Thirty-Seven Minutes Before the Murder

THIRTY-SEVEN MINUTES BEFORE THE MURDER

Mercy stared out the slitted foyer window. The moon was so bright it was like a spotlight shining on the compound. Paul Ponticello was probably bitching with his boyfriend inside cottage five. He had a right to. The famous Mercy Temper had roared out like a lion and now she was overcome with regret. The truth was, she had been stunned by Paul's offer of forgiveness.

Mercy deserved a lot of things for killing Gabbie, but forgiveness was not one of them.

She pressed her fingers into her eyes. Her head was killing her. She was glad Dave hadn't picked up the phone when she'd called to tell him what had happened. God knew he loved a good go fuck yourself story, but he would've riled her up even more.

Her body already felt on edge. She was bloated and gross. She was probably about to start her period. Mercy had stopped using the app on her phone to track it. She'd read horror stories online about cops getting your data and cross-referencing credit cards to see the last time you'd bought tampons. All Mercy needed was Fish getting his financial records combed over. She had to talk to Dave about wearing a condom again. This time she would mean it. No amount of his sulking was worth the risk to her brother.

Dave's brother, too, if you wanted to get technical about it.

She closed her eyes again. Every bad thing that had happened today suddenly caught up with her. Plus her thumb was aching like a motherfucker. Another stupid mistake she'd made, dropping that glass when Jon had yelled at her. The stitches had gotten soaked when she was cleaning the kitchen. Her throat felt raw and bruised from Dave choking her. She couldn't take anything stronger than Tylenol.

Worse, what the fuck had she been thinking, talking to that doctor? Sara had been so nice that she'd lulled Mercy into forgetting that the woman's husband was a cop. Will Trent already had a hard-on for Dave. The last thing Mercy needed was a GBI agent sniffing around the property. Thank God a storm was coming up over the ridge. Mercy doubted the honeymooners needed much of an excuse to stay inside their cottage for the rest of the week.

She thought about stupid Chuck waving around that smoking foil outside the equipment shed this morning. He was getting sloppy, distilling too much moonshine too fast to keep up with the quality control. It was time to shut that shit down. Fish had been making noises for months about how he wanted out. And it wasn't just about the bootlegging. He wanted free from this claustrophobic prison that generations of McAlpines had built not out of pride but out of spite.

The shocking truth was, Mercy wanted out, too.

Her threats at the family meeting had been hollow after all. She would never show anyone her childhood diaries that detailed Papa's rage. No one would find out that Papa had taken control of the lodge by attacking his own sister with an ax. Bitty's crimes would roll away with the statute of limitations. Mercy's letters to Jon that called out Dave's abuse would never see the light of day. Fish could rid himself of the bootlegging and live out his solitary life on the water.

Mercy was going to break the cycle. Jon deserved more than being tied to this cursed land. She would vote to sell to the investors. She would take a hundred grand for herself and put away the rest in a trust to benefit Jon. Delilah could be the trustee. Let Dave try to get blood from that stone. Mercy would rent a small apartment in town so Jon could finish school and then she would send him off to a good college. She didn't know how much money it took to live on your own, but she had found work the last time. She would find work again. She had a strong back. A solid work ethic. Life experience. She could do this.

And if she failed, she could always move back in with Dave.

"Who's there?" Papa barked.

Mercy held her breath. Her father had been on the porch when she'd told Paul to go fuck himself. Papa had demanded details, but Mercy had refused. Now, she could hear her father stirring in his bed. He would stagger into the hall soon, dragging his legs like Jacob Marley's chains. Mercy slipped up the front stairs before he could reach her.

The lights were out, but the moon poured through the windows at either end of the hall. She kept to the right side. Mercy had sneaked in and out of the house enough times to know which floorboards would squeak. She looked toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. Jon had left his towel on the floor. She could hear Fish snoring like a freight train behind his closed door. Bitty's door was ajar but Mercy would just as soon stick her face inside a hornet's ass.

