The Roses of May (The Collector Trilogy Book 2)

by Dot Hutchison

  “How could he protect me from town?”

  He shakes his head. Archer may or may not lose his place in the Bureau—he did technically catch the killer, after all—but he’ll be in a hell of a lot of trouble. Eddison’s going to help make sure of that. “You were alone in the chapel, you called me, and Joshua came in.”

  “Joshua, of all people. He’s always been polite. Kind. Charming without being creepy. He felt safe. I just thought—” She sniffs and rubs at the bloody dig between her eyes, blinking away tears. “I thought if I ever saw my sister’s murderer, he would look like a murderer, you know? Like I’d be able to see all the things wrong with him. I never imagined someone like Joshua. Someone so freaking normal.”

  “His name isn’t Joshua; it’s Jameson. Jameson Carmichael. The first girl he killed was his sister, Darla Jean.”

  “He said Chavi was a good sister.”

  “I know.”

  “He said Aimée was a good friend.”

  Her eyes are still glassier than he’d like.

  “What happened after the call dropped?”

  She bites her lip, her teeth tearing at a scab, and he steels himself not to cringe at the beads of blood that well up. Her eyes are huge and tear-bright, and when he scoots to the edge of the chair and holds out his hand, she seizes it with a strong grip that makes the week-old bruises and abrasions sting. “He said he had to protect me from the world, had to make sure I stay good.”

  “He came at you.”

  “He had a knife. Well, obviously. He likes the stabby stabby.”

  “More like the slicey slicey.”

  “I love you,” she huffs.

  He gives her hand a careful squeeze.

  “I don’t think he was expecting me to struggle. Maybe his version of a good girl wouldn’t? But I’m stronger than I look, you know?”

  “Always have been.” He shakes his head at her doubting look. “Twelve years old, Priya, after the worst days of your life, angry and scared and grieving, you threw a teddy bear at my head and told me not to be such a fucking coward.”

  “You were scared to talk to me.”

  “Damn straight. But you called me on it.”

  She’s got both hands curled around his now, picking at loose curls of skin along his nails, and he doesn’t try to stop her. “We fought over the knife, but he’s a lot bigger. I got it, though, eventually, and I—I stabbed him.” Her voice drops to barely more than a whisper, thick and heavy with pain. “I’m not even sure how many times, I was just so afraid he’d get up and come after me again. He didn’t have a phone, and mine wasn’t working. I think the throw killed it, and it shouldn’t have, because we paid extra for the cases.”

  “Priya.”

  “I stabbed him,” she says again. “And the knife—one side of it is straight, but the other edge is serrated and it makes this—this tearing sound when it comes out, and I don’t ever want to hear that sound again. I shouldn’t even have been able to hear it, because we were both struggling, and panting, and I might have been screaming, I don’t know, but it was like it was the only thing I could hear.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Archer ran in, just as Joshua fell. He had two men with him. One of them took me outside, tied his scarf around my neck to help with the bleeding. He said he used to be an army medic. Eddison, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For being so stupid.” Despite her rapid blinking, the tears spill over, and he can feel the warmth when they drip off her chin onto the back of his hand. “It doesn’t matter that I didn’t suspect Joshua, I knew someone was after me. I shouldn’t have put it on Archer to protect me without backup. I should have just forgotten the stupid windows and stayed home.”

  Fuck distance and professionalism.

  He shifts up onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her again and rocking her slightly, and feels her break. She’s almost silent as she sobs, gasping for breath as her body quakes. He doesn’t try to calm her, doesn’t try to tell her it’s okay. He doesn’t try to tell her she’s safe now.

  Safe, he’s learned, is a very fragile, relative thing.

  Slowly, the storm passes, and he reaches for the box of tissues beside the bed to help her clean her face. What’s left of her makeup is a little terrifying, but he wipes off as much as he can without making it worse. He taps the bloody scrape between her eyes, leans forward to press a kiss just above it.

  “Thank you for being alive,” he murmurs.

  “Thank you for letting me snot all over you.”

