Read The Collector for Free Online Page B

“Ashton Archer.”
    Something tickled the back of her brain at the name, but she offered her hand in turn. “Lila.”
    He led her out, nodded when she gestured to the coffee shop across the street.
    â€œI really am sorry,” she said as they waited for the light beside a woman who was arguing bitterly on her cell phone. “I can’t imagine losing a brother. I don’t have one, but I can’t imagine losing him if I did. Do you have other family?”
    â€œOther siblings?”
    â€œYes.”
    He glanced down at her as they started across the street, washing along in the surge of pedestrian traffic. “There are fourteen of us. Thirteen,” he corrected. “Thirteen now. Unlucky number,” he said half to himself.
    The woman on the phone marched beside Lila, her voice pitched high and shrill. A couple of teenage girls pranced just ahead, chirpingand giggling over someone named Brad. A couple of horns blasted as the light changed.
    Surely she’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, what?”
    â€œThirteen’s unlucky.”
    â€œNo, I meant . . . Did you say you have thirteen brothers and sisters?”
    â€œTwelve. I make thirteen.” When he pulled open the door to the coffee shop, the smell of coffee, sugary baked goods and a wall of noise greeted them.
    â€œYour mother must be . . .” “Insane” crossed her mind. “Amazing.”
    â€œI like to think so. That’s step-sibs, half sibs,” he added, grabbing an empty two-top booth. “My father’s been married five times. My mother’s on her third.”
    â€œThat’s—wow.”
    â€œYeah, modern American family.”
    â€œChristmas must be a madhouse. Do they all live in New York?”
    â€œNot exactly. Coffee?” he asked her as a waitress stepped up.
    â€œActually, can I get a lemonade? I’m coffee’d out.”
    â€œCoffee for me. Just black.”
    He sat back a moment, studied her. A good face, he decided, something fresh and open about it, though he could see signs of stress and fatigue, especially in her eyes—deep, dark brown as rich as her hair with a thin line of gold around the iris. Gypsy eyes, he thought, and though there was nothing exotic about her, he immediately saw her in red—red bodice with a full skirt, and many colorful flounces. In a dance, mid spin, hair flying. Laughing while the campfire blazed behind her.
    â€œAre you all right? Stupid question,” she said immediately. “Of course you’re not.”
    â€œNo. Sorry.” Not the time, not the place, not the woman, he told himself, and leaned forward again. “You didn’t know Oliver?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe woman, then. What was it? Rosemary?”
    â€œSage. Wrong herb. No, I didn’t know either of them. I’m staying in the same complex, and I was looking out the window. I saw . . .”
    â€œWhat did you see?” He closed his hand over hers, removed it quickly when he felt her stiffen. “Will you tell me what you saw?”
    â€œI saw her. Upset, crying, and someone hit her.”
    â€œSomeone?”
    â€œI couldn’t see him. But I’d seen your brother before. I’d seen them in the apartment together, several times. Arguing, talking, making up. You know.”
    â€œI’m not sure I do. Your apartment looks right out into hers? Theirs,” he corrected. “The police said he was living there.”
    â€œNot exactly. It’s not my apartment. I’m staying there.” She took a moment when the waitress brought the lemonade and coffee. “Thanks,” she said, offering the waitress a quick smile. “I’m staying there for a few weeks while the tenants are on vacation, and I . . . I know it sounds nosy and invasive, but I like to watch people. I stay in a lot of interesting places, and I take binoculars, so I