The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(36)
“We’re going to be just like the big kids,” she heard Faith tell Manny, her voice bright with excitement.
Or maybe not, Xio thought with a sigh. Maybe she was just having a hard time letting her baby girl grow up.
12
Two hours later, I’m showered and wrapped in a pale pink bathrobe that is the softest thing I have ever felt in my life, when my personal cell buzzes with a text from Bran. Cass went home. We’re heading out to Vic’s. Want a ride?
I text back yes, please, grab a shirt off a hanger, and leave the closet, closing the door on The Dress.
Like it’s that easy.
Every time I tried to talk about my hesitation or reluctance to marry Cliff, every time I tried to give voice to my doubts, he or one of our mothers would shush me and tell me it was just nerves. That I was being unreasonable. That I needed to be grateful for the time and money going into all of these preparations. Or Cliff’s version: I thought you loved me, Eliza.
My aba worried. He tried not to be too obvious about it, but once, just once, he pulled me aside and said that if I wasn’t sure, he didn’t care about losing the deposits. He just wanted me to be happy.
And I was not at all happy.
I was miserable. I just wasn’t strong enough, or brave enough, or something enough to stand up for myself and say NO. And then, two thousand miles away, a grieving father shot at a child murderer who’d just been arrested, and Victor Hanoverian did his job and protected the man in his custody, taking the bullet in his chest. After a while, when it became clear that Vic would never be fully field-fit again, I was offered the transfer to Quantico to join one of the best CAC teams in the country. Finney sat me down and explained that I’d been requested specifically, and that it was a great opportunity if I was interested.
I was interested. I was very, very interested.
Cliff, on the other hand, was baffled. After all, why would I accept a transfer if I was just going to be resigning after the wedding? What, did I really think I was going to be working after we got married? Don’t be silly, Eliza. That wouldn’t be appropriate, and with such a dangerous job. So unladylike too. I’ll provide you with everything you need, Eliza; all you have to do is ask.
Three hours later, I gave notice to my landlord that I was breaking my lease and called Shira to come help me pack my apartment. Cliff wouldn’t accept the ring back, claiming that I would come to my senses and he’d be waiting for my apology, so I gave it to Shira to return to him at some point after I left. She tried all the polite ways, and when those failed, she made sure he got the message in spectacular and inimitable fashion.
It involved a jumbotron and an entire Major League stadium of baseball fans laughing at him.
My mother hasn’t spoken to me since.
The ring, it turned out, was a lot easier to get rid of than The Dress. I couldn’t return it to the store, but donating or reselling it felt a lot like shoving my bad luck off on someone else who certainly deserved a lot better for their own wedding. I hate everything about The Dress, everything it reminds me of. And yet there it sits, like Shelob on her web.
I’m dressed but not completely ready when Bran texts again to let me know they’re downstairs. I bundle my wet, unbrushed hair into a knit cap because it’s just cold enough outside for that to matter, toss a few things from my work bag into an actual purse, and run down.
Mercedes has the nerve to laugh at me. “You got home before we did. What have you been doing all this time?”
“Talking to Shira. Her dad had a massive stroke.”
Mercedes grimaces. Three years ago, her father—also in prison, though not the same one and not for the same crimes—was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and her family tried to guilt her into asking a judge to release him on mercy. It wasn’t just that she was an agent and they thought that might have extra influence. She was also his victim. After he died, still in prison, the family that hadn’t stopped trying to bring her home—whether she wanted to come home or not—finally turned away, and Mercedes was . . . relieved, I think. Like the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. So she understands the situation the Sawyer-Levys are facing now.
Next to Mercedes in the backseat, her girlfriend gives a small wave. We met Ksenia Rozova a little over a year ago when we worked a child trafficking case. Ksenia is an international human rights lawyer and anti–sex trafficking activist, and she stepped in to represent the victims we rescued. Mercedes was instantly smitten. Utterly professional, but to those of us who know her well, so smitten. A week after the case wrapped up, Ksenia sent an email asking Mercedes to dinner.
They’re wonderful together, even if Mercedes can get a little reserved sometimes. Her previous relationship ended badly, and it’s hard not to expect everything to go tits up again. It took all of three group dinners for Ksenia to become family, mostly because of Vic. He adopts daughters like some old women adopt cats; he can’t help it.
Our team, minus Cass, who lives over in Fairfax, forms a strange sort of triangle through our part of Manassas, each leg about fifteen minutes long. It used to be me and Bran at one point, our apartment complexes only two streets separate. Now it’s Bran and Mercedes, but there’s something weirdly comforting about all of us being roughly equidistant from each other.
Vic lives in an older neighborhood, the houses settled and maybe a little saggy. The kind of neighborhood that has parties together, and a semi-annual yard sale day, and people make arrangements with each other to help with yards or pools or repairs. About halfway down the long street from Vic’s house, there’s a little park with a playground and a couple of benches where we sometimes gather to share a cigarette after a particularly tough case.