  That’s his girl.

  Vic and Deshani come back together, Deshani holding a triangle of cups aloft purely by carefully applied pressure, Vic holding his own cup of coffee and a sky-blue-and-white-striped bag with little blue footprints and a repeating It’s a boy!!! banner. He looks so sheepish and exasperated holding it that it makes both Priya and Eddison dissolve into giddy, just-this-side-of-hysterical laughter.

  Vic sighs and hands the bag to Priya. “They were out of ‘Congrats, it’s a tumor’ bags,” he says, not quite managing a straight face.

  Eddison slides off the bed and over to Vic, while Deshani pulls the curtain around the bed to help Priya change. “Anything from Ramirez?”

  “A text. Archer’s still down at Rosemont; Finney’s got a team of senior agents on the way to take over and haul his sorry ass back; Sterling and Ramirez are at Carmichael’s residence. He keeps pictures.”

  “Of Priya?” he asks, gut clenching.

  “Of all of them. They’re bagging some of the card stock on his desk, pens, handwriting samples. Photos, clearly. It’s fairly safe to say he’ll be charged if he survives.”

  “How likely is that?”

  “They’re still working, but they don’t seem very hopeful. His lung and ribs are pretty well torn up, some nicks to his heart, some pretty important blood vessels.” His voice is quiet, that not-whisper that’s clear but doesn’t carry an inch farther than he wants it to. “Archer recovered the knife at the scene, so they’ll cast it and test it against the previous murders.”

  “But without being willing to put it in writing or swear before a court of law, you’re pretty damn sure our murderer is on an operating table right now.”

  “If he could survive long enough to make a confession, that would be lovely.”

  “Is Priya going to need to stay here in the hospital?”

  Vic shakes his head, crossing his arms against his chest. “Once the pharmacy sorts out the medications they want to send her home with, you can head out with the Sravastis. If they need to make a stop or two along the way for essentials, that’s fine, but only necessary ones. Once you’re at the house with them, stay there.”

  Another gift. Normally that’s Vic’s job. Speaking with families, monitoring who comes to visit and what they say. The Eddison from college, from the academy, would be laughing himself shitless, but the man he is now—the agent he is now—knows to be grateful for true friendship wherever it can be found.

  “Finney’s got guards outside the operating room and in the scrub room, just in case,” Vic continues before Eddison can decide whether or not a thank-you would be appropriate here. “I’ll wait here with him for more updates and coordinate with Ramirez and the team down in Rosemont.”

  The curtain hooks rattle on their metal slide as Deshani pushes the plastic back into place against the wall. Priya settles back onto the bed, clad in fleecy, cheerful yellow pajama pants and a long-sleeve FBI T-shirt. “It’s a very well-supplied gift shop,” she says dryly, wrapping her hands gingerly around her hot chocolate.

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  There’s barely a second between the knock on the door and the door opening, and a woman in rose-pink scrubs enters. She gives Priya a conspiratorial wink. “I got the drugs, man,” she says, in a bad imitation of a television drug dealer. She waves a trio of white and blue paper bags, the tops folded over and stapled with long blue sheets of instructions.
/>   Deshani pinches the bridge of her nose.

  The nurse notices and laughs. “Oh, please let me play. I’m working a double with a doc who can’t ride herd on his interns. I need the venting.”

  “That I can understand,” Deshani says. She rolls her head back, stretching until everyone in the room hears a soft crack.

  “All right, ladies, here we are.” She launches into a brisk but thorough explanation of each medication and how to treat the wounds, as well as what to look for and when to come back in. Clearly, she’s had a lot of practice. When she finishes, she props her hands on her hips and regards both women. “The important thing, aside from remembering that I’m a nurse and therefore a font of wisdom, is to take care of yourself. You’ve got extra limits for a bit. Any questions?”

  Mother and daughter examine the written instructions, then shake their heads in unison.

  Both men smile.

  “Then, unless these good agents need you to stick around, you are free to go. Would you like me to bring the discharge paperwork?”

