The Butterfly Garden (The Collector #1)(45)

An ugly flush stains his cheeks but—he’s learning. He doesn’t rise to the bait.

She flashes him a grin. “Spoilsport.”

“Some of us have jobs to do,” he retorts. “You try dating when your job can call you in at any time.”

“Hanoverian is married.”

“He got married in college.”

“Eddison was too busy getting arrested in college,” Victor remarks. A flush mottles the back of his partner’s neck.

Inara perks up. “Drunk and disorderly? Lewd and lascivious?”

“Assault.”

“Vic—”

But Victor cuts him off. “Campus and local cops bungled the investigation into a series of rapes across campus. Possibly on purpose—the suspect was the police chief’s son. No charges were filed. The school imposed no discipline.”

“And Eddison went after the boy.”

Both men nod.

“A vigilante.” She settles back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face. “When you don’t receive justice, you make it.”

“That was a long time ago,” mutters Eddison.

“Was it?”

“I uphold the law. It isn’t perfect but it’s the law, and it’s what we have. Without justice, we have no order and no hope.”

Victor watches the girl absorb that, turn it over.

“I like your idea of justice,” she says finally. “I’m just not sure it really exists.”

“This,” Eddison says, and taps the table, “this is part of justice too. This is where we start to find truth.”

She smiles slightly.

And shrugs.




We sat in silence for long enough that he grew uncomfortable, fidgeting on the rock and tugging off his sweater in the reflected heat from the glass roof. I mostly ignored him, until his cleared throat indicated his desire to finally speak. I closed the book on a finger and gave him my attention.

He shrank back. “You’re, uh . . . a very direct person, aren’t you?”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No . . .” he said slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. “How much of what my father is telling me is complete shit?”

That was worth finding the bookmark. I slid it between the pages and set the book carefully on the rock behind me. “What makes you think any of it is?”

“He’s trying too hard. And . . . well, that whole thing with it being private. When I was little, he took me into his office, showed me around, and explained that he worked very hard there and needed me to never come in there to interrupt him. He showed me. He never did with this place, so I knew it had to be different.”

I turned to face him more fully, cross-legged on the sun-warmed rock as I arranged my skirt to cover everything important. “Different in what way?”

He followed my example, so close that our knees touched. “Is he really rescuing you?”

“Don’t you think that’s a question you should put to your father?”

“I’d rather put it to someone who might tell me the truth.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“Why not? You’re a very direct sort of person.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Direct doesn’t mean honest. It could just mean that I’m very direct and straightforward with my lies.”

“So you plan to lie to me?”

“I plan to tell you to ask your father.”

“Maya, what is my father really doing here?”

“Desmond, if you thought your father was doing anything inappropriate, what would you do?” Did he have any idea how important his answer could be?

“I would . . . well, I would . . .” He shakes his head, scratching at his slightly overgrown hair. “I guess it would depend on what that inappropriate thing was.”

“Then what do you think he’s doing?”

“Besides cheating on my mother?”

Point.

He takes another deep breath. “I think he comes to you all for sex.”

“And if he is?”

“He’s cheating on my mother.”

“Which would be your mother’s concern, not yours.”

“He’s my father.”

“Not your spouse.”

“Why aren’t you giving me a direct answer?”

“Why are you asking me, instead of him?”

“Because I’m not sure I can trust what he says.” He blushed, like questioning the word of his father was somehow shameful.

“And you think you can trust me?”

“All the others do.” His gesture took in the whole of the Garden, the handful of girls allowed out of their rooms when Desmond was there.

But all the walls were down on the girls who used to suck up in hopes of release, their second sets of wings displayed on their faces. They were down on the weepers and the listless and—except for Bliss—the chronically bitchy. They were down over all those dozens of girls in glass, and the scattering of empty cases that weren’t enough to hold the current generations, and no one knew what he was going to do when he ran out.

“You’re not one of us,” I said flatly. “Because of who you are, what you are, you never will be.”