Chapter 1 Twelve Hours Before the Murder

1

Mercy McAlpine stared up at the ceiling thinking through her week. All ten couples had checked out of the lodge this morning. Five new ones were hiking in today. Five more would arrive on Thursday, giving them another full house over the weekend. She needed to get the right suitcases put into the right cottages. The shipper had dumped the last of them on the parking pad this morning. She would have to figure out what to do with her brother's idiot friend, who kept showing up like a stray dog on their doorstep. The kitchen staff needed to be notified he was here again because Chuck had a peanut allergy. Or maybe she wouldn't notify them and the level of bullshit in her life would be cut roughly in half.

The other half was grinding away on top of her. Dave was huffing like a steam train that was never going to reach the end of the tunnel. His eyes bulged in his head. His cheeks were bright red. Mercy had quietly orgasmed five minutes ago. She probably should've told him, but she hated giving him the win.

She turned her head, trying to see the clock by the bed. They were on the floor of cottage five because Dave wasn't worth changing out the sheets. It had to be close to noon. Mercy couldn't be late for the family meeting. Guests would start trickling in around two. Phone calls needed to be made. Two of the couples had asked for massages. Another couple had signed up at the last minute for white water rafting. She needed to confirm the horseback riding place had the right time for the morning. She had to check the weather again, see if that storm was still heading their way. The supplier had brought nectarines instead of peaches. Did he really think she didn't know the difference?

"Merce?" Dave was still chugging away, but she could hear the defeat in his voice. "I think I need to call it."

Mercy patted his shoulder twice, tapping him out. Dave's tired cock flopped against her leg as he collapsed onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling. She stared at him. He'd just turned thirty-five years old and he looked closer to eighty. His eyes were rheumy. His nose was crisscrossed with burst capillaries. His breath had a wheeze. He'd started smoking again because the liquor and pills weren't killing him fast enough.

He said, "Sorry."

There was no need for Mercy to respond because they'd done this so many times that her words existed like a perpetual echo. Maybe if you weren't high … maybe if you weren't drunk … maybe if you weren't a worthless piece of shit … maybe if I wasn't a lonely, stupid moron who kept fucking her loser ex-husband on the floor …

"You want me to—" He gestured downward.

"I'm good."

Dave laughed. "You're the only woman I know who fakes not having an orgasm."

Mercy didn't want to joke with him. She kept harping on Dave for making bad decisions, but then she kept having sex with him like she was any better. She pulled on her jeans. The button was tight because she'd put on a few pounds. She hadn't taken off anything else but her shoes. The lavender Nikes were beside his toolbox, which reminded her, "You need to fix that toilet in three before the guests get here."

"You got it, boss lady." Dave rolled onto his side in preparation to stand. He was never in a hurry. "You think you can cut me some money loose?"

"Take it out of child support."

He winced. He was sixteen years behind.

She asked, "What about the money Papa paid you to fix up the bachelor cottages?"

"That was a deposit." Dave's knee gave a loud pop as he stood. "I had to buy materials."

She assumed most of the materials came from his dealer or his bookie. "A tarp and a used generator doesn't equal a thousand bucks."

"Come on now, Mercy Mac."

Mercy gave an audible sigh as she checked her reflection in the mirror. The scar that sliced down her face was an angry red against her pale skin. Her hair was still tightly pulled back. Her shirt wasn't even wrinkled. She looked like she'd had the least satisfying orgasm given to her by the world's most disappointing man.

Dave asked, "What do you think about this investment thing?"

"I think Papa's gonna do whatever he wants to do."

"It's not him I'm asking."

She looked at Dave in the mirror. Her father had sprung the news about the wealthy investors over breakfast. Mercy hadn't been consulted, so she assumed this was Papa's way of reminding her that he was still in control. The lodge had been handed down through the McAlpine family for seven generations. In the past, there had been small loans, usually from long-time guests who wanted to keep the place going. They helped get roofs repaired or buy new water heaters, or once, replace the power line from the road. This sounded a hell of a lot bigger. Papa had said the money from the investors was enough to build an annex to the main compound.

Mercy said, "I think it's a good idea. That section of old campsite sits on the best part of the property. We can build some bigger cottages, maybe start marketing to weddings and family reunions."

"Still gonna call it Camp A-Wanna-Pedo?"

