through the back door and across the yard to Mercedes’s cottage. Bran and I stand at the back door and watch until the interior lights flick on.

“Are you swinging through the office in the morning or heading straight back to Richmond?” I ask, voice soft in that way that feels obligatory after midnight.

“Office,” he replies. “Cass will need clothes from her bag, and Yvonne should have some updates for us.”

I lean against him, feeling him slump into the wall, and for a few minutes we just stand together, breathing. Most of his cologne has faded; still, there’s a hint of it clinging to his collar, comfortable and familiar and intriguing in a manner not entirely appropriate, given the day we’ve had. It’s simultaneously soothing and thrilling. I’ve only ever known that feeling with him. One of his hands moves to the back of my neck, kneading the tense muscles there. At this point, my chin digging into his collarbone may be the only thing keeping me upright.

“Staying tonight?” he murmurs.

It takes more effort than it should for me to shake my head. “Not unless you want me to. Thought we might both rest better apart, given . . .”

“Probably true.”

Neither of us move, except for his hand still working out the knots in my neck.

“Are you okay-ish?” I whisper into his shirt. Not okay, but okay-ish.

“I’ll be fine.”

Which isn’t the same as yes. It’s also one of those lines I’m not comfortable pushing. Three years dating, four years working together, there are still some lines that scream DON’T TOUCH! The problem of Faith is one that none of us bring up if we can help it. He has to, or it doesn’t get said. Even in a time like this.

“I hate not being able to give them answers,” he says after a few minutes. “Last night, today, it’s not the worst day of their lives. That’s tomorrow, when the initial shock fades just enough for the full weight and fear to settle. One day is terrifying. Two days . . .”

I press my lips to the pulse flickering under his skin, and wait.

“Two days is real.”

“Do you think Daniel Copernik will call you?”

“Not yet. If we find her soon, maybe never. He’s got Rebecca and his parents to focus on.”

“He’s never going to be the same, though, is he?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Eventually he pushes himself up to stand straight against the wall, his other hand moving to pet my hair. I let the motion pull me the slightest bit away, the day’s stubble on his chin scraping my temple. The kiss that follows is gentler than I would have expected, given . . . well, everything. His hands cradle my head like I’m something precious, fragile, and I can’t help but wonder how much rage is clawing under his skin that he feels he has to be this careful.

“Try to get some sleep?” I ask when we have to pull away to breathe.

“You too. And I’m sorry about tomorrow.”

“You mean today?”

He smiles slightly, not much more than a twitch of his lips. It’s something, though.

“It happens,” I say. “Yvonne will have a lot of raw data to parse, and I definitely want to see if the grandparents have filed any legal paperwork regarding Brooklyn. I’m good with the research bits. We don’t lose anything for keeping me at the office, and it makes others more comfortable.”

“Still. I know you hate when how you look affects the case.”

Our section chief—Vic’s boss—scolded Bran for looking unprofessional when he grew his hair out a little longer. Not long, not even shaggy, just long enough for the dark curls to have a little more movement, the silver woven through. In other words, the way I like it, because I’m the first to admit I have a thing for his curls. He didn’t argue with the section chief. He also didn’t cut his hair. His five o’clock shadow starts at six in the morning, and he hates both shaving and the thought of letting it actually grow into something. Bran has spent his whole career walking the careful line between acceptable and unprofessional, but it’s only ever been as a career element. How he looks doesn’t impact the actual cases.