The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(51)

Rafi’s mamá, Tía Angelica, said Puerto Ricans worry with food. And when Faith was found, and she came home safe, they’d celebrate with food too.

But Brandon could see it in Detective Matson’s face, in the faces of the officers and the FBI agents who came to help. A week was too long to be missing and still have hope of finding them again.

Getting to his knees, he crawled over to the pile of dirty clothing at the foot of his bed and started sorting it for laundry. Lissi had barely stopped crying all week, blaming herself. She should have waited, she said; she should have just been late for her lesson or stopped her lesson to call her mamá when Faith didn’t come right away.

Brandon couldn’t blame her. Faith had promised. Faith broke the rule to always walk together. It wasn’t Lissi’s fault.

But it wasn’t Faith’s either.

He stripped the blanket and sheets from the bed, starting a third pile on the carpet. He could remember a time, years ago, when his room was so bad he wasn’t even allowed to leave it until it was spotless, except for meals and the bathroom. He sulked for days, refusing on principle to start cleaning because it was his room and he could keep it however he wanted.

Then Faith had started crying. She’d only been two or three then, and already his favorite person in the world. She’d sat on the other side of the laundry hamper blocking the way into his room, bawling her little heart out for B’andy, because she couldn’t say his name yet, screaming when their parents took her away without letting her see him. Almost as soon as she started crying, he’d started cleaning his room.

It broke his heart when his sister cried.

“Mijo?”

He stood up too suddenly and swayed, blinking and confused. His mamá stepped into the room to steady him.

“When did you last eat, mijo?” she asked softly.

“This morning, I think.”

“It’s only just morning,” she noted. She looked around, and he followed suit in a daze.

How much time had passed? His room was spotless, everything neatly organized and put away or in a box labeled for donations, his bed made with a clean set. The dirty clothing waited for him in three baskets by the door.

“Ay, mijo,” his mamá whispered. “It’s not like before. No one’s keeping her away because your room isn’t clean.”

“Yo sé.”

“Do you?” She scratched his dark curls, using the motion to bring him closer against her until his head rested on her shoulder. He was almost too tall for that anymore. “We’re not giving up on her, Brandon. Don’t you give up on her.”

He squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging tears and held on to his mamá. He didn’t notice when his dad came in, only felt his dad’s arms wrap around them both.





17

Bran is silent when Agent Dern delivers him back to us. He’s silent while Vic persuades Ian to return to the Hanoverians’ to rest, because we can all see how tired he is. He’s silent the entire way back to The House, his fist thumping rhythmically against the window of the car. He doesn’t respond at all to Mercedes’s hushed goodnight/call me if you need anything before she crosses the yard to her cottage. For the first time since he bought The House, he doesn’t stand at the back door to watch until her interior lights come on.

“We haven’t eaten since lunch,” I remind him quietly. “Go get changed, and I’ll see what you’ve got.”

He walks silently down the hall.

But because this is Bran, the answer to that is almost nothing. The options are ramen, blue box macaroni and cheese, or cereal, and I’m not sure I trust his milk enough for the latter two. It’s not like he’s going to taste anything anyway. He just needs some food in him, and maybe something hot will help thaw the storm that’s building in his eyes.

He slumps into the kitchen a few minutes later, in sweatpants and a long-sleeved Nationals shirt. When I told my aba I was dating a Nats fan, he just chuckled about it, but a week later, I received a box full of Rockies merchandise in the mail so I’d remember where I came from. Bran drops onto one of the stools around the island counter.

“Water’s still working up a boil, but there’ll be soup in a bit.” Maybe I should just run out and get him something or get something delivered.

“I gave up on her.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I gave up on her. Stopped looking.” He drops his head to his hands, fingers clenched so hard it must be pulling his hair. I’m not sure if it’s helping or if he just hasn’t noticed. “Ian kept looking. Sachin kept looking. Lurch’s father kept looking.”

“And not one of them brought it forward because they weren’t sure they actually had anything,” I remind him.

“He had her for two years. For two years, she might have been just down the street from me, wondering why we weren’t rescuing her.”

“Bran—”

“Or maybe you’re right, maybe he kidnaps them just before he leaves a city, so if someone sees him with her in a new place, it’s just his daughter or granddaughter, nothing to worry about. Maybe it was Erin just down the street from me for two years. Sachin’s little sister’s best friend, alone and scared and going through—what? What do we think he’s doing to them, Eliza?”