Jon's door was closed. Soft light fanned out from underneath.

Mercy felt some of her earlier anxiety return. On the scale of all the fights she'd had with her son, the one at dinner hadn't been the worst, but it had been the most public. She had lost count of the number of times that Jon had screamed at the top of his lungs that he hated her. He usually needed a day or two to cool off. He wasn't like Dave, who could punch you in the face one minute then pout because you were mad at him the next.

Lord knew that Mercy had never deluded herself into thinking she was a good mother. She was a hell of a lot better than Bitty, but that was a pathetically low bar. Mercy was an okay mother. She loved her son. She would lay down her life for him. The Pearly Gates wouldn't be swinging open for her in the afterlife—not after all the people she had hurt, the precious life she had taken—but maybe the pureness of Mercy's love for Jon would land her a nice spot in purgatory.

She should tell Jon about the sale. He couldn't be mad at her for giving him exactly what he wanted. Maybe they could go somewhere together. They could vacation in Alaska or Hawaii or one of the dozens of places he used to talk about visiting back when he was a chatterbox little kid with big dreams.

Money could help some of those dreams come true now.

Mercy stood outside Jon's door. She heard the tinkling sound of a music box. Her eyebrows furrowed. Her son listened to Bruno Mars and Miley Cyrus, not Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She gave a light rap on the door. God knew she didn't want to catch Jon with a bottle of lotion again. She waited, listening for his familiar lope across the floor. All she heard was the tinny sound of metal bars pricking against a rotating spool.

Something told her not to knock again. She turned the doorknob. She opened the door.

The car accident that had killed Gabbie had always been a blank in Mercy's mind. She had nodded off in her bedroom. She had woken up in an ambulance. Those were the only two details that Mercy could recall. But sometimes, her body had a memory. A flash of terror burning through her nerves. A cold fear freezing the blood in her veins. A hammer shattering her heart into pieces.

That was how she felt now when she found her mother in bed with her son.

It was a chaste scene. They were both clothed. Jon was lying in Bitty's arms. Her lips were pressed to the top of his head. The music box was playing. His baby blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. Bitty's fingers were curled into his hair, her legs intertwined with his, her hand up the front of his shirt as she stroked his belly with her fingers. It could have passed for normal except for the fact that Jon was nearly almost a grown man and she was his grandmother.

Bitty's expression removed any shred of doubt. The guilt on her face told the entire story. She scrambled to get out of the bed, clutching her robe tight, saying, "Mercy, I can explain."

Mercy's knees buckled as she stumbled to the bathroom. She retched into the toilet. Water and vomit splashed back into her face. She grabbed the bowl with her hands. She retched again.

"Mercy," Bitty whispered. She was blocking the door. She clutched Jon's baby blanket to her chest. "Let's talk about this. It's not what you're thinking."

Mercy didn't need to talk. It was all coming back to her now. The way her mother had treated Jon, the way she had treated Dave. The cloy looks. The constant touching. The relentless babying and coddling.

"Mama …" Jon stood in the hall. His entire body was shaking. He was in his pajamas, the ones Bitty made him wear that had cartoons on the bottoms. "Mama, please …"

Mercy swallowed down the vomit in her mouth. "Pack your things."

"Mama, I—"

"Go back into your room. Change your clothes." She physically turned him around and steered him into his room. "Pack your stuff. Take whatever you need because we're never coming back here."

"Mama—"

"No!" She pointed her finger in his face. "Do you hear me, Jonathan? Pack your fucking clothes and meet me at the dining hall in five minutes or I will tear this fucking house down!"

Mercy ran into her room. She grabbed her phone off the charger. She called Dave. That motherfucker. He had known all along what Bitty was.

"Mercy!" Cecil yelled. "What the hell is going on up there?"

Mercy listened through to the fourth ring. She ended the call before Dave's voicemail picked up. She looked around her room. She needed her hiking boots. They were going down the mountain tonight. They were never coming back to this godforsaken place.

