The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(79)

It’s wonderful to see all the creative Halloween costumes alongside all the store-bought ones, but it’s a little nerve-wracking to drive around so many children who may or may not have a firm grasp on why they shouldn’t dart out in front of cars.

It’s with a genuine sigh of relief that I pull into the Eddisons’ driveway and park beside Paul’s station wagon. I cut the engine, click off the seat belt, and wait.

Bran stares at the house, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “I told them we were coming,” he says eventually. “I didn’t say why.”

I touch the chain at my throat, fingers rubbing against the cool gold of the Magen David.

We sit in the car for several minutes, long enough to see a group of girls walk up to the porch, clustered together in a moving patch of giggles. They’re probably on the upper edge of the socially acceptable trick-or-treating age range, maybe eleven or twelve. There’s a Wonder Woman, and a Gamora and a Nebula, who, even with the paint, look enough alike to probably be twins. They’ve got a Black Widow with them, as well, and a Poison Ivy, both of them wearing identical wigs, and a Captain Marvel wearing a yellow hijab rather than a wig. They push against each other as they jostle for space, laughing and teasing, and they sing out “Trick or treat!” when the door opens to a spill of warm light.

I glance over at Bran. He’s facing them, but I don’t think he’s seeing them.

I rather suspect he’s seeing three girls in Teenage Mutant Ninja Princess Ballerina Turtle costumes, dutifully collecting candy for the sick member of their quartet.

The girls pass us, eagerly comparing their haul, but the door doesn’t close. Instead, the silhouette of a woman leans against the frame, looking back at us.

Xiomara Eddison.

Bran’s mother.





26

“Ready or not?” I murmur.

Bran nods, takes a deep breath, and opens his door.

Ignoring the bags in our hands, Xiomara yanks us both into a hug as soon as we’re close enough. “Oh, mírate,” she fusses. “I knew something was off when you called.”

“You did?” Bran asks.

“I’m your mamá,” she tells him sternly. “Claro que lo sabía. What is it?”

“Let’s go inside, Mamá.”

She gives him a long searching look, her hands on his arms. “All right. Go on in. Let me go get Bertito to man the door.” She walks briskly down the drive and across the street.

“Bertito?” I ask in a whisper.

“Rafi’s oldest boy, Alberto. If she’s calling him Bertito again, he’s either pissed off the familiá or done something sweet.”

We set our bags safely out of the way near the base of the stairs, and I text the others to let them know we’ve arrived.

Bertito—when Xio brings him back—is probably nineteen or twenty and looks distinctly harassed. I’ve seen that expression on Bran’s face when dealing with the women in his life. When he sees Bran, he throws his hands up in the air. “Tío, I just made some costumes. I didn’t save the world. Haz que paren! ”

“Sorry, chico. Nothing escapes the gratitude of the mamás.”

The young man grumbles, but he also looks pleased and proud. Taking up the massive bowl of candy from the table by the door, he heads out to the porch and settles on the railing.

“He’s studying costume design at USF,” Xiomara informs me. “He spent half the summer making Halloween costumes for his siblings and cousins, beautiful things, too, and kept it all a complete secret. We’re very proud of him.” She ushers us into the living room full of worn, comfortable furniture and bookcases, framed pictures taking up most of the leftover wall space apart from a large television. Paul is in his armchair, long needles and yarn in hand, frowning at the knitting pattern spread across his lap.

Bran looks like his mother, mostly—the same grey-mottled dark hair, the dark eyes, the brown skin. The curls, though, came from his father. He got Xio’s height but Paul’s build, her sneaky dimples and his long nose. Paul’s hair is mostly white now, his blue eyes faded a bit, but it’s easy to see where Faith got her coloring. Faith’s face, though, the shape of her features, that was all Xiomara.

Paul looks up, does a double take at his son, and sets his knitting aside. “Something’s wrong.”

“Yes and no. We have . . .” Bran looks at me, helpless in a way I’ve almost never seen from him until the past few days.

“You might want to sit,” I tell Xiomara. “There isn’t a graceful way to give this news.”

“Are you sick? Was there . . .” She swallows hard. “Was there a baby?” she whispers.

What?

“No,” I say slowly. “No, we’re both healthy, Xio. This is about Faith.”

Xiomara pales and sinks down into the chair next to Paul’s, her hand automatically reaching out for her husband’s. His meets her halfway, and they lean into each other. “You learned something? After all these years?”

“Ian did, and what he gave us led to the rest.” I perch on the edge of the couch, not particularly wanting to be comfortable for the conversation to follow. Bran settles beside me, knees propped wide, his hands clasped between them. “Not quite a week ago, a girl named Brooklyn Mercer disappeared on her way home from school in Richmond, Virginia. We weren’t called until the next morning. She’s eight years old, blonde, with blue eyes.”