Mercy didn't want to laugh, but she did. Camp Awinita was a one-hundred-acre campground with access to the lake, a stream full of trout, and a magnificent long-range mountain view. The land had also been a reliable cash cow until fifteen years ago, when every organization that rented it out, from the Boy Scouts to the Southern Baptists, experienced some kind of pedophile scandal. There was no telling how many kids had suffered over there. The only option had been to close it down before the taint spread to the lodge.

"I dunno," Dave said. "Most of that land's in a conservation easement. You can't really build out past where the creek hits the lake. Plus, I don't see Papa giving anybody any input on how that money's spent."

Mercy quoted her father, "‘There's only one name on that sign by the road.'"

"Your name's on that sign, too," Dave said. "You're doing a great job running this place. You were right about upgrading the bathrooms. That marble was a pain hauling in, but it's sure impressive. The faucets and bathtubs look like they came out of a magazine. Guests are spending more for extras. Coming back for repeats. Those investors wouldn't be offering any money except for what you've done here."

Mercy resisted the urge to preen. Compliments were not handed out lightly in her family. No one had said a word about the accent walls in the cottages, the addition of coffee bars and window boxes overflowing with flowers so that guests felt like they were walking into a fairy tale.

She said, "If we spend this money right, people will pay twice, maybe even three times, what they're paying now. Especially if we give them road access instead of making them hike in. We could even do some of those UTVs to get to the bottom of the lake. It's beautiful down there."

"It surely is beautiful, I'll give you that." Dave spent most of his days on the site, ostensibly remodeling the three ancient cottages. He asked, "Bitty have anything to say about the money?"

Her mother always sided with her father, but Mercy said, "She'd talk to you before she talked to me."

"Haven't heard a peep." Dave shrugged. Bitty would confide in him eventually. She loved Dave more than her own children. "You ask me, bigger ain't always better."

Bigger was exactly what Mercy was hoping for. After the shock from hearing the news had worn off, she'd come around to the idea. The influx of cash could shake things up. She was tired of running in quicksand.

Dave said, "It's a lot of change."

She leaned her back against the dresser, looking at him. "Would it be so bad if things were different?"

They stared at each other. There was a lot of weight to the question. She looked past the rheumy eyes and the red nose and saw the eighteen-year-old boy who had promised to take her away from here. Then she saw the car accident that had split open her face. The rehab. The rehab again. The custody battle for Jon. The threat of falling off the wagon. And always the constant, unrelenting disappointment.

Her phone pinged from the bedside table. Dave looked down at the notification. "You got somebody at the trailhead."

Mercy unlocked the screen. The camera was at the parking pad, which meant she had around two hours before the first guests completed the five-mile hike to the lodge. Or maybe less. They looked like they could easily handle the trail. The man was tall and lanky with a runner's build. The woman had long, curly red hair and was carrying a backpack that looked like it had been used before.

The couple shared a deep kiss before they headed toward the trailhead. Mercy felt a pang of jealousy to see them holding hands. The man kept looking down at the woman. She kept looking up at him. Then they both laughed, like they realized how ridiculously in love they were acting.

"Dude looks dick drunk," Dave said.

Mercy's jealousy intensified. "She looks pretty tipsy herself."

"BMW," Dave noticed. "Those the investors?"

"Rich people aren't that happy. Has to be the honeymooners. Will and Sara."

Dave took a closer look, though the couple's back was to the camera now. "You know what they do for a living?"

"He's a mechanic. She's a chemistry teacher."

"Where're they from?"

"Atlanta."

"Real Atlanta or metro Atlanta?"

"I don't know, Dave. Atlanta-Atlanta."

He walked toward the window. She watched him stare across the compound at the main house. She knew something had set him off, but she didn't have it in her to ask. Mercy had put in her time with Dave. Trying to help him. Trying to heal him. Trying to love him enough. Trying to be enough. Trying, trying, trying not to drown in the quicksand of his aching need.

People thought he was Mr. Laid Back Easy-Going Life-of-the-Party Dave, but Mercy knew that he walked around with a giant ball of angst inside his chest. Dave wasn't an addict because he was at peace. He had spent the first eleven years of his life in the foster care system. No one had bothered to look for him when he'd run away. He'd hung around the campsite until Mercy's father had found him sleeping in one of the bachelor cottages. Then her mother had cooked him dinner, then Dave had started showing up every night, then he'd moved into the main house and the McAlpines had adopted him, which had led to a lot of nasty rumors when Mercy had gotten pregnant with Jon. It didn't help that Dave was eighteen and Mercy had just turned fifteen when it happened.

