The Vanishing Season (The Collector #4)(93)

She studies me for a long moment. Eventually she nods. “All right.” She looks down at her hands and sighs. “Goddammit.”

Cass sneezes a laugh into her sleeve. The press conference at the Mercers’ house was bad enough for Watts. This morning’s conference? Every law enforcement office in the country is going to be tuning in for this one.

Watts sighs again and pegs a protein bar at Cass’s forehead, connecting solidly. Cass yelps and sneezes out another laugh.





31

Davies’s appointed counsel is a sleek but tired-looking woman in a tailored pencil skirt, blazer, and beat-up pair of running shoes. “Moira Halloran,” she introduces herself. “Sorry, the heels come off at eight whether I’m done for the day or not.”

“I respect that,” I reply, shaking her hand. Her dark hair is still mostly in its pins, a few strands fighting loose here and there. “Agent Eliza Sterling and Agent Cass Kearney.” Ramirez and Burnside are down the hall, talking to the agents on guard duty. Vic and Watts are still at the Bureau to work on the language of the press conference. Hopefully Vic will be able to break into someone else’s office to find a couch for Bran to sack out on for a few hours.

“So that we’re not dancing around each other here, how much are you actually hoping to get out of him right now? Because I’ll be honest, trying to get clarity from him is damn near impossible at the moment.”

“If that’s what we establish, so be it. We’re not here to push or to otherwise endanger his health.”

“Would you mind if one of the doctors is in the room with us? The hospital in Richmond did some tests; his heart’s not the strongest. If he gets agitated, it’s best to calm him as quickly as possible.”

“That’s just fine.”

She gives us an odd look before heading to the nurses’ station to arrange it.

“I don’t think she expected us to be so agreeable,” Kearney says quietly, leaning against one wall.

“Brooklyn is safe, and the other girls have been located without his help. There’s no particular urgency to make us assholes.”

“I prefer emphatic.”

“All right, there’s no particular urgency to make us emphatic assholes.”

“You look too sweet to be so evil.”

“It’s the foundation of my arsenal, yes.”

“At least people stopped asking you if it was Take Your Daughter to Work Day.”

“This is why no one feels sorry for you for being on our team now.”

“A draw it is, then.”

“How long have you two worked together?” asks Halloran.

Kearney flinches at the unexpected voice, loses her balance and slides down the wall to land on the floor with an oomf. “Ten months,” she wheezes.

“I would have thought longer.”

“We assimilate quickly.” I hold out a hand to help Kearney up. “Are we ready?”

A tall, rail-thin man steps up next to Halloran and stops, bobbing his head affably. The lawyer nods. “Yes, we’re ready.”

I anxiously fluff my hair, still feeling out of place with the curls down around me rather than out of my way. “Let’s do this.”

Halloran introduces us to the doctor, who leads the way into the private room. Davies is on the bed, his left wrist handcuffed to the guardrail. His right hand plucks restlessly at the blanket. His head is turned to the window when we enter, but at the sound of footsteps he looks over. He shows no recognition of Halloran or the doctor, or Kearney for that matter. As I close the door behind me, his eyes light up. “Laura?” he asks in a quavering voice. “Laura, they won’t let me leave. My heart . . . But how is she? How’s our little girl?”

The lawyer glances at us. “I thought his daughter’s name was Lisa,” she notes in an undertone.

“It was,” Kearney answers. “Laura is his ex-wife. I assume their daughter got her looks from her mother.”

I cross the room to stand on his right side, my hands folded over the raised guardrail. “I’m not Laura, Mr. Davies. My name is Eliza Sterling, and I’m an agent with the FBI.”

“FBI?” he echoes. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Davies, do you remember coming to the hospital?”

“I . . . no. I passed out, I think. My heart . . .” He shakes his head and lifts his left hand to gesture until the cuff stops him. He stares at it in confusion. “I don’t understand. My wife, my daughter, are they okay? My baby girl is sick, she needs us both. You . . . you look so much like them.”

“Mr. Davies, do you know what day it is?”

“It’s . . . it’s Wednesday. Anita came over to give Lisa her piano lesson. She doesn’t have much energy for it anymore, but the doctors said the normalcy would help as long as we don’t put any pressure on her.”

It’s Friday, and his daughter’s last piano lesson was in excess of forty-one years ago.

“What’s the year, Mr. Davies?”

He chuckles, then falls still when he realizes I’m serious. “Are you a doctor?”

“No. My name is Agent Sterling, and I’m with the FBI.”

“The FBI? Has something happened? My wife, my daughter . . .”