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.