The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(86)

“Like you were in Tampa off-duty,” she clarifies.

He nods.

“Welcome to Omaha,” she says, and I could love her a little for leaving it there. “County squabbling match got sorted out this morning. Sarpy’s got the win, no surprise, and the deputies and some of our agents have secured the scene. Car’s this way, if you’re ready.”

“How likely is the snow to interfere with the search?” I ask once we’re in the car and moving.

“Not that much. It’s a slow build. Overnight is when it’ll start complicating things, when the temp drops to freeze it. We’ve got the equipment staged at the house already. The owners are in hysterics.”

Bran squeezes my hand between us. Grateful, I think, that neither Fisher nor I are trying to involve the men in the conversation.

“Has anyone tracked down the current location of McKenna Lattimore’s family?”

“Her parents are still here. Still in the same house, in fact, in the cul-de-sac at the end of Emiline, about six houses down from Davies. We sat down with them last night. They’ve agreed not to tell the rest of the family until tonight, and keep them quiet until the news breaks, but we got confirmation from the Atlanta office: the body in Atlanta was definitely McKenna.”

It’s all moving so fast. It needs to, but damn. So much information flying about from city to city, and so much work to keep it as secret as possible.

I’d never realized that Omaha is smashed up against the state border. The road from the airport to downtown actually crosses into Iowa for a few minutes. From there we hit 480, Fisher flying comfortably through a construction-laden interchange to 80 westbound. “Harrison is the county line,” she tells us as she takes the exit off the interstate. “The house is right against the road.”

Bran stares out the window, holding his brown paper Cracker Barrel bag closer. I don’t know what this quilt looks like, the one his mother chose for Faith. I do know that he hasn’t let go of it since we went through security in Tampa. Not that Bran is ever especially chatty, but this silent figure is unfamiliar, unsettling. Understandable, but still foreign.

Fisher parks in the street, not quite blocking the mailbox but making it awfully hard for another car to get to it. “Owners decided not to be present for the search,” she says as we climb out of the SUV. “Can’t say I’m torn up about it.”

“Sterling? That you?”

I look for the voice, and find the agent it belongs to in the doorway. “Langslow? What are you doing in Omaha?”

She bounds down the steps and sweeps me up into a hug, literally lifting my feet off the ground. “My husband got transferred last year. Took me till a few months ago to follow.”

The others are giving us overly patient looks.

“Langslow and I worked together in Denver,” I explain. “Haven’t seen each other since I went to Quantico.”

“Ambitious little hussy,” Langslow says fondly. “So hey, we searched the interior of the house a little last night, found something of interest.”

“Inside?”

“The basement is partially unfinished. We figured that was the logical place to keep someone. We found some loosened particle board against one wall.” She holds up an evidence bag with several pocket-sized notebooks in it. The pages are yellowed, the edges curled and crumbling, but the patchily faded blue cover of the one in front has a name written large in black marker.

Faith Eddison.

Bran chokes, and fuck on-duty professionalism, I lean into him and wrap one arm around his waist as he sways. On his other side, Karwan presses into him as well, returning the favor.

Fisher drapes herself over Langslow, using the top of her head as an armrest; Langslow is not particularly short. “Agent Eddison is here off-duty, to stand witness for his sister.”

“Ah, fuck. I’m so sorry.” She changes her grip, cradling the bag rather than dangling it. “We only did a cursory skim. At a glance, though, it seems she accepted play-acting Lisa for Davies but kept this hidden so she could still cling to her identity as Faith. Real smart girl. I’m sure . . . I’m sure they’ll release these to you at some point. If you wanted. Um, hey, boss.”

I nod. “Is everything ready out back?”

“Yes. Gate’s just this way.” She ducks out from under Fisher’s arm and hurries ahead of us, probably to warn the others that there’s family present.

Close to the elevated back porch, there’s a metal swing set braced up against a plastic two-level playhouse. Just past the post for the swings, the yard slopes sharply down to the fence, and there’s Harrison Street, just beyond. Considering the angle of the slope and the height of the fence, there’s a significant chance that Faith is buried where the GPR is going to have a hard time moving. The only flat ground in the backyard can be easily seen from the road during daylight, and even the most incurious neighbors will notice you digging in the middle of the night. To avoid rousing suspicion, Davies had to have buried her lower on the short hill.

Agents and tech greet Karwan as we approach, giving respectful nods to the rest of us. These are his people here in Omaha. Given the frank concern with which some of them regard him, I’m pretty sure they all know why he’s not working the case.

He reaches around Bran to put a hand on my shoulder and give me a small nudge. “Go on, Eliza. To work. We’ve got him.”