The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(72)

“It’s okay,” I murmur. “They’re here to help. It’s okay, Brooklyn, we took him away. He can’t keep you here anymore.”

She twists her head to look up at me. Her eyes are a little glassy, which could be shock, and there are two angry blotches of pink high on her cheeks.

Trying not to jostle her too much, I slowly shift my grip until one arm is free and I can offer her the stuffed puppy. This one is mostly dark brown with tan splashes, making it almost a negative of the one I gave her best friend. “You know, while we were looking for you, we gave Rebecca a puppy a lot like this one.”

She sniffs and touches the puppy’s nose, but doesn’t take it. “Rebecca’s sick,” she croaks, her voice hoarse. From crying, maybe, or from vomiting?

“She is, so we gave her one of these to hug and throw and worry into. She’s been so worried, just like your parents.”

Tears spread in a damp patch against my chest. “I wasn’t supposed to walk home alone,” she whispers. “We were always supposed to walk together, but she went home sick, and my parents weren’t there, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“That’s not your fault, Brooklyn. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Mr. Davies said I could wait with him until my parents got home. Rebecca needed a doctor. He was worried, because there wouldn’t be anyone at her house to help me if something happened.”

Ramirez and the paramedics peek through the hole in the acoustic panels. At the sight of Brooklyn, awake and responsive, Ramirez closes her eyes and crosses herself. She holds out a hand to keep the paramedics back for a moment.

“It’s okay, Brooklyn.” I gently rub her back. “You’re safe now. Your parents are going to be so happy. They’re not going to be angry, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong. And you and Rebecca can look out for each other, okay? You’re both going to need a lot of rest to get better.”

She touches the stuffed animal’s nose again. “Rebecca wants a real puppy. She wants to name it Hamish.”

“Hamish! You know, that’s exactly what she named the one we gave her.” I wiggle the puppy on her knee, making its ears flap adorably. “Do you think this little guy has a name?”

She considers it for a moment, blinking rapidly. “Hubert,” she announces.

“Hamish and Hubert?”

“They’re two of Merida’s brothers,” she informs me around a yawn. “From Brave. I’m going to be an archer someday. Dad says I’m not old enough to play with anything pointy yet.”

“That might be fair.”

Her hand curls into the plush fabric, and she draws it to her belly so she doesn’t have to lean away to cuddle it. “We have to find a Harris. They were triplets.”

“Maybe you can talk Daniel into it.”

“Okay.” She yawns again and snuggles deeper into my chest. “I don’t feel so good,” she confides.

“We’re going to get you help for that, Brooklyn. These nice paramedics”—both of the men standing by Mercedes smile and wave—“are going to give you a quick check here while someone’s getting your parents, and then we’re going to take you to the hospital, okay?”

She nods sleepily.

“You don’t even have to let go.”

“Okay.”

The older paramedic walks forward slowly, his hands already gloved. As he comes to stand next to us, he glances into the vomit bucket to one side. I am very sure he gets more information out of that look than I would, and more power to him. He asks her a few questions, then holds up his stethoscope. “Do you know what this is?”

“It lets you listen to my heart,” she says. “The nurse at school has one.”

“Do you think you could sit up a little for me and let me have a listen? You don’t need to let go, just sit up.”

She looks up at me, and at my encouraging nod, lets me help her sit upright.

Ramirez catches my eye and points upstairs, then to Brooklyn, then points her finger down at the ground and moves it in a circle.

The Mercers are here.

After a brief look at my bandage, the paramedic gives Brooklyn another warm smile. “Sweetheart, we brought a board downstairs to carry you, but I don’t think you need it. I think you can be carried up by one of us, and it won’t be as scary. Is that okay with you?”

She eyes him uncertainly, then looks at me again. “You?”

I start to answer—of freaking course I will carry her—but the paramedic speaks before I can. “Do you mind if it’s me, sweetheart? The agent has a hurt arm.”

Brooklyn follows his pointing finger to my bandage, and her mouth opens into a perfect little O of surprise. “Are you going to be okay?” she asks earnestly.

I give her a hug; I can’t help it. God bless this child. “I’m going to be just fine. You know how your parents don’t let you boil water on the stove without an adult?”

“I could get burned,” she answers solemnly.

“I might need an adult too,” I whisper, and she giggles.

It takes her another moment or two to think through it, but she finally nods. “Okay. He can carry me. Mr. Davies put my backpack over by the desk.”

I can see it tucked between the desk and the legs of the chair. “We’ll get that to you later, Brooklyn. We need to leave it there for pictures.”