They had never thought of each other as siblings. They were more like two idiots passing in the night. He had hated her until he'd loved her. She had loved him until she'd hated him.

"Heads-up." Dave turned away from the window. "Fishtopher's comin' in hot."

Mercy was tucking her phone into her back pocket when her brother opened the door. He was holding one of the cats, a plump ragdoll that flopped over his arms. Christopher was dressed the way he was always dressed: fishing vest, bucket hat hooked with fishing flies, cargo shorts with too many pockets, flip-flops so he could quickly pull on his waders and stand in the middle of a stream all day throwing out lines. Hence the nickname.

Dave asked, "What lured you here, Fishtopher?"

"Dunno." Fish raised his eyebrows. "Something reeled me in."

Mercy knew they could go on like this for hours. "Fish, did you tell Jon to get the canoes cleaned out?"

"Yep, and he told me to go fuck myself."

"Jesus." Mercy shot Dave a look, like he was solely responsible for Jon's behavior. "Where is he now?"

Fish placed the cat on the porch alongside the other one. "I sent him into town to get some peaches."

"Why?" She looked at the clock again. "We've got five minutes until family meeting. I'm not paying him to ass his way around town all summer. He needs to know the schedule."

"He needs to be gone." Fish crossed his arms the way he always did when he thought he had something important to say. "Delilah's here."

He could've said Lucifer was dancing a jig on the front porch and gotten less shock out of her. Without thinking, Mercy grabbed for Dave's arm. Her heart was gonging against her ribcage. Twelve years had passed since she'd faced off against her aunt inside a cramped courtroom. Delilah had been trying to get permanent custody of Jon. Mercy still felt the deep wounds from the fight to get him back.

"What's that crazy bitch doing here?" Dave demanded. "What does she want?"

"Dunno," Fish said. "She passed right by me on the lane, then went into the house with Papa and Bitty. I found Jon and sent him off before he saw her. You're welcome."

Mercy couldn't thank him. She had started to sweat. Delilah lived an hour away inside her own little bubble. Her parents had brought her up here because they were up to something. "Papa and Bitty were on the porch waiting for Delilah?"

"They're always on the porch in the morning. How would I know if they were waiting?"

"Fish!" Mercy stamped her foot. He could tell the difference between a smallmouth and a redeye from twenty yards, but he couldn't read people for shit. "How did they look when Delilah pulled up? Were they surprised? Did they say anything?"

"Don't think so. Delilah got out of her car. She was holding her purse like this."

Mercy watched him grip together his hands in front of his belly.

"Then she walked up the stairs and they all went inside."

Dave asked, "She still dressing like Pippi Longstocking?"

"Who's Pippi Longstocking?"

"Hush," Mercy hissed. "Delilah didn't say anything about Papa being in a wheelchair?"

"Nope. None of them said anything at all, now that I think about it. Strangely silent." Fish held up his finger to indicate that he remembered another detail. "Bitty started to push Papa's chair inside, but Delilah took over."

Dave mumbled, "Sounds like Delilah all right."

Mercy felt her teeth clench. Delilah hadn't been surprised to find her brother in a wheelchair, which meant she already knew about the accident, which meant that they had talked on the phone. The question was, who had made the phone call? Had she been invited here or just shown up?

As if on cue, her phone started to ring. Mercy slid it out of her pocket. She saw the caller ID. "Bitty."

Dave said, "Put it on speaker."

Mercy tapped the screen. Her mother started every phone call the same way whether she was calling or answering. "This is Bitty."

Mercy answered, "Yes, Mother."

"Are you kids coming for family meeting?"

Mercy looked at the clock. She was two minutes late. "I sent Jon into town. Fish and I are on the way."

"Bring Dave."

Mercy's hand was hovering over the phone. She had been ready to hang up. Now her fingers were trembling. "Why do you want Dave there?"

There was a click as her mother ended the call.

Mercy looked at Dave, then at Fish. She could feel a fat drop of sweat rolling down her back. "Delilah's going to try to get Jon back."