  Deshani glances at Vic, who nods a go-ahead. “Please.”

  The storm that was steadily covering Rosemont in snow is only starting to move into Huntington as Mum drives us back, and despite his being a terrible passenger, Eddison insists I take the front seat. He sprawls and fidgets in the backseat. When we stop at the drug store for wound care supplies, he and I both stay in the car. At the grocery store, however—not the Kroger near the chess island—I unbuckle my seat belt.

  “Are you sure?” Mum asks.

  “I want something desserty. Something that is not an Oreo.”

  “Come on, then.”

  So Eddison ends up trailing us through the store with the basket hooked over one arm, and I can’t even imagine how we must appear. Well, no, I can a little, because we are getting the strangest looks. There he is in a Nats shirt and open FBI hoodie under his coat, me in my pajamas and bandages, Mum in her suit, both Mum and me still wearing the hospital grippy socks instead of shoes. But there’s the look on Mum’s face in return, the one that dares anyone to mention a single goddamned thing.

  Mum is very, very good at that particular look.

  There is nothing resting about that bitch face.

  We get subs from the deli because there’s even less chance than usual of things getting cooked at home, and some snacks and breakfast stuff, and we detour through the ice cream aisle so I can find some orange sherbet, which should be easier on my throat than the ice cream Mum and Eddison quibble over until they each pick out their own pint.

  The cashier stares at me as he moves our items across the scanner. “What happened to you?”

  Eddison bristles but I give the boy a bland smile. “Demon-possessed nail gun,” I answer calmly. “We drew the diagram in the garage—more room, you know?—and did the ritual, and didn’t even realize the power cord had fallen into the circle of summoning.”

  He looks about to protest, but Mum pats my shoulder. “Next time you’ll know to double-check before you start chanting. At least you sent it back.”

  Eddison turns to fuss with the bags so the kid can’t see his smile.

  It’s a terrifying shred of normality in something that is really, really not a normal day.

  The couch is covered in a snow of linens, because tomorrow’s task was going to be sorting them into keep, donate, and toss piles. Might still be tomorrow’s task, knowing Mum. It’s not like we can’t do it while talking. What it means for today, however, is that even Eddison is sprawled on the floor with us to eat, and he manages to look not entirely disgruntled by that. We’re almost done eating when he excuses himself to the kitchen to take a phone call from Vic.

  Mum decides the timing is perfect, and we go upstairs to wash my hair. And, you know, the rest of me, but the hair is the really problematic part. I get back into the yellow pants and FBI shirt, though, partly because they’re comfortable, mostly because they’re comforting.

  Everything aches. Several ribs are cracked—several, the doctor said, and didn’t want to give me a solid number—and the muscles are tight and cramping. I’m not breathless or gasping, but I’m aware of every inhalation in a way I’m usually not. When you don’t have any trouble breathing, it’s really not something you pay attention to. It’s not just in my chest, either, but in the bruises and swelling through my throat.

  I didn’t give adrenaline enough credit when I was trying to think my way through things. His, yes, but mine, too, making me stupid and desperate. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I would grab for the blade, hold on tight. Not the handle—the blade. My wrapped fingers are stiff and throbbing in time with my heart and they’ll be fairly useless for a while.

  If I’m not stupid, though—more stupid—I should recover fully. A few scars, maybe, but if I obey my limits and take care of myself properly, the doctors said I shouldn’t lose any function. Only one doctor checked my ribs, but three of them looked over my hands. I have antibiotics and painkillers and sleep aids, and what I suspect is a rather strongly worded suggestion I get myself to a shrink for some antianxiety meds.

  I probably should have been on antianxiety meds for the last five years, but now, for the first time since that terrible night we spent waiting up for Chavi, I think I’m actually okay without them. Mostly okay.

  Will be okay.

  That might be more disturbing than anything else, really.

  Eddison is back in the living room, folding the linens we very purposefully unfolded to inspect. He doesn’t even look sheepish when Mum scolds him for it. “I’m too old to sit on the floor,” he tells her.

