The Summer Children (The Collector #3)(92)

That was all she’d ever wanted, nearly from the moment she’d realized it would be possible. When it finally sifted down through all the years and layers of fears that she had a future, she knew she needed to spend it helping others as she’d been helped.

One night, after years of her being hurt, an angel came to rescue her, and carried her away.

It wasn’t the end of her pain—wasn’t even the end of her injuries—but it was still a life-changing event. She’d looked into the angel’s eyes, kind and sad and gentle, and known that the rest of her life had a path, if she could only get her feet on it.

And she had helped, hadn’t she? More than she’d hurt?

Sometimes it was out of her hands. She tried to keep them safe, to get them into better situations, and she’d done that mostly, hadn’t she? Or had she been so focused on getting them away, she’d forgotten—her, of all people—that where they were going to was just as important?

She wasn’t sure how the scales balanced. Had she helped more than she’d harmed?

But Mercedes knew—she hoped, she prayed, she knew—that the fear made her a better agent. It made her care about what came after, not just what came before. There were children she’d failed and children she’d saved, and children she had yet to save (children she had yet to fail), and she’d be damned if she was walking away from any of them.

There was another scared little girl who chose a different path, but Mercedes chose this one, and she’d choose it again and again.