"No she ain't. Jon just had his birthday. He's practically an adult." For once, Dave was the logical one. "Delilah can't snatch him away. Even if she tries, it won't go to court for a couple years, at least. He'll be eighteen by then."

Mercy pressed her palm to her heart. He was right. Jon acted like a baby sometimes, but he was sixteen years old. Mercy wasn't a serial fuck-up with two DUIs trying to ween herself off of heroin with zanies. She was a responsible citizen. She was running the family business. She'd been clean for thirteen years.

"Guys," Fish said, "are we even supposed to know Delilah's here?"

Dave asked, "She didn't see you when she came up the lane?"

"Maybe?" Fish was asking, not telling. "I was stacking logs by the shed. She was going pretty fast. You know how she is. Like she's on a mission."

Mercy thought of an explanation that was almost too awful to speak. "The cancer could be back."

Fish looked stricken. Dave took a few steps away, turning his back to them both. Bitty had been diagnosed with metastatic melanoma four years ago. Aggressive treatment had put the cancer into remission, but remission did not mean cured. The oncologist had told her to keep her affairs in order.

"Dave?" Mercy asked. "Have you noticed anything? Is she acting any different?"

Mercy watched Dave shake his head. He used his fist to wipe his eyes. He'd always been a mama's boy, and Bitty still doted on him like a baby. Mercy couldn't begrudge him the extra affection. His own mother had abandoned him in a cardboard box outside a fire station.

"She—" Dave cleared his throat a few times so he could speak. "She would get me alone and tell me if it was back. She wouldn't spring it on me at a family meeting."

Mercy knew this was true, if only because Dave had been the first person Bitty had told the last time. Dave had always had a special connection with her mother. He was the one who'd nicknamed her Bitty Mama because she was so small. When she was fighting cancer, Dave had taken her to every doctor's appointment, every surgery, every treatment. He was also the one who'd changed her surgical dressings, kept up with her pill regimen, even washed her hair.

Papa had been too busy running the lodge.

Fish said, "We're missing the obvious."

Dave was wiping his nose with the hem of his T-shirt when he turned back around. "What?"

Fish supplied, "Papa wants to talk about the investors."

Mercy felt like an idiot for not thinking of this first. "Do we have to call a board meeting to vote on taking the money?"

"No." Dave knew the rules of the McAlpine Family Trust better than anyone. Delilah had tried to force him out because he was adopted. "Papa's the trustee, so he gets to make those decisions. Besides, you only need a quorum to call a vote. Mercy, you've got Jon's proxy, so all he needs is you, Fish and Bitty. No reason for me to be there. Or Delilah."

Fish anxiously looked at his watch. "We should go, right? Papa's waiting."

"Waiting to ambush us," Dave said.

Mercy figured that was what her father was planning. She was under no illusion that they were about to share a warm family moment.

She told them, "Let's get this over with."

Mercy led the boys across the compound. The two cats trotted alongside them. She struggled against her natural state of anxiety. Jon was safe. Mercy was not helpless. She was too old for a spanking, and it wasn't like Papa could outrun her anymore.

Heat rushed into her face. She was an awful daughter for even thinking such a thing. Eighteen months ago, her father had been guiding a group up the mountain bike trail when he'd flipped head-first over his handlebars and plunged into the gorge. An air ambulance had winched him out on a stretcher while the guests watched in horror. His skull had been cracked open. Two vertebrae in his neck were fractured. His back was broken. There was no question that he would end up in a wheelchair. He had nerve damage in his right arm. If he was lucky, he would have limited control of his left hand. He could still breathe on his own, but in those first few days, the surgeons had talked about him like he was already dead.

Mercy hadn't had time to grieve. Guests were still at the lodge. Even more were coming in the following weeks. Schedules had to be made. Guides had to be assigned. Supplies had to be ordered. Bills had to be paid.

Fish was the oldest, but he'd never been interested in management. His passion was taking guests out on the water. Jon was too young, and what's more, he hated it here. Dave couldn't be trusted to show up. Delilah was not an option. Bitty, understandably, wouldn't leave Papa's side. By default, Mercy had been given the job. That she was actually good at it should've been a source of family pride. That her changes had led to a large profit in the first year, that she was on track to double that now, should've warranted a celebration.

Yet from the moment her father had gotten out of the rehab facility, he'd seethed with anger. Not about the accident. Not about his loss of athletic ease in his body. Not even about his loss of freedom. For some unfathomable reason, all of his rage, all of his animosity, was directed squarely at Mercy.

