“Extrapolating from what Brayden said”—I sigh, peeling off the UM tee so I can lean against the counter without worrying about castoff meth from Zoe—“our killer prepared the explosion before she woke up the kids. She woke up Zoe first, and kept hands on her so the boys wouldn’t risk fighting, if they were even in any condition to do so. Parents were still sleeping in their room, she pushed the boys outside, did something, then carried Zoe out and got all three kids a safe distance away before the explosion. Brayden said he felt the heat, but they weren’t in danger of burning. She got them in the car—a big car, he said—keeping Zoe in the front seat, and gave them the bears. Brayden tried to open the door, but the child lock must have been engaged. He doesn’t know how long they drove for. She stopped in sight of the fire station to let them out, and gave them the instructions and my name. He looked back when they were at the station door, but he couldn’t see well enough to know if she was still there. One of the firefighters ran out and looked but didn’t see any cars out of place, so she must have gone.”
Being in the halter top has me anxious, especially knowing Simpkins is right outside, but I’d really prefer not to wear the meth-rubbed shirt any longer than I absolutely have to.
“He’s seizing!” calls a voice from Caleb’s curtain. A moment later a similar cry rises from Zoe’s partition.
Eddison grabs my arm before I can race back to Brayden’s bed. “Doctor is in with him,” he says softly. “I know you want to comfort him, but right now you’ll be in the way, especially with the other two in such unstable condition.”
“Why do you think he isn’t as bad as them?”
“We don’t know that he isn’t, just that he isn’t seizing yet.”
“Ramirez, what the hell are you wearing?” snaps Simpkins, stalking inside with Holmes at her heels. The two Smiths, who have been on her team about as long as she’s willing to keep anyone, follow, giving us small nods of acknowledgment.
I stand up straight and point to the bundle of fabric on the counter. “It has meth castoff from calming the girl,” I answer calmly. “It wasn’t safe to wear, and we didn’t have time to change before we came.”
“You shouldn’t have come here at all.”
“It was my call,” Holmes reminds her in an aggrieved tone.
“Clearly the children don’t need you now,” Simpkins continues, ignoring the interruption. “Leave.”
“No,” retorts Holmes. “I called her in.”
“You chose to partner with the FBI—”
“Partnered, yes, I did not give up the case to you, and I need her checking in on these kids.”
The two women stare each other down, and honestly I’m very glad I get to stand off to one side for this particular pissing match. Surprisingly, Simpkins is the one to look away. “Who can give me a status report?” she yells, stomping toward the curtains, and two nurses and a doctor glare at her.
The taller Smith shrugs out of his windbreaker and holds it out to me, while the stouter Smith pulls a plastic sack from the bag at his side. I drop the shirt into the sack, following it with the gloves, and then gratefully accept the jacket. It’s cold, true—hospitals are nearly always cold—but I feel more exposed than I’d like, in a way that doesn’t really have anything to do with clothing or skin. The jacket helps anyway.
“We’ll be in the waiting room,” Eddison tells Holmes and the Smiths. “They don’t need more people in those cubbies right now.”
“We’ll send someone,” the taller Smith promises. They’ve been partnered up for thirteen years, six of them on Simpkins’s team, but I have never heard the Smiths referred to as anything but a cohesive unit. I honestly do not even know their first names, because they are always, always the Smiths.
The waiting room is nearly empty. In one corner, a sobbing woman rocks back and forth in an uncomfortable chair, her fingers moving along her rosary. In her other hand, she clutches a passport and a work visa. Eddison drops into the chair beside me, taking my hand to lace our fingers together, and I lean against his shoulder.
“Have you updated Vic and Sterling?” I mumble.
“Yeah. I’ll send another in a minute.”
My eyes are burning, and I want to say it’s just from castoff somehow, but it’s exhaustion and rage and fear, and the twisting claw in my gut from wondering if we’re actually going to catch this person, and what kind of reaction the community will have if it happens. In the same breath that people abhor those who break the law, they also love vigilantes with an appealing cause.
Rescuing children from abuse? The public will eat that up when it all comes out. So far the papers have been quiet about the details. The murders have happened in different parts of town or even outside of it but still in-county, so no one’s drawn big blinking lights around them to connect them. And, too, the editor down at the main paper is usually good about squashing stories that exploit kids as victims.
I want to go home.
I’m not sure home is home anymore.
20
Zoe Jones dies at 2:13 in the morning, when a series of hyperthermic seizures causes a massive stroke.
Caleb Jones dies three hours later of rapid organ failure, including his heart.
Brayden’s doctor tells us the boy is physically stable for now, though they’ll be monitoring him closely as he starts into withdrawal symptoms. Emotionally? Brayden isn’t talking to anyone. Not to me, not to Simpkins or Holmes, not to any of the doctors or nurses. He cries when they tell him about Zoe, but when they have to come back and tell him about his twin, he just shuts down.
Tate, the social worker who’d been with Mason on Wednesday, shows up around six, and listens gravely as we fill him in. “It took me longer to get here because I stopped to get their case file,” he explains, holding up the folder. “A home inspection was done four months ago based on an anonymous complaint, likely from one of their previous neighbors, but they had just moved into the house. Everything was still clean. When we interviewed the children, Zoe and Caleb said they played outside most of the time. Brayden stayed inside the house more. Presumably, he was the one who would go into the kitchen to get supplies if they ran out of food. They had a mini-fridge in the boys’ room, tubs of food under the bed they said were snacks. I think if they ran out, Brayden was the only one to go into the kitchen.”
“He built up a slight tolerance, so he didn’t overdose as badly last night,” I translate, and he nods. “But yesterday their parents broke pattern. They made dinner for their kids and sat down together to eat in the kitchen. The other two were exposed in greater quantity than they’re used to, and even Brayden was probably in there longer than usual.”
“We requested a drug test on the children following the inspection, but it was rejected because the house was clean.”
“What about a drug test on the parents?” Eddison asks.
“House was clean,” Tate repeats. “We don’t think the Joneses were purposeful users; our theory was that they rode the contact high from cooking it, and sold it for income. They didn’t demonstrate the more overt symptoms of tweakers. Their prior residence had already sold, so we were refused permission to test there.”
“And so the kids fell through the cracks because of technicalities.” I scrub at my face, which is itching like crazy from the combination of old makeup, chlorine, and hospital. “Do you happen to know if the warrant for who had access to each CPS file has been finalized?”
“I believe so. I know Lee has been working on things. He and Gloria had their heads together.”
That . . . does not fill me with confidence.
Vic and Sterling come in not much later, laden down with coffees and tinfoil-wrapped plates of baked goods, courtesy of Marlene staying up all night worrying about us. Sterling pads up behind Eddison, but rather than trying to spook him like she normally does, she lays a hand against the back of his neck and holds up a large travel mug of coffee. He still flinches at the unexpected touch, but it’s smaller, more contained, and he leans into her side, mumbling a thank-you.
Vic carefully lowers himself into a chair across from us, leaning forward so he can keep his volume low. “Simpkins called Section Chief Gordon to bitch about your being here,” he tells us. “He checked in with Detective Holmes before calling me, and we’re going to pretend I’m not sharing this, but you should have the heads up.”
“Así que esto va bien entonces,” Eddison mutters.
“Her team will still be working the case, but she won’t be. He’s pulling her up on administrative review.”
We both blink at him, then look at Sterling, who settles in next to Vic and shrugs. We look back at Vic.
“Did Cass tell you anything about their case a couple weeks ago in Idaho?”