The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(2)

But not this girl in the interview room. When they asked her, she just turned away. As far as anyone can tell, this is one girl with no interest in being found.

Which makes some of them wonder if she’s a victim at all.

Victor sighs and drains the last of his coffee, crushing the cup before tossing it in the trash bucket by the door. He’d prefer to wait for Ramirez; another female in the room is always helpful in circumstances like this. Can he wait for her? There’s no telling how long she’ll be with the parents, or if other parents will flock to the hospital once the photos are released to the media. If they’re released to the media, he amends with a frown. He hates that part, hates plastering the pictures of victims across television screens and newspapers so there’s never a way for them to forget what happened to them. At least they can wait until they get the missing persons data.

The door opens and slams shut again behind him. The room is soundproof but the glass rattles slightly and the girl sits up quickly, eyes narrowed at the mirror. And, presumably, the ones she has to know are behind it.

Victor doesn’t turn around. No one slams a door quite like Brandon Eddison. “Anything?”

“They’ve matched a couple of fairly recent reports, and the parents are on their way. So far it’s all East Coast.”

Victor pulls the picture from the glass and puts it back into the pocket of his jacket. “Anything else on our girl?”

“Some of the others called her Maya after she was brought here. No last name.”

“Real name?”

Eddison snorts. “Doubtful.” He struggles to zip his jacket over his Redskins T-shirt. Once the response team found the survivors, Victor’s team was called in from off duty to handle it. Given Eddison’s tastes, Victor’s mostly grateful there are no naked women on the shirt. “We’ve got a team going through the main house to see if the bastard kept anything personal.”

“I think we can both agree that he kept some very personal things of theirs.”

Perhaps remembering what he saw at the property, Eddison doesn’t argue. “Why this one?” he asks. “Ramirez says there are others not too badly injured. More frightened, maybe more willing to talk. This one looks like a tough nut.”

“The other girls look to her. I want to know why. They must be desperate to get home, so why do they look at her and choose not to answer questions?”

“You think she might be part of this?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Picking up the bottle of water from the counter, Victor takes a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go talk to Maya.”

She sits back in the chair when they walk into the interview room, gauze-covered fingers laced together across her stomach. It’s not as defensive a posture as he would expect, and it’s clear from his partner’s scowl that he’s thrown by it as well. Her eyes flick over them, taking in details and filing away thoughts, none of which show on her face.

“Thank you for coming with us,” he greets her, glossing over the lack of choice she’d been given. “This is Special Agent Brandon Eddison, and I’m Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian.”

The corner of her mouth ticks upward in a fleeting movement he can’t really call a smile. “Special Agent in Charge Victor Hanoverian,” she repeats, her voice hoarse with smoke. “Quite a mouthful.”

“Would you prefer Victor?”

“I don’t really have a preference, but thank you.”

He unscrews the cap and hands her the bottle of water, using the moment to adjust his strategy. Definitely not traumatized, and not shy either. “Usually there’s another part to the introductions.”

“The helpful tidbits?” she says. “You like to weave baskets and take long swims, and Eddison likes to walk the streets in heels and a mini?”

Eddison growls and slams a fist onto the table. “What is your name?”

“Don’t be rude.”

Victor bites his lip against the temptation to smile. It won’t help the situation—certainly won’t help his partner’s state of mind—but the temptation is there just the same. “Would you please tell us your name?”

“Thank you, but no. I don’t believe I care to share that.”

“Some of the girls called you Maya.”

“Then why did you bother to ask?”

He hears Eddison’s sharp intake of breath, but ignores it. “We’d like to know who you are, how you came here. We’d like to help you get home.”

“And if I said I don’t need your help to get home?”

“I’d wonder why you didn’t get home before this.”

There’s a not-quite smile, and a flicker of an eyebrow that might be approval. She’s a beautiful girl, with golden-brown skin and pale brown, nearly amber eyes, but she’s not soft. A smile will have to be earned. “I think we both know the answer to that. But I’m not in there anymore, am I? I can get home from here.”

“And where is home?”

“I’m not sure if it’s there anymore.”

“This isn’t a game,” Eddison snaps.

The girl appraises him coolly. “No, of course not. People are dead, lives are ruined, and I’m sure you were very inconvenienced at having to leave your football game.”