  “I’m older than you are.”

  “You devour souls to stay young.”

  “True.” She takes the stack of folded linens from him, shakes them all loose again, and dumps them into a box with everything else on the couch. “What did Victor have to say?”

  “Still in surgery. The lab is doing its thing with the blood sample and everything Ramirez and Sterling pulled from the apartment.”

  “If he doesn’t make it, do you tell the families?” Gently pushing me onto the couch, Mum flops to the floor and leans back against my legs, absently reaching for the Xbox controller. It’s a way to keep her hands busy while we talk, because stillness is for when things go wrong. As long as she’s moving, nothing can be wrong.

  Or something like that, but it’s Mum, and this is how she’s been all my life, and Eddison knows her well enough not to give the stink-eye for it.

  “It’ll depend on how firmly the evidence ties him to the other murders. What he said, what we’ve found, is pretty damning, but may not be sufficient for the bosses to be comfortable declaring it. We’ll find out.” Picking up the blue-and-white envelopes for my drugs, Eddison reads through the instructions, then opens two of the bottles. One large pill, two smaller pills, all three of them white. He takes my hand and carefully transfers the pills to my palm. Then he gets up and heads into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of milk. “I know you ate, but sometimes milk gives a better cushion for the drugs.”

  “Well acquainted with prescription drugs, Eddison?” asks Mum.

  He shifts a little, uncomfortable but trying to hide it. “You get shot a few times, you learn some tricks.”

  Mum pauses the game so she can look over her shoulder at him. Whatever she gets from his expression, she doesn’t comment on it. Just turns back to her game.

  I take my pills. Drink my milk.

  Thunder rumbles overhead, soft and rolling. There’s snow falling outside, clean white flurries skittering in whorls and flips in the wind. It’s the kind of night to stay safely inside, warm and curled up with those you love. I reach for Eddison’s hand so I can pull him to the middle seat.

  So I can lean against him.

  He puts his arm around my shoulders and leans into me, too, and we sit in silence and watch Mum play. There are questions he should probably be asking.

  Probably will ask once he
figures out how to phrase them. The thing is, Eddison knows me.

  He knows I’m only so many kinds of stupid.

  So I think—I’m reasonably sure—he’s waiting to ask until we know whether or not Joshua is going to survive. It changes the shape of things, doesn’t it?

  Probably not.

  Legally not, in any case.

  “What did you do to your hands?” I mumble into his shirt.

  “It’s a long story. Please don’t ask Ramirez for her version of it.”

  As tired as I am, I can’t help but snicker.

  Eventually, the day catches up to us all. Technically, Eddison is here on guard duty just like Sterling was, but it doesn’t feel right to put family on the couch, so we set him up in Mum’s room. It’s slightly less creepy than the idea of him sleeping in mine, and I suspect he feels the same way. Mum helps me get ready for bed, and for a moment, I can close my eyes and think it’s Chavi bumping hips with me in the narrow bathroom, brushing her teeth next to me.

  We curl together in my bed, the flickering illumination of the electric tea light casting shadows across Chavi’s picture frame and the wall beyond. The teddy bear Mercedes gave me the first time we met usually lives on my dresser, but now he’s cushioning my aching jaw. Mercedes has a seemingly endless supply of soft bears to give victims and siblings when she goes to a scene or home. It was a comfort then, and a comfort now.

  It’s also the bear I threw at Eddison’s head when I first met him, so there’s that.

  “That did not go quite as planned,” Mum says eventually, her voice little more than a whisper, and I can’t help but giggle. And then I can’t stop, and it sets her off, and we’re lying there laughing our heads off, because fucking hell, is that ever an understatement. My ribs flare with pain even after we finally get our breath back.

  “I knew Archer would leave,” I tell her more seriously. “It honestly never occurred to me that he’d go farther than it took to hide. I thought he’d be out of sight but in range, especially of a scream. I was . . .” I let out a breath, hold the next, let it out. “I was terrified.”