"Mercy!" Papa yelled. "I know you can hear me!"

Mercy found her purple backpack on the floor. She started shoving in clothes. She didn't pay attention to what went in, didn't care. She called Dave again.

"Pick up, pick up," she demanded. One ring. Two rings. Three, four. "Fuck!"

Mercy started to go, but then she remembered her notebook. Her letters to Jon. She dropped to her knees in front of her bed. She reached under the mattress. Suddenly, there was no air in her lungs. Jon's childhood flashed through every molecule of her body. Her boy. Her gentle, sensitive young man. She held the notebook to her heart, hugged it like she was hugging her baby. She wanted to go back, to read every word in every letter, to see what she had missed.

Mercy held in a sob. Dave wasn't the only monster here. Mercy had missed the signs. Everything had happened inside this very house, down that very hall, while she was sleeping.

She shoved the notebook into her backpack. The nylon was so tight she could barely get the zipper closed. She stood up.

Bitty was blocking the doorway.

"Mercy!" Papa yelled again.

She grabbed her mother by the arms and gave her a violent shake. "You wicked cunt. If I ever see you near my son again, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand me?"

Mercy shoved her back against the wall. She dialed Dave's number as she walked into Jon's room. He was sitting on the bed. "Get up. Now. Pack your shit. I mean it, Jon. I am your mother, and you will do what I fucking say."

Jon stood up. He looked around the room, dazed.

Mercy ended the call to Dave. She went to Jon's closet. She started throwing out clothes. Shirts. Underwear. Shorts. Hiking boots. She didn't leave until Jon had started to pack. Her mother was still in the hall. Mercy heard a creaking sound from the floorboards. Fish was standing on the other side of his closed door.

"Stay in there!" Mercy warned her brother. She couldn't let him see this. "Go back to bed, Fish. We'll talk about this in the morning."

Mercy waited for him to comply before she headed toward the back stairs. She felt snot and tears running down her face. Papa was waiting for her below. Both of his arms were hugging the banister for support.

She jabbed a finger at him. "I hope the Devil fucks you in hell."

"You little bitch!" He grabbed at her arm, but he only managed to catch the laces on her hiking boots. She threw them in his face as she ran out the door. Mercy jogged down the wheelchair ramp. She dialed Dave's number again. Counted through the rings.

Fuck!

Mercy's knees gave out as she hit the Chow Trail. She fell to the ground, pressed her forehead to the crushed stone. She kept seeing images of Bitty. Not with Jon—the very thought was too agonizing—but with Dave. The way their mother demanded a kiss on her cheek every time she saw him. The way Dave washed Bitty's hair in the sink and let her pick out his clothes. It wasn't the cancer that had started those rituals. Dave would fetch Bitty's morning coffee and rub her feet and listen to her gossip and paint her fingernails and put his head in her lap while she played with his hair. Bitty had started training him the second Papa had brought him through the door. He had been so grateful. So desperate for love.

Mercy sat back on her heels. She stared blankly into the darkness.

What if Dave didn't know about Jon? What if he was just as clueless as Mercy had been? Dave had been molested by his PE teacher. He had never known his mother. He had spent his life surrounded by damaged people. He didn't know what normal looked like. He only knew how to survive.

Mercy called his number again. Waited through the four rings before hanging up. Dave was probably at a bar. Or with a woman. Or sticking a needle in his arm. Or drowning a handful of Xanax with a bottle of rum. Anything to numb himself to the memories. Anything to escape.

Mercy would not let their son end up the same way.

She stood up. She went down the Chow Trail, walked across the viewing platform. She needed to get into the safe. There was only five grand in petty cash, but she was going to take it and hike down with Jon and then she would figure out what to do about all of this when she had a moment to catch her breath.

Mercy felt a minuscule bit of relief when she saw that the lights were already on in the kitchen. Jon had come down the back trail. Mercy tried to get hold of herself as she walked around the building, worked to take the torment off her face when she opened the door.

