The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(44)

“Faith? You’re not out here all alone, are you?”

She stopped on the sidewalk and looked up. “Umm . . . that depends,” she hedged. “Are you going to tell my mamá?”

The man smiled. “No, I won’t tell her anything.”





15

“Let’s get the big-picture data up on the board,” I say once Dern, Watts, and Vic leave. “As we narrow the searches, we’ll add the terms. That way, if we take a wrong turn, we’ll know where to go back.”

“I’ve got magnetic clips in my office.” Yvonne stands and smooths her blouse, today a pale lemon silk that nearly glows against her dark skin. “I’ll be right back.”

Ian stands as well, stretching and shaking himself out. “Brandon, before you call your friend, will you help me find the cafeteria?”

Bran and I both turn to stare at him. “Marlene doesn’t let anyone leave her house unfed,” I whisper. “Is she all right?”

“I want to get something for you ladies,” he answers with a wry smile. “Something a little more substantial than cupcakes and protein bars. I doubt Brandon has eaten either.”

“Got your visitor’s badge?” Bran asks instead of answering.

Gala grins, turning to the whiteboard in order to hide it.

Taking my hand, Bran helps me to my feet. “Any requests?”

“Bacon?”

Yvonne shakes her head from the doorway. “Bacon is not a food group, Eliza.”

“But if you pair it with eggs and cheese, it’s like a protein super sandwich. Protein is a food group.”

By the time Ian and Bran get back with egg sandwiches, hash browns, and fruit cups, the whiteboard that forms one wall of the conference room has been transformed. A panel on the right side has the pictures of the girls hanging from magnetic clips, arranged by year, with their names, hometowns, and dates of disappearance written underneath in Yvonne’s careful capitals. On the left side, Gala’s blend of lowercase and capital letters, unique but still readable, prioritizes our potential search terms.

Bran flicks through his phone for Karwan’s number and punches it into the speakerphone console in the center of the table. He hesitates, though, before hitting send.

“Brandon?” asks Ian.

“We’re sure about this? Absolutely sure?”

“As sure as it’s possible to be with the information we have,” I tell him gently. “I know it’s opening old wounds for him. But if he were the one with a potential link . . .”

“I’d want to know.” He grimaces, face screwed up with concentration and pain, and then slowly, deliberately, he lets out a long breath. “I’d want to know,” he says again. He hits the send button.

I unwrap my sandwich while the call rings through. I’ve got my notepad at my elbow just in case there’s anything particular to add. The sandwiches have been under the warming lights a little too long, making everything just a bit rubbery, but we’ve eaten significantly worse while working.

“Is this really Eddison?” asks a deep male voice from the speakers. “Brandon Eddison, as I live and breathe, actually making a phone call?”

In spite of everything, Bran huffs a laugh, a smirk lessening the strain on his face. “You’re still an ass, Sachin.”

“Yes, but I’m an ass you choose to keep around, so who’s the greater ass?”

“Sachin . . .” He trails off, looking helplessly at the console.

“Is this a work call or a dear God, this-time-of-year-can-go-to-hell call?”

“It’s both.”

“Both?”

“I’ve got you on speaker right now,” Bran tells him. “Also in the room are Technical Analysts Jefferson and Andries?u, Agent Sterling, and Detective Matson, retired Tampa PD.”

A long, considering kind of silence greets his words. “I’m not sure which to address first,” Karwan says finally, “that you called your girlfriend Agent Sterling or that you introduced Ian as Detective.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you too, Agent Karwan,” Ian says.

“And a pleasure to finally meet you, sir. How can I help?”

“We’ve . . . that is, recently, we’ve . . . I’ve . . . oh damn, Brandon, how do I do this?”

But Bran’s eyes are closed, his fist pressed against his mouth. The first time I ever saw that expression on his face, it was a few days after he’d been shot in the thigh and was refusing to take his pain medication. The last time I saw it was this summer when Vic’s grand-niece dropped a hammer on his toes.

“Agent Karwan, this is Eliza Sterling.”

“Nice to meet you at last, Eliza,” he replies. “And please, it’s Sachin.”

“Our team is one of the two investigating the Thursday disappearance of a Richmond girl named Brooklyn Mercer.”

“Saw that on the news. She looks a lot like—”

“Like Erin,” I finish once it’s clear he won’t. “Like Faith.”

“Hang on,” he says grimly. “Let me get somewhere I can pull over.”

“You’d better be on speaker,” Bran warns, and gets a rude sound in response.

It’s a few minutes before anyone speaks. “All right,” says Karwan, “tell me.”