Every day, Bitty would wheel Papa around the main compound. Every day, he would find fault with everything Mercy did. The beds weren't being made the right way. The towels weren't being folded the right way. The guests weren't being handled the right way. The meals weren't being served the right way. And of course, the right way was always his way.

In the beginning, Mercy had struggled to please him, to stroke his ego, to pretend like she couldn't do it without him, to beg him for advice and approval. Nothing worked. His anger only festered. She could've shit out gold bars and he would've found a problem with every single one. She had known Papa could be a demanding bully. What she hadn't realized was that he was just as petty as he was cruel.

"Hold up." Fish's voice was low, like they were kids sneaking off to the lake. "How're we gonna play this, my peeps?"

"Like we always do," Dave told him. "You're gonna stare at the floor with your mouth shut. I'm gonna piss everybody off. Mercy's gonna dig in and fight."

That earned him a smile, at least. Mercy squeezed Dave's arm before opening the front door.

As always, she was greeted by darkness. Dark, weather-worn walls. Two tiny, slitted windows. No sunlight. The foyer of the main house had served as the original lodge when it opened after the Civil War. The place was little more than a fishing shack back then. You could see the ax marks in the wood paneling where the planks had been cut from trees felled on the property.

By luck and necessity, the house had expanded over the years. A second entrance was added on the side of the porch so hikers saw something more inviting when they came off the trail. Private rooms were built for more affluent guests, which necessitated a back set of stairs to the upper floor. A parlor and a dining room were added for would-be Teddy Roosevelts who'd flooded in to explore the new national forest. The kitchen had been connected to the house when wood-burning stoves stopped being a thing. The wrap-around porch was a concession to the crushing summer heat. At one point, there were twelve McAlpine brothers stuffed into bunkbeds on the upper floor. One half had hated the other, which had necessitated building the three bachelor cottages around the lake.

They had mostly scattered when the Great Depression hit, leaving a lone, resentful McAlpine hanging on by the skin of his teeth. He had stored their ashes on a shelf in the basement as one-by-one they had returned to the property. This great-grandfather to Mercy and Fish was responsible for creating the tightly controlled family trust, and his bitterness toward his siblings was writ large in every paragraph.

He was also the only reason this place hadn't been sold for parts years ago. Most of the campsite was in a conservation easement that could never be developed. The other part was restricted by covenants that limited how that land could be used. The trust required a consensus before anything major could be done, and over the years, there had only been asshole McAlpines battling against asshole McAlpines who avoided consensus if only out of spite. That her father was the biggest asshole in a long line should've come as no surprise.

Yet here they were.

Mercy squared her shoulders as she walked down the long hallway toward the back. Her eyes watered at the rush of sunlight pouring through the crank casement windows, then the Palladian windows, then the sleek accordion doors that led to the back of the porch. Each room was like the rings in a tree. You could mark the passage of time by the horsehair plaster and popcorn ceilings and avocado green appliances that complemented the brand-new Wolf six-burner cooktop in the kitchen.

That's where she found her parents waiting. Papa's wheelchair was pulled up under the round pedestal table Dave had built after the accident. Bitty sat beside him, back straight, lips pursed, hand resting on a stack of schedules. There was something timeless about her appearance. Barely a line etched her face. She had always looked more like Mercy's older sister than her mother. Except for the air of disapproval. As usual, Bitty didn't smile until she saw Dave, then her face lit up like Elvis had carried Jesus Christ through the door.

Mercy barely clocked the exchange. Delilah was nowhere to be seen, which sent Mercy's brain spinning all over again. Where was she hiding? Why was she here? What did she want? Had she run into Jon on the narrow road?

"Is it so hard to be on time?" Papa made a show of looking at the kitchen clock. He wore a watch, but turning his left wrist took effort. "Sit down."

Dave ignored the order and leaned down to kiss Bitty's cheek. "Doing okay, Bitty Mama?"

"I'm good, dear." Bitty reached up and patted his face. "Go on and sit."

Her light touch temporarily smoothed the worry from Dave's brow. He winked at Mercy as he pulled out his chair. Mama's boy. Fish took his usual seat on her left; eyes on the floor, hands in his lap, no surprise.