"Shit." Drew was standing at the rolling bar cart. He held a bottle of liquor in his hand. Uncle Nearest. Mercy longed for the smooth taste burning down her throat.

She dropped her backpack by the door. She didn't have time for this. "You caught me. It's fake. The big still is in the equipment shed, the little one is in the boathouse. Tell Papa. Tell the cops. I don't care."

Drew put the bottle back on the cart. "We're not going to tell anybody."

"Really?" she asked. "I saw you pull Bitty aside after dinner. You told her you had some business you wanted to talk about. I thought you were gonna complain about the fucking water spots on the glasses. What is it, you and Keisha want a piece?"

"Mercy." Drew sounded disappointed. "We love it up here. We just want you to stop. It's dangerous. You could end up killing somebody."

"If it was that easy, I would pour every bottle we have down my mother's fucking throat."

Drew clearly didn't know what to do. He was the dog that caught the car.

"Just go." Mercy propped open the door for him.

Drew shook his head as he walked past. She followed him around to the viewing platform to see if Jon was there. She heard rustling behind the kitchen. Her heart nearly leapt. Jon was coming down Fishtopher Trail.

Except it wasn't Jon she found standing beside the outside freezer.

"Chuck." Mercy spit out his name. "What the hell do you want?"

"I was worried." Chuck put on that stupid bashful look that made her stomach turn. "I was asleep, and I heard Cecil yelling, and then I saw you running across the yard."

"Was he yelling for you?" Mercy asked. "No? He wasn't? Then go on back up the trail and mind your own goddam business."

"Jesus, I was trying to be a gentleman. Why are you always such a bitch?"

"You fucking know why, you pervert."

"Whoa." Chuck patted the air like she was a rabid animal. "Calm down, mi-lady. There's no need to get nasty."

"Why don't I take mi'nasty ass to cottage ten? That guy with the redhead is a cop. You want me to get him for you, Chuck? You want me to tell him about your little side-business down in Atlanta?"

His hands dropped. "You're a fucking cunt."

"Well congratulations. You finally got close to one." Mercy went into the kitchen and slammed the door. She looked at the clock. She had no idea what time she'd left the house. She'd told Jon to be down here in five minutes, but it felt more like an hour.

She jogged into the dining hall to look for him, but it was empty. Then her heart jumped into her throat. The viewing platform. The ravine was a deathtrap. What if Jon couldn't face her? What if he'd decided to take his life?

Mercy ran outside. She grabbed the railing. Looked over the side, the sheer, fifty-foot drop that cut straight down the mountain like the blade of an ax.

Clouds were rolling in over the moonlight. Shadows danced across the ravine. She listened for anything—whimpers, cries, the sound of labored breathing. She knew what it felt like when you had reached your end, when the pain was too much, when your body was too tired, when all you wanted was the welcome embrace of darkness.

She heard laughter.

Mercy pulled back from the railing. Two women were on Old Bachelor Trail. She recognized Delilah's long white hair. Mercy hadn't even noticed that the old bitch wasn't inside the house. She craned her neck to see who Delilah was holding hands with.

It was Sydney, the investor who wouldn't shut up about horses.

"Jesus Christ," Mercy whispered. Every fucking ghost was coming up on her tonight.

Mercy ran back into the building. Through the empty dining hall, into the kitchen. She looked back to the bathroom, clear to her office. Fish had cut a safe into the wall when they'd started bootlegging. There was a calendar hanging over the door. Mercy jogged to the back, rummaged through the desk drawers for the key. She found one of Fish's old backpacks gathering dust in the corner. Every item she pulled from the safe brought her and Jon closer to freedom.

Five thousand dollars, all in twenties. The bootlegging ledger. Payroll stubs. Two sets of books from the lodge. The diary Mercy had kept when she was twelve years old. She dropped them all into Fish's brown backpack. She tugged the zipper closed. She tried to think through a plan—where could she hide Jon, how could she help him, how long before the money ran out, where could she find a job, what did a child psychiatrist cost, who could she turn to, was it the cops or a social worker, would she be able to find someone Jon trusted enough to talk with, how in God's name could she even find the words for what she had seen …

The questions were too much for her brain to handle. Mercy had to think about one hour at a time. The hike was dangerous at night. She zipped a book of matches inside the front pocket of the backpack. Grabbed the red-handled knife out of the desk drawer. She used it to open envelopes, but the blade was still sharp. She would need it in case they ran into any animals on the trail. Mercy shoved the knife into her back pocket. The blade sliced through the seam, creating a kind of sheath. She knew how to pack for a hike. Safety, water, and food. She returned to the kitchen. Tossed the backpack beside her own against the closed door. She filled up two water bottles. There was trail mix in the fridge. She would need extra for Jon.

Mercy looked up.

What was she doing?

The kitchen was still empty. She walked back into the dining hall. Still empty. Her heart sank as she yet again returned to the kitchen. The panic had died down. Now the reality hit her like a freight train.

Jon wasn't coming.

Bitty had talked him out of leaving. Mercy should've never left him alone, but she had been shocked and disgusted and scared, and as usual, she had let her emotions take over instead of looking at the cold hard facts. She had failed her son just like she had failed him a thousand times before. Mercy would have to go back to the house and drag Jon away from Bitty's clutches. There was no way she could do this next part alone.

Mercy had to place her phone on the counter because her hands were too sweaty to hold it. She called Dave one last time. Her desperation amped up with every ring. He wasn't answering again. She had to leave him a message, to get out this sickness that was rotting her soul. Mercy thought about what she would say, how she would tell him what she had seen, but when the fourth ring passed and his greeting played, the words flowed out of her mouth in a panic—

"Dave!" she screamed. "Dave! Oh my God, where are you? Please, please call me back. I can't believe—oh, God, I can't— Please call me. Please. I need you. I know you've never been there for me before, but I really need you now. I need your help, baby. Please c-call—"

She looked up. Her mother was standing in the kitchen. Bitty was holding Jon's hand. Mercy felt like a fist was punching up her throat. Jon's eyes were on the floor. He couldn't look at his own mother. Bitty had broken him just like she'd broken everyone else.

Mercy struggled to find her voice. "What are you doing here?"

Bitty reached toward the phone.

"Don't!" Mercy warned. "Dave will be here soon on. I told him what happened. He's on his way."

Bitty had already tapped the screen to end the call before she'd finished. "No, he's not."

"He told me that—"

"He didn't tell you anything," Bitty said. "Dave has been sleeping at the bunkhouses. His phone doesn't work over there."

Mercy put her hand to her mouth. She looked at Jon, but he wouldn't look back at her. Her fingers started to tremble. She couldn't catch her breath. She was scared. Why was she so scared?

"J-Jon …" She stuttered out his name. "Baby, look at me. It's okay. I'm going to get you out of here."

Bitty stood in front of Jon, but Mercy could still see his downturned face. Tears were pooling into the collar of his T-shirt.

"Baby," Mercy tried. "Come over here, okay? Just come over here to me."

"He doesn't want to talk to you," Bitty said. "I don't know what you think you saw, but you're acting hysterical."

"I know what I fucking saw!"

"Watch your language," Bitty snapped. "We need to talk about this like adults. Come back to the house."

"I'll never step foot inside that fucking house again," Mercy hissed. "You fucking monster. You're the Devil standing right in front of me."

"Stop this at once," Bitty commanded. "Why do you make everything so difficult?"

"I saw—"

"What did you see?"

Mercy's brain flashed up the image: legs intertwined, a hand up Jon's shirt, lips pressed to the top of his head. "I know exactly what I saw, Mother."

Jon flinched at her sharp tone. He still couldn't look up at her. Mercy's heart splintered. She knew what it felt like to bow your head in shame. She had done it for so long that she barely knew how to look up anymore.

"Jon," she said. "It's not your fault, baby. You didn't do anything wrong. We're gonna get you some help, okay? It's all gonna work out."

"Get help from who?" Bitty asked. "Who's going to believe you?"

Mercy heard the question echo straight through every year of her life. When Papa flayed the skin off her back with a rope. When Bitty stabbed her so hard with a wooden spoon that blood had run down her arms. When Dave had pressed the glowing end of a cigarette into her breast until the smell of her own burning flesh had made her vomit.

There was a reason Mercy had never told anyone.

Who's going to believe you?

"That's what I thought." Bitty's face had a look of complete triumph. She reached down, lacing her fingers through Jon's.

He finally looked up. His eyes were red. His lips were trembling.

Mercy watched in horror as he lifted Bitty's hand to his mouth and gave it a gentle kiss.

She screamed like an animal.

All the pain of her life came out in a wordless howl. How had she let this happen? How had she lost her son? She couldn't let him stay. She couldn't let Bitty devour him.

The knife was in Mercy's hand before she knew what she was doing. She jerked Bitty away from Jon, shoved her against the counter, held the point of the blade to her eye. "You stupid bitch. Did you forget what I told you this morning? I'm gonna put your bony ass in federal prison. Not for fucking my boy, but for cooking the books."

There was nothing sweeter in Mercy's entire life than watching the arrogance drain from Bitty's face.

"I found the ledgers in the back of the cabinet. Does Papa know about your slush fund?" Mercy could tell from her shocked expression that her father had no idea. "It's not just him you should be worried about. You've been cheating on your taxes for years. You think you can get away with that? The government goes after fucking presidents. They're not gonna stop at some dried-up old pedophile. Especially when I put the proof in their hands."

"You—" Bitty's throat gulped. "You wouldn't—"

"I fucking would."

Mercy was finished talking. She jammed the knife back into her pocket, turned to grab the two backpacks, swung both over her shoulder. She turned back to tell Jon to move, but he was leaning down so that Bitty could whisper in his ear.

Bile flooded back into Mercy's mouth. The time for threats was over. She shoved her mother hard enough to send her sprawling across the floor. Then she clamped her hand around Jon's wrist and jerked him out the door.

Jon didn't try to pull away. He didn't work to slow her down. He let her use his wrist like a rudder to steer him away. Mercy listened to his quick breaths, the heavy fall of his feet. She didn't have a plan except to go somewhere Bitty couldn't follow.

She easily found the boulder that marked the Rope Trail. She made Jon go ahead so she could keep her eyes on him. They both made quick work of the ropes, grappling from one to the next, sliding most of the way around the ravine. Finally, they were back on solid ground. Mercy grabbed his wrist again to lead the way. She picked up the pace, started jogging. Jon jogged behind her. She was going to do this. She was actually going to do this.

"Mom …" Jon whispered.

"Not now."

They trampled through the forest. Limbs slapped at her body. She didn't care. She wasn't going to stop. She kept running, using the bright light of the moon to keep her bearings. They would shelter at the bachelor cottages tonight. Dave would show up in the morning for work. Or maybe she would take Jon to Dave right now. They could follow the shore, pick up a canoe, and paddle over. If Dave was sleeping at the bunkhouses, he would have fishing rods, fuel, blankets, food, shelter. Dave knew how to survive. He could talk to Jon, keep him safe. Mercy could hike into town and find a lawyer. She wasn't going to give up the lodge. She sure as hell wasn't going to be the one leaving on Sunday. Mercy would give her parents until noon tomorrow to pack up their shit and go. Fish could stay or he could leave, but either way, Mercy and Jon were going to be the last McAlpines standing.

"Mom," Jon tried again. "What are you going to do?"

Mercy didn't answer. She could see the moonlight hitting the lake at the bottom of the trail. The last section was terraced with railroad ties. They were only a few yards away from the bachelor cottages.

"Mom," Jon said. It was like he had woken up from a trance. He was finally resisting, trying to break away from her grasp. "Mom, please."

Mercy tightened her grip, pulling him so hard that she felt the muscles in her back straining. