The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(90)

“They were bad?”

“Terrible, and heartbroken about it. They were ready to give up entirely. Abuela Cecilia was about to come for a visit from Puerto Rico. Mamá asked her to bring a box with her. Day after our abuela arrived, she sat down with the girls and this small box and brought out piece after piece of cloth. The sewing was terrible, the embroidery even worse. The pieces of cross-stitch actually had the patterns pinned to them because it was the only way to tell what they were supposed to be. They were awful.”

“Your mamá ’s first pieces.”

“Sí. Abuela told them all about how frustrated Mamá was, how ready she’d been to quit. And after a couple days, when she’d had time to calm down, she tried again. And was still awful. She practiced and she asked for help and she got better with every piece. Over the next few weeks, the girls practiced and practiced. By the time our abuela left, she’d helped them piece together the quilt top, and Mamá had it on her table to finish. They were all so damn proud. And the quilt was so damn ugly.”

I laugh and twist to drape my legs over his so I can see his face.

“A few years later, the other three signed up to do some community projects with the troop. Each group was randomly assigned a project. The girls got quilts for the brand new babies at the hospital, little things to send home with them. Simple ones, just twelve-block tops with a fleece bottom and a ribbon band, and yarn ties instead of actual quilting. I was home for the summer, already accepted to the academy and just waiting for it to start, so I drove them to every fabric store in town to make a stash of cloth that was both cheap and baby friendly.”

“No blinding pink?”

“No neons, no Lisa Frank, was how their troop leader put it. We took over the living room and I helped them cut out all the squares. So many squares. We pinned them all together, set the girls up at the table with sewing machines. Lissi’s mamá sewed, and so did Tía Angelica, Rafi and Manuelito’s mamá, and they let us borrow their machines. They got them threaded and ready, and Stanzi burst into tears.”

“Because Faith wasn’t there.”

“So Mamá got down the quilt from Faith’s room and hung it up in the dining room so they could see it as they worked. After the tops were all done, they ironed and stitched a tiny rainbow patch into a corner of every blanket before they joined it to the backing. They made box after box of these baby blankets, dozens of them. When they gave them to the hospital, they said the blankets were from Faith.”

The rest of the layover and all of the flight home is filled with stories of Faith, tales from those first angry, terrible weeks. All kinds of stories and moments he’s never told me because Faith was a pain too deep to speak of. He talks himself hoarse, until it’s impossible to tell when the rasp in his voice is from overuse or emotion. Lancing the wounds. I settle in against his shoulder and listen.





30

Cass and Mercedes are waiting for us when we arrive at the Richmond airport. Mercedes immediately pulls Bran into a long, swaying sort of hug, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Watts sent us home,” Cass informs us, without waiting for us to ask. “Said we needed to get some sleep.”

“So you decided to add three hours of driving time to pick us up?”

“It’s only an hour and a half.”

“Oh? Are we staying in Richmond?”

“Fuck off, Sterling,” she sighs.

Mercedes pulls away from Bran and leans down to kiss Cass’s cheek in sympathy. “Have you lot eaten?”

“There was a Wendy’s in Dallas,” Bran tells her, lifting our bags into the trunk. He eyes the driver’s seat, then shakes his head. He helps Ian into the back row of seats where he can stretch out a bit after the cramped flight, then sits down in the middle row. It pretty much forces the other two to join us in the car so we can leave. Mercedes looks at Bran, tucked on the left side, and hands her keys to Cass.

Because Cass is the only one short enough to give Bran enough leg room while driving.

“What’s the state of the state?” I ask.

“Are you okay with hearing this?” Mercedes replies bluntly.

Bran winces, nods.

“Okay. Use a safe word, if you have to.”

Cass snorts. “What the hell is his safe word, Eliza?”

“Nationals,” I say blandly. Cass isn’t the only one to choke on that; Bran does too.

From the backseat, Ian lets out a long, grumbling sigh. “There are some things, Eliza, I do not need to know about what you and Brandon do together.”

“Sorry?”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.”

Mercedes just shakes her head and smiles. “Assuming Karen Coburn really was his first, we’ve found and formally identified all his victims. They finished the ID on Joanna Olvarson a little over an hour ago.”

“Why so long for her?”

“It took them longer to find the medical records. Oklahoma City never folded them into the initial investigation. Her pediatrician’s office closed some time ago. When her parents finally found their box of records, they accidentally sent the wrong ones.”

“Wrong ones?”

“Her twin sister, Joanie.”

“Huh. None of the other girls had twins. I wonder . . .”