Mercy let her gaze rest on her father. His face had more scars than hers now, with deep wrinkles that fanned from the corners of his eyes and dueling parentheses that sliced into the hollows of his cheeks. He'd turned sixty-eight this year, but he looked ninety. He'd always been an active outdoorsman. Before the bike accident, Mercy had never seen her father sit still for more time than it took to shovel a meal into his mouth. The mountains were his home. He knew every inch of the trails. The name of every bird. Every flower. Guests adored him. The men wanted his life. The women wanted his sense of purpose. They called him their favorite guide, their kindred spirit, their confidant.

He wasn't their father.

"All right, children." Bitty always started the family meeting with the same phrase like they were all still toddlers. She leaned up in her chair so she could pass out the schedules. She was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, with a soft voice and cherubic face. "We'll get five couples today. Five more on Thursday."

"Another packed house," Dave said. "Good job, Mercy Mac."

The fingers of Papa's left hand wrapped around the arm of his chair. "We'll need to bring in extra guides for the weekend."

Mercy took a moment to find her voice. Were they really doing the meeting like Delilah wasn't lurking in the shadows? Papa was clearly up to something. There was nothing to do but play along.

She told him, "I've already lined up Xavier and Gil. Jedediah's on standby."

"Standby?" Papa demanded. "What the hell is standby?"

Mercy choked back the offer to google the word for him. They had strict policies about the guest-to-guide ratios—not only for safety reasons, but because their curated experiences brought in hefty fees. "In case a guest signs up for the hike at the last minute."

"You tell them it's too late. We don't leave guides hanging. They work for money, not promises."

"Jed's fine with it, Papa. He said he'd come if he could."

"And what if he's not available?"

Mercy felt her teeth grit. He always moved the goalpost. "Then I'll take the guests up the trail myself."

"And who's going to look after the place while you're galivanting up the mountains?"

"The same people who looked after it when you did."

Papa's nostrils flared in anger. Bitty looked profoundly disappointed. Less than a minute into the meeting and they were already at a stand-off. Mercy was never going to win. She could go fast or she could go slow, but she was still running in quicksand.

"Fine," Papa said. "You're just going to do whatever you want to do."

He wasn't giving in. He was getting in the last word while telling her she was wrong. Mercy was about to respond when Dave's leg pressed against hers under the table, urging her to drop it.

Papa had already moved on anyway. He trained his sights on Fish. "Christopher, you need to put your best foot forward with the investors. Names are Sydney and Max, a woman and a man, but she wears the pants. Take them to the Falls where they'll be sure to catch something good. Don't bore them with all your ecology talk."

"Absolutely. Understood." Fish had earned his Master of Natural Resource Management with an emphasis on fisheries and aquatic sciences at UGA. Most of the guests were enthralled by his passions. "I was thinking they'd enjoy the—"

"Dave," Papa said. "What's going on with the bachelor cottages? Am I paying you by the nail?"

In a scattershot of passive aggressiveness that hit everyone at the table, Dave took his time answering. His hand slowly reached up to his face. He absently scratched his chin. Finally, he said, "Found some dry rot in the third cottage. Had to gut out the back and start over. Might be in the foundation. Who knows?"

Papa's nostrils flared again. There was no way for him to fact-check Dave's claim. He couldn't make it down to that part of the property, even if they strapped him on an ATV.

"I want photos," Papa said. "Document the damage. And make sure you put all your shit away. There's a storm coming. I'm not paying for another table saw because you didn't have the sense to get it out of the rain."

Dave was picking grime out from under his fingernail. "Sure thing, Papa."

Mercy watched her father's left hand gripping the arm of his chair. Two years ago, he would've come across the table. Now, he had to save up every ounce of energy just to scratch his ass.

Mercy asked her father, "When do you want me to meet with the investors?"

Papa snorted at the question. "Why would you meet with them?"

"Because I'm the manager. Because I have all the spreadsheets and P the marriages and funerals and babies and life.

Mercy didn't need photographs. She had recorded her own history. Diaries from her childhood. Ledgers she'd found hidden in the office and tucked into the back of an old cupboard in the kitchen. The notebooks she had started keeping on her own. There were secrets that would destroy Dave. Revelations that would tear Fish apart. Crimes that could send Bitty to prison. And the sheer evil that Papa had committed to keep this place in his violent, greedy hands.

None of them were going to take the lodge away from Mercy.

They would have to kill her first.