The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(27)

Faith went missing on the fifth of November, so the end of October makes sense as an arbitrary cut off for Bran’s involvement. But Halloween was the last big thing Bran and Faith did together. If I were going to choose a date, I might choose the thirtieth instead, not because a day makes any difference in the level of strain, but because if you’re going to cut him loose to drown in memories, at least give him that one good night first.

It’s also all of three days away.

“You know we’ve got you, right? Whichever way it goes?”

“Yeah, I know.” His fingers trail along my spine, over my shoulder, to trace along my jaw. “You’ll sleep?”

“I hope so. I’ll certainly do my best to try.”

There’s a knock on the window behind the . . . yes, open blinds. “If you two just shacked up already, you wouldn’t feel the need for any PDA at work,” says a female voice.

We both shift enough to aim one-fingered salutes at the window.

Whoever it is just laughs and keeps walking.

Bran and I have been dating long enough that people have . . . expectations, I suppose is the best way to put it. Especially after he bought The House. Popular opinion through the division was that a proposal or invitation to move in had already happened or was imminent.

We haven’t once talked about moving in. Or marriage. Or proposals.

I don’t think that’s only because of me.

I back out of his arms toward Vic’s saggy, well-used couch, where two pillows and a blanket are already laid out and waiting. Bran waits until I settle in, then drapes the blanket over me. I’m asleep almost as soon as my head nestles into the pillows, barely noticing that he slides my cell phone into my curled hand.

Precisely at noon, obnoxious German techno blares out of my phone at full volume, scaring me not only awake, but off the couch and onto the floor with a thump and a mess of blanket.

I fucking hate phone alarms.

Granted, that’s exactly why I use them, because they’re impossible for even me to ignore no matter how focused I am, but fuck.

Standing in the doorway, Vic just laughs at me, the bastard, and laughs harder when I glare at him. “Go freshen up,” he orders, still chuckling. “I’ve got lunch on the way for you, Yvonne, and the apple kid.”

“We’re supposed to take turns buying the food, you know.”

“I know.”

Which means I could argue with him about it, but I won’t win.

“What about Bran? Not feeding him again today?”

Vic frowns thoughtfully rather than respond, and I pause in straightening my blouse. “He got a call from Detective Matson,” he says.

“So why . . . oh. Ian Matson.”

He nods.

Retired Tampa Police Department Detective Ian Matson was the lead detective on Faith’s disappearance twenty-five years ago. He took Bran under his wing afterward and was a large influence on Bran’s entry into law enforcement. He’s a very good friend to Bran despite the age difference.

“Is Ian okay?”

“He was calling from the airport, asking if Eddison could pick him up and bring him to Quantico.”

There’s a lot in that sentence that doesn’t make sense. Ian likes to be a passenger in a car about as much as Bran does, which is to say not at all, so why wouldn’t he rent one? And why is he making a surprise visit? And coming to Quantico rather than Manassas?

“Is it . . . about Faith?” I ask hesitantly.

“I’d assume she’s somehow connected, but he wants to explain in person. Here.”

“That’s not promising.”

“No, it isn’t, but they’ll get lunch on the way down from the airport. Go freshen up.”

The shower and fresh clothes from my go bag feel better than I expected. It feels so damn good to change clothes, even if it is into another suit. Bran’s braid from yesterday looks decent enough still, especially if I throw on a headband to contain the wispy bits breaking free.

“You promised me you’d go home, Eliza,” Yvonne says as soon as I walk into the conference room.

“I cannot have this conversation again today.”

“If you’d remember the conversations you had yesterday, you wouldn’t have to.”

Gala giggles and ducks down behind her monitors.

“I hate you all.”

With Vic standing over me to enforce his orders, aided by Yvonne’s most powerful Glare of Maternal Disapproval, I’m not allowed to open any of the files until after lunch.

I’m honestly not this bad, normally. Focused, yes, but not to the absolute exclusion of all else, except on special occasions. I have the feeling my worry for Bran is sinking me deeper into the research than I probably should be.

When all the trash from lunch is cleared away, I look up at Vic. “May I start now?” I ask, almost politely.

“You may,” he answers in the same tone.

Gala giggles again.

I lean over and tap Yvonne’s cell phone, the home screen illuminating the picture of her children again. “I’m sorry you have to be away from your kids all weekend,” I say.

“It happens,” she says easily. “And luckily, this is a weekend where everyone is running all over the place anyway for birthday parties and play dates and such. It was only yesterday’s game that I really needed to be present for. My mother-in-law has the kids at a movie this afternoon, and my husband’s had dinner in the Crock-Pot since seven this morning. It’s one of the few weekends where my absence is barely noticed, much less disruptive. Unlike The Dress in your closet.”