The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(16)

“Pero a mí sí me lo has hecho.”

Mercedes flips Bran off with the hand not keeping Cass balanced.

“You know, being around you two made me learn Spanish so I wouldn’t miss out on things.” I perch on the edge of my desk and sip my tea. “Sometimes I think I preferred the ignorance.”

“But then you wouldn’t have been able to send my mother that lovely letter that kept switching between Spanish and Italian.”

“I might hate you.”

“She framed it and everything.”

Bran sorts through the Post-its that have congregated on the edge of his computer monitor since yesterday. Most of them get thrown away. After a moment, he comes over empty-handed and brings me to my feet. He follows it up with a swift hug and a kiss on the cheek, which is more than we usually go for in the office. Partly that’s personal preference, and partly that’s a strongly worded proactive request from Human Resources when we informed them we’d started dating.

The bullpen is empty except for us, and a look up at the offices shows no lights on, so I touch the bruise-colored shadows under his eyes. “Did you get any sleep?”

He tugs on the end of my too-loose braid, dislodging the elastic. “Did you?”

“No.”

“De cualquier manera, no dormimos mucho. Turn around.”

I scoot back on the desk and swing my legs up to swivel myself around, presenting him with my back. I can hear the slide and squeak of the top drawer opening and closing, and a moment later his fingers shake out the rest of the braid. He combs through it slowly, paying special attention to the knots I was too tired to bother getting out at home. It feels marvelous—not just the slight scrape of the comb’s teeth against my scalp, but his fingers moving through my hair or protecting my ears. After a few minutes, the comb drops into my lap, followed by the gentle tug of him sectioning my hair. I don’t need a mirror to know that the Dutch braid is tidy and tight, every strand of hair smoothed into place.

He’s never forgotten the skills that came from having a sister eight years younger. Her best friends, and almost every woman he’s allowed in his life since then, have never let him. Even Mercedes asks for his help with her hair for really important dates.

Mercedes brings Cass back mostly dry, just the hair immediately around her face dark with damp. Probably got shoved face first into a filled sink. I’ve been on the receiving end of that move after one memorable pub crawl.

Unlike me, Cass does not look particularly enlivened by it.

“I’m probably going to set up in the conference room,” I tell them as they get their pockets sorted. “I’ll have my cell, but that line should work, too, most of the day.”

“Any particular reason?” asks Mercedes.

“It won’t stand out as much as being out here. I’m not ashamed or discouraged by staying behind, it just makes good sense, but I know Anderson’s stuck doing extra paperwork from the latest harassment seminar he had to attend, so why give him an easy punch line?”

“How have none of you murdered him yet?” sighs Bran. “I’m pretty sure every woman on the floor would alibi you.”

“Exactly,” Mercedes says with a shrug. “It’ll look too suspicious.”

Watts walks in carrying a steaming mug and an entire box of protein bars. When she sets down the coffee, she tears open the box and throws a wrapped bar at each of us. “Eat something,” she orders.

“Did you get any sleep?” I ask.

“Did anyone? My guys are already on the road to Richmond; I told them to head straight up.”

But for some reason, she came here. We all wait for the shoe to drop.

“I got an email from the department shrinks this morning,” she mumbles around half a protein bar. “They would prefer Eddison stay here with Sterling and work on the research.”

“I’m not compromised,” Bran protests immediately.

“You are, a little, but not so much that I would take you off the case, and that’s not really what they’re asking anyway. But yesterday was hard on you. I saw it. Your team saw it, whether they’re willing to admit it or not.”

Bran looks at the rest of us. Cass looks him in the eye, unwraps her breakfast, and shoves the entire thing into her mouth so she can’t answer.

“The shrinks are not trying to punish you,” Watts continues once it’s clear none of us are going to say anything. “They are, however, worried about your well-being as the case continues. And I’ve got to say, if you stay back with Sterling, it makes it look like you two just drew the short straw rather than being ordered to it.”

Bran puts up a few half-hearted arguments, more for the sake of form than anything else. He leans against my desk as we watch Cass and Mercedes file off after Watts, Richmond-bound.

Almost at the elevator bank, Watts turns and sticks her head back through the glass doors to the bullpen. “Eddison, don’t let Sterling disappear into the void. Force her head up from time to time.”

“I’ll try my best?”

The three of them disappear from sight, and Bran and I sit on my desk a little while longer in a silence that, while not quite comfortable, is at least familiar. “I’m sorry,” I whisper eventually.

He shrugs, his shoulders stiff and tight. “It is what it is. Still want the conference room?”