The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(77)

Brooklyn’s school was discussing doing that tonight. I wonder if they are, or if Brooklyn being found will make them feel safe enough to let the kids out.

“A couple of weeks ago,” I tell her, “I ordered Inara a birthday cake from that bakery Marlene uses if she can’t bake for something. I can call and tell them you’re picking it up, if you’d like.”

When we park the car at the drop-off, Bran comes around to wake Ian up. I rummage through my bag to make sure my certification for flying armed is still tucked in its usual pocket. Except when I’m at my desk, I’m required to carry my gun while on duty, and that includes while I’m flying. We all have to complete an additional certification through TSA. Bran, officially on leave, is unarmed.

Priya wraps her arms around Bran in a long hug, and he leans his cheek against the top of her head. Neither of them says anything. Priya gives the squinting Ian a hug of his own, then comes to me. “If there’s anything you need from us,” she begins, and kisses my cheek rather than continue.

“I’ll call,” I promise. “Take care of Inara and Victoria-Bliss, whether they seem okay or not.”

Our flight is in an hour, which would normally be cutting it too close for getting through security, but it’s a quiet afternoon. Getting my paperwork verified takes most of our time in the lines. When they finally wave me through, my gun still at my hip, Bran and Ian are waiting, cups in hand.

I gratefully accept the one Bran holds out to me and breathe deep from the steam rising through the lid. Mmm, zebra hot chocolate. Watts and Ramirez agreed that my look was softer without my coat, so most of my morning has been spent straddled between chilly and cold. As we pass the coffee shop, the barista looks at Bran’s cup with frank concern.

I’m not going to ask how many shots of espresso he put in there.

“I’m guessing that’s not coffee,” I say to Ian, judging from how he’s scowling at it. I take care to keep my voice soft in case his headache is making him sound-sensitive.

“You gave me a good tea the other night. This isn’t a good tea.”

“Places like that never have good tea. If you can’t have caffeine, the trick is to get half decaf, half hot chocolate. The chocolate drowns out the nastier notes of the decaf but leaves enough flavor that you still feel like you’re drinking coffee.”

Bran gives me a queer look. “How did you learn that trick?”

“Shira’s pregnancy gave her a strict caffeine limit. She learned all the tricks.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Ian rumbles. Despite the ferocious glare he levels at the cup, he keeps drinking.

“Did you tell your parents we’re coming?” I ask Bran quietly.

He nods. “Sachin too. He’ll get in late tonight, stay at a hotel near the airport. One of the local agents offered to swing by and pick him up in the morning.”

“How’s he doing?”

He thinks about his answer for a moment. “Coiled,” he says finally.

Much like Bran himself, really.

In the last few minutes before boarding, I duck into one of the shops and buy an overpriced magazine of crossword puzzles. I’ve got two in my bag already, one nerd-themed and one variety, but there’s only a handful of puzzles left to solve in each of them. I can deal with airplanes. I don’t like them, but I can deal with them. It just works a lot better if I can bury my head in puzzles and not have to pay attention to the fact that we’re tens of thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube with safety precautions that are going to do precisely fuck-all if we actually crash.

Generally, if we’re flying out somewhere, Bran is looking over our case file, and on the way back he gets a start on the paperwork or looks over the next case. Both options are unavailable here. He doesn’t have the focus to read anything right now. The games on his phone will just piss him off if he tries to play them when he’s worked up already.

I drop the new magazine into my bag, pull out my nerd puzzle collection and a couple of pens, and settle into my seat while he shoves our bags into the overhead bin. Ian sinks into a seat in the row in front of us, closing the window shade and leaning against it. I really hope his wife can talk him into taking something for the pain tonight so he’ll feel better for tomorrow. “One across,” I read aloud. “Father of modern fantasy, seven letters.”

“Are we pretending you don’t know that already?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to help me with my crossword?”

Bran gives me a long look, then sighs and drops into the aisle seat, drawing his knees uncomfortably close in order to fit in the narrow leg room. Hopefully, no one will be in the window seat so we can shift over and he can stretch out. “You couldn’t find a baseball one?”

“I’m sure they’re out there.”

He laces our fingers together against his knee and leans into my side. “Tolkien, then.”

I fill it in using all caps, the way my father taught me when I was little and we’d sit together in the rocking chair out on the porch, slowly working through the crosswords together. “The character on the side of the Ecto Cooler box, six letters.”

“Slimer.”

“Ecto Cooler?”

“It was a Hi-C thing. They made it green to promote Ghostbusters. I can’t even think how many of those things Rafi and I drank one summer. We were addicted to them.”