The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(24)

The girls who were found without their cases being solved get split into two categories: alive and dead. The second list is much longer than the first. Generally when a child is found alive, it’s because we’ve found the kidnapper. They lead us to her. It’s uncommon, but not impossible, for it to work the other way around. If a child was sold or traded as part of a trafficking or pedophile ring, they might be found in the hands of someone other than their initial kidnapper as part of a crackdown on the operation. Every now and then a child can be found wandering somewhere, dropped off or escaped, and not know where they are in relation to where they were held. That’s rare, though. Anyone who actually kidnaps a child, rather than molesting one they have a connection with, is generally too scared of getting caught to risk leaving the child alive. Their purpose is usually the molestation, but the murder is a safeguard. There are some exceptions, like if the child is taken as a replacement child or if the abductor is punishing the parents or holding the child for ransom. But again, if we find the child, it’s nearly always because we’ve found the person who took them.

As Shira has noted more than once, I stopped being nearly as much fun at parties after I joined the FBI.

Trivia nights, though, everybody wants to be on my team.

The second half of that list, those who were found dead and the cases never solved, gets broken down into a number of subcategories. Where they were taken, how long they were missing, how they were killed . . . whether they were molested or not. Where and how they were found. Details that make me wonder how my eyes aren’t bleeding. Brooklyn disappeared on her way home from school, so the ones who were taken from home can be marked off the list. Opportunity, even if it involves stalking, is in an entirely different class than breaking into someone’s home. The ones who were only missing a day or two get an asterisk; we’ve already passed that for Brooklyn. If we find her in the next day or so, those are ones to come back to.

It leaves too many names, and I haven’t even touched the third main grouping. Those who’ve gone missing and have never been found.

Trying to arrange the names in that group into any coherent subcategories takes even longer than the others, mostly because there’s so much less information to work with. So many names and pictures swirling around in my skull.

“Sterling?”

Some of the files have notes, follow-ups from police or FBI that indicate the parents have separated or divorced. There are some things so heinous, so painful, it’s difficult for a marriage to survive them. Sometimes other children can keep the parents together, sometimes they’re able to stand regardless, but it happens a lot that the pain is a poison and they just can’t make it work after.

“Sterling.”

Of course, sometimes it’s because the marriage was already in trouble. If the official separation or divorce happens very close to an unsolved disappearance, it’s generally worth checking deeper into the parents and close family to see if one of them hid the child away to keep them after, to hurt their soon-to-be ex. Desperation, pettiness, possessiveness, fear . . . they can all do nasty things to people.

“ELIZA!”

“What?” I snap, and spin the chair to glare at the door.

Only the rest of the world spins with me, and I pitch forward unsteadily. Hands grab my arms and shoulders to keep me from hitting the floor, easing me back into the seat until my hips touch the chair’s back. When things stop spinning, both Mercedes and Cass are standing in front of me, twin expressions of worry on their faces.

“You’re back? I thought Bran was meeting you at The House.”

“Back . . .” Mercedes leans against the edge of the table, almost sitting on it, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Eliza, what time did you get in this morning?”

“Uh . . . you saw me this morning.”

“You were here all night?”

Through the conference room window, I can see several heads pop up in the bullpen, swiveling to find the sound.

My face feels like it’s on fire. “Um. What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, apparently.”

Cass sneezes a laugh and shrugs unapologetically when I glare at her.

Shaking her head and muttering curses under her breath in Spanish that’s a bit too fast for me to follow, Mercedes stalks out the door and plants her fists on her hips as she looks out over the bullpen. Outside of those who are actually supposed to work this weekend, Sunday mornings are popular for devotees of the Church of Paperwork. “By any chance, did any of you feed Sterling last night?”

Amidst the chuckles, Watts, who’s just entered the bullpen, shakes her finger up at Mercedes. “Now, Ramirez, I told you: if you’re going to have a pet, you have to feed and walk it yourself.”

“I’ll take her for a walk!”

The “Shut up, Anderson” that follows is resoundingly female and comes from at least ten different desks.

Mercedes comes back into the conference room, still scowling. “You told me you were going home as soon as your list stopped compiling.”

“I did.”

“You did go home.”

“No, I mean I did tell you that.”

“You need a keeper, Eliza.”

“I thought that was Eddison’s job,” Cass notes with a grin.

“Oh shit,” I groan. “Please don’t tell him.”