The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(88)

“Al molay rachamim,” I whisper, slowly rocking us from side to side, “shochayn bam’romim, ham-tzay m’nucha n’chona al kanfay Hash’china, b’ma-alot k’doshim ut-horim k’zo-har haraki-a mazhirim, et nishmat Faith she-halcha l’olama, ba-avur shenodvu tz’dakah b’ad hazkarat nishmatah. B’Gan Ayden t’hay m’nuchatah; la-chayn Ba-al Harachamim yas-tire-ha b’sayter k’nafav l’olamim, vyitz-ror bitz-ror hacha-yim et nishmatah. Ado-nay Hu na-chalatah, v’tanu-ach b’shalom al mishkavah. V’nomar: Amayn.”

One of Bran’s arms wraps around my waist, pulling me closer, and I shuffle my knees across the snow-damp grass as close as he wants me to be, his head shifting to the curve of my neck. Tears burn my eyes and down my cheeks, stinging where the cold air hits the trails.

Slowly, unevenly, his breathing starts to settle.

A moment later Ian kneels beside us, his arms around us both, and Karwan follows, bracing both Bran and Ian.

“You found her,” I murmur into Bran’s hair. “You and Ian found her, and you’ll bring her home as soon as they release her.”

He shakes his head.

“Yes, you did. All those things had to line up to arrive at this moment, but they came together around you and Ian. You found Faith, and you’re taking her home.”

Gradually he straightens, not pulling away so much as inching higher, until he gently presses our foreheads together, his ragged breaths warm against my face. I lift the end of my scarf—bless Priya for packing the softest one I own—and wipe his cheeks. He huffs in response.

“Let’s give her your mamá’s quilt, sí?”

It takes a minute or two, but he nods and digs a travel pack of tissues out of one pocket to mop at his face and blow his nose. He offers the package to Ian and Karwan, both of whom avail themselves, and then he pulls out another tissue and wipes my cheeks. When we sway to standing, I wrap Ian in a massive hug just as Bran turns to do the same to Karwan.

I pull away to give Bran access to Ian. They both start weeping again in the embrace, two men whose lives and families have been shaped by the little girl they’ve searched for so long.

To give them a moment, and because I have something I need to do, I walk over to the gurney standing at the side of the house where it’s blocked from sight of the road. Faith’s body is zipped away in the black body bag and strapped to the gurney on safely level ground.

I place both hands, one gloved and the other cold, at the head of the gurney a few inches from the edge of the bag. “Hi, Faith,” I whisper. “They’ve been looking for you a long time, sweetheart. I’m sorry it wasn’t in time. But there are some things I think you’ll be happy to know.”

I tell her about Bran, about his career trying to rescue children and bring the people who hurt them to justice, about the strange little family he’s formed around him. About her parents, and how they’ve waited and hoped and loved. About her friends, and the way they’ve charted the course of their lives by trying to help children. Lissi keeps them safe, Amanda helps them after they’ve been hurt, and Stanzi gives them joy when they’re sick. All of that for her sake.

“I don’t know what you would have done had you been able to live, Faith, but you’ve been extraordinary anyway. I’ll do my best to take care of your brother, okay? Just a little longer now, sweetheart; you’re almost home.”

Bran, Ian, and Karwan join us a few minutes later, eyes red and raw, but there’s something else there too. Not peace, exactly—not yet. Acceptance, maybe. The long nightmare is at an end, even if they’re still suffering from it. Bran reaches into the paper bag and pulls out a white-banded block quilt in eye-searing bright colors. Together, we shake out the blanket and drape it over the bag. Four of the blocks have paint handprints on them, with the names clumsily finger-drawn on each: Faith, Ivalisse, Constanze, Amanda. Other squares have what were probably meant to be embroidery samplers before four girls decided to veer off the stamped path. In the center block, four flat, twenty-strand friendship bracelets are sewn onto the fabric, starting at the corners and meeting in the middle, where the individual strands explode into stitched daisies and spirals and hearts. A second white band wraps around the central square, the girls’ names separated by pink, yellow, and blue hearts, and on the bottom leg of the band, in purple, BEST FRIENDS FOREVER.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

Bran nods. His hand floats for a moment over the fabric, then withdraws, much like Karwan did with Erin. He’s spent twenty-five years wanting to hold his sister again.

But not like this.

We tuck the edges of the blanket under Faith, or at least under the bag, and fasten the black straps to keep her in place. After a collective moment to just breathe, we walk beside the gurney as it’s wheeled over the grass and snow to the front yard and the ME’s waiting van. A tiny woman, probably not even five feet tall and reed-slender, stands next to the van, faded blonde hair up in a messy knot that adds almost three inches to her height.

“Anica Lattimore,” Fisher says softly from near my shoulder. “McKenna’s mother.”

She walks briskly up to us, her eyes pink and red rimmed but steady. “You’re the agents from Quantico. The ones who found our girls.”

Bran opens his mouth, then closes it again, shakes his head, and points to me.