It seems to be the day for apologies.
Mum has the contact info for Officer Hamilton; I text her with the news of Clare’s visit so she can let Hamilton know.
Why would Clare come, without his partner, to a residence where he expects a minor to be home on her own? It’s different when Eddison does it; he’s family, and it was years before he’d hang out just the two of us. Maybe I’m paranoid, given everything else going on, but I don’t like Clare showing up here.
Mum texts back three rows of flame emojis.
Her name is Chavi Sravasti, and she’s extraordinary.
She’s painting faces at a spring festival when you first see her, and rage fills you. It’s been years, but you still remember Leigh Clark’s duplicity, her evil. How sweet and demure the preacher’s daughter appeared at the same tasks, but it was only a mask for her true behavior.
But there’s something different about Chavi. She laughs and jokes with the children, chivvying the adults into getting their faces painted as well. She’s talented, too, branching out beyond the school carnival symbols into masks and detailed works. Like most of the girls—and many of the boys—she wears a ribbon crown of tiny fabric roses over her dark hair.
You’re not sure what to make of her. She’s friendly without flirting, even when the oldest boys and younger men try their best to get more of her attention. Her behavior suggests a good girl, but her appearance . . . bright red streaks spill through her hair, her makeup bright white and gold and heavy black liner, her lips bold and red. Gold and crystal glitters at her nose and between her eyes.
Then her sister comes up, a gawky, too-thin child with a bright smile and a brighter laugh, and despite her youth, she also has streaks in her hair, royal blue, and her makeup is softer, her lips a delicate shade of pink. Appropriate for someone the age she looks. Curious, you look around for their parents. They aren’t hard to find; their brown skin makes them stand out in this neighborhood. The mother’s hair is unadorned, but even from a distance you can see her dark red lips, the loop of gold through the center of the lower lip, and the spark of crystal at her nose and between her eyes.
Family tradition, then.
A boy comes up to take Chavi’s place with the paints, and the girls run off hand in hand, laughing and dancing into each other, never tangling, never tripping. You follow them from a distance, charmed at the sight. Even when their breaks are over and they return to their booths, they’re aware of each other, frequently looking up to exchange smiles.
Chavi is such a good sister. You watch them for two weeks, the way Priya—you’ve finally learned the younger girl’s name—takes pictures of everything, the way Chavi draws constantly. They each have their own circles of friends, but you’ve never seen sisters who delight in spending time together the way these two do.
Priya never sees you, but Chavi . . .
Chavi does, and you’re not sure what to do with that. You’re used to not being noticed, but she glares at you whenever she sees your attention on her or her sister. And that’s really quite extraordinary. Chavi truly has an artist’s soul, able to see what others overlook.
So you make it a habit to let her see you at the small stone building that used to be a church, or will be again. Church in limbo, and there’s something rather entertaining about that, isn’t there?
You’re there for the birthday party that includes most of the neighborhood, a less formal repetition of the spring festival only two weeks ago. There are flowers everywhere, real ones blooming around the little grey church and in lovingly tended beds, silk and plastic versions on the heads of most. You see the Sravasti ladies, all in sundresses and open sweaters, bare feet running through the spring grass.
Sweet Priya, with white roses against her dark hair.
Fierce Chavi, with yellow chrysanthemums almost as bright as her smile.
The party is on the Saturday, but you watch them on the Sunday, too, as the family celebrates together. They go out and come back, Priya touching the new piercing at her nose, and normally you would never approve, but her family went with her, this means something to them, and that changes it somehow.
On Monday, as you’re following them to school, you hear Chavi remind her sister of a study group, that she won’t be there to walk her home. So you’re there, following at a discreet distance, making sure Priya gets there safely. They live in a safe neighborhood, an affluent suburb where people know each other well enough to look out for each other, but still. You know better than anyone how evil can hide in plain sight. Priya goes straight home after her club meeting, stopping now and then to talk to neighbors but not leaving her path.
You’re proud of her. She’s such a good daughter.
Such a good little sister.
Chavi comes to the church that night, full of fire and fury and love, so much love for her sister. You almost don’t want to kill her, don’t want to take that away from Priya, but Chavi will be leaving for college in the fall, and you’ve seen what that can do to people, how it can devour good girls and leave husks behind.
But you believe in angels, and guardians, and you know this is for the best. Chavi will always be good, and she’ll always be there to watch over her sister.
And Priya will listen, because Priya is a good girl.
When you place the chrysanthemums in her hair, they look like suns in space, and that’s fitting, you think. Chavi does burn so bright.
“Eat.”
Starting violently at the unexpected sound, Eddison’s reflexive grip on the table is the only thing that keeps his ass on the chair, rather than falling to the floor. “Jesus, Ramirez, wear a bell.”
“Or you could practice some situational awareness.” She pushes a large white paper sack closer to him, then sits a few chairs away where she can see him without being all the way on the other side of the conference table. “Now, eat.”
With a grumble, Eddison opens the bag and pulls out a warm container of beef and broccoli. “What time is it?”
“Almost three.”
“Jesus. What are you even doing here?”
“Bringing you food from the only Chinese place in Quantico open past midnight.”
He always seems to forget how the off-duty Ramirez is simultaneously softer and fiercer than her on-duty persona. Softer, because the sharp suits and heels and I-dare-you makeup is swapped for jeans, an overlarge sweater, and a bushy ponytail, making her altogether more approachable. But the fierceness is still there, or maybe even more present, because when the makeup comes off, there’s nothing hiding her scars, the long, pale lines tracking from her left eye down her cheek to under her jaw. Those scars are a reminder that she’s a survivor in her own right, one with a badge and a gun and an absolute willingness to fuck shit up if it will save a child.
He couldn’t ask for any more in a partner.
“So you’re not even going to pretend to be surprised I’m here?”
She flaps a hand dismissively. “Priya got camellias yesterday and amaranth today; there’s only one flower left. Given that there’s nothing productive you can do there, where else would you be but here?”
“I hate you a little.”
“Keep telling yourself that, mijo; one day you’ll believe it. Now. What are you looking at?”
“Postal records,” he answers around a mouthful of vegetables. “If he’s watching his victims, it’s unlikely he’s just passing through, so I’m running forwarding addresses.”
She starts to nod, then frowns. “I can see at least two problems with that.”
“What if he doesn’t bother forwarding his mail?”
“Okay, three.”
He laughs and shrugs. “So what are your other two?”
“What if he doesn’t live in the cities? If he lives in a town nearby and drives in . . .”
“Smaller towns notice short-term tenants; the communities are more familiar with each other, which would make it risky for him. Besides, I’m looking at states, not cities.”
“That is a lot to sort through.”
“Yvonne showed me how to let the computer do most of it.”
“Showed you?”
He points at the whiteboard wall, most of which is covered in step-by-step instructions on how to set and refine search parameters in the Bureau intranet. As the team’s preferred technical analyst, Yvonne is well aware of their individual strengths and weaknesses when it comes to computers.
Turn computer on is taking it rather too far, in his opinion, but to be fair, he did catch her on her way out the door.
“What’s the second problem?” he asks.
“What if he’s not going directly from point A to point B? Priya and Deshani were only in Birmingham for four months. They were in Chicago for less than three. They’re not the only people who live that way.”
Eddison drops the takeout container on the table with a wet plop. “How do we find him, then? How do we find him if he’s a fucking ghost?”
“If I knew that, would we still be sitting here?”
Fury claws under his skin, making his muscles clench and twitch. Fury, and fear. Deshani called Vic this afternoon, asking if there was anything Priya should do if the bastard approaches her. Vic didn’t know what to tell her beyond stay calm, try to keep him talking, and try to call for help. They know this bastard wants Priya, but for what?
He killed to keep her safe, but he’s her biggest threat.
“Come on,” Ramirez says abruptly, getting to her feet.
“I have to—”
“The computer does not need you staring at it while it does its thing. I will let you come back, I promise, but for now, come on.” When he doesn’t move fast enough to suit her, she grabs his chair and pushes him at the door. He stumbles up just in time to avoid crashing into the frame.
“I’m up and I’m coming, now will you stop?” he demands.
In response, she grabs his elbow and hauls him after her to the elevator.
They end up in one of the sparring gyms, thick mats covering the floor around raised rings. One wall has lines of rhythm bags and heavy bags. Ramirez points to the heavy bags. “Go.”
“Ramirez.”
“Eddison.” She drops his elbow so she can cross her arms under her chest. “You are exhausted. You are so angry, so afraid, so tangled up in your own head that you’re not able to think straight. You’re missing the obvious, and digging yourself in deeper is not going to help. Now. Keyed up as you are, you’re not going to sleep, so go punch the shit out of the bag.”
“Ramirez—”
“Go. Punch. The bag.”
Muttering about bossy, interfering women only makes her snicker, so he gives in and walks to the bags. He rolls up his sleeves, sets his feet . . . and stares.
“For shit’s sake, Eddison, punch the bag!”
So he does, and with the first thump of impact, that taut coil twisting his gut snaps. He rains blows on the bag, heedless of form or efficiency, messy and powerful and relentless in his rage. His muscles protest the sudden activity but he ignores the pain, focused on nothing but the movement of the hanging bag and where his fist needs to be to meet it.
Eventually he slows, then stops, leaning against the bag and panting. His arms throb, and he’s a little afraid to check his untaped fists. He does feel more centered, though.
Ramirez gently takes his left hand and inspects his knuckles. “Nothing looks broken,” she tells him softly. “You’ll have some lovely bruises and swelling, and I think you left most of your skin on the bag.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to tape up?”
She reaches for his other hand, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s not something she does to be coy, but rather, when she’s not sure if her face is showing what she’s thinking. “You seemed like you needed the pain.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that.
“Come on. Let’s get these cleaned and bandaged. Do you have things at home to change dressings tomorrow?”
“Mostly. I’ll have to stop and buy . . .” He trails off, almost too tired to chase the fragment of an idea. Ramirez just waits, watching him thoughtfully. “How many places in a reasonable distance of Huntington do you suppose sell dahlias?”
“Say what?”
“Dahlias. They’re not exactly easy to find. When Julie McCarthy was murdered last year, it took us over a week to find where her dahlias came from, but we did find the specific store, which we usually don’t. A lot of florists don’t stock dahlias.”
“Okay . . .”
“We’ve been trying to play catch-up this entire time; why not try to get ahead of him? If he wants to finish out the list, he has to find dahlias somewhere. If we can get word to all the florists—”
“In the state? Eddison, that’s—”
“A big list, yes, so we create a master list and borrow techs or agents or, hell, academy trainees, and get them calling. The flowers are always fresh when they’re delivered, so even if he has them already, it would only be in the past day or two. The sale of a less-common flower would be memorable. We might even be able to get a photo or sketch from whoever sold or sells the dahlias to him.”
“That’s . . . actually not a bad idea,” she admits. “It’s going to have to be Yvonne, though.”
“What?”
“Even with her instructions, that kind of search is not something we know how to do. Not on this big a scale.”
“Okay, so we—”
“We are not calling her in at four in the morning,” she says firmly. “We are going to take care of your hands. Then we will go upstairs and write all of this down, so at a reasonable hour, we can update Vic and get approval to send Yvonne into overtime. Then we will call in Yvonne. Do you know what you’re going to do between taking notes and calling Vic?”
“Whatever you tell me to do or you’ll make me regret it?”
“You see, mijo?” She hooks her arm through his and pulls him toward the door. “You’re thinking better already.”
Her name is Aimée Browder, and she just might be a gift from God.
You’ve been worried about Priya. You’d already left Boston—you never spend more than six months in one place—but when you went back to visit, Priya wasn’t there. It took a long time to find her; finally you saw her name and city listed in a magazine as a finalist for a photo contest. You moved to San Diego immediately. You needed to make sure she was okay.
And she isn’t, you realize. She’s still the good girl you remember, but her brightness is gone, her warmth. She’s brittle and fragile and so very lonely.
And then she finds Aimée.
You watch, entranced, as Aimée patiently lures Priya out of her pain, chattering in French and dancing around her as they walk. Sometimes literally—she’s so graceful, Aimée, and spends so much time at lessons and practice; even when she walks out of the studio late at night looking weary down to the bone, she still looks so in love with her dancing you can’t look away. And you see Priya start to bloom, smiling, sometimes laughing even, and talking about French cinema and opera and ballet houses.
It’s Aimée who introduces Priya to the boy she tutors, and you see right away that the boy is falling for her. You don’t blame him, but you watch, carefully, in case you have to step in. You never do, though. Priya knows her worth, knows what it means to be good, and she never encourages the boy, never sits closer to him than she has to, never accepts any of his invitations out.
Aimée’s mother cooks with the amaranth that grows on their porch roof. You’ve never really thought about it, that flowers can have more of a purpose than to look pretty and feed bees or whatever it is they do, but you can hear the Browders teasing each other about the plants in the kitchen and the blooms around Aimée’s bun, the women in a lazy, easy mix of French and Spanish, the father in the occasional booming German no one else understands but that always makes the women laugh.
They take to Priya nearly as well as Aimée does, and you’re grateful for that, grateful she h
as people to give her back that brightness.
You send Priya flowers, trying to show your appreciation for her goodness, your love for her, and your heart warms when you see her laughing over the baby’s breath, pinning it in place around her friend’s hair like a bristling fairy crown for the stage.
And then one day, Priya is gone. You were away for a few days, tracking down the flowers you needed from nearby towns so no one would link the bouquets to each other, or to you. You haven’t done this for so many years by being careless. Just a few days, but you missed the moving truck and the goodbyes and the departure. It took you too long to find her this time, and now . . .
Aimée misses Priya too, you can see it even before she mentions it to her mother. You see it in the way she twirls a cluster of amaranth in her hand, looking at it with a sad little smile, before she reaches up to pin it in place around her hair.
So you gather the amaranth, as much of it as you can find without completely denuding her mother’s garden, and you wait, because you’ve watched her long enough to know that when she can’t sleep, she doesn’t bother her parents, or her brother and sister. She slips out of the house and down three streets to the church with a door that’s always open, and she dances. She used to go two streets the other direction first, to see if Priya wanted to join her, and they’d pass the dark hours in a church, Aimée dancing, Priya taking photos of stained glass and grace in moonlight.
You make it painless for Aimée, as much as you can. You do it for her sake as much as for Priya’s. She really is such a good girl, a good friend when Priya needed one most. You surround her with the dark pink bunches of amaranth, and you sit with her for a while, looking up at the windows, thinking of Priya.
She was such a good little sister, so worthy of protection. She isn’t anything like Darla Jean; she’ll stay good. She’ll be grateful, when she knows how much you love her.
You’ll find her again, and this time you won’t stop until she knows how you feel. You can’t wait to hear her say she loves you.
The dahlias arrive on Tuesday, three blossoms each as big as my hand, so deep a purple they’re just shy of black. It was not quite a year ago that fourteen-year-old Julie McCarthy was found raped and murdered in a church in Charlotte, North Carolina, three dahlias in a line over her mouth, chest, and crotch like a demented chakra map.
The Roses of May (The Collector Trilogy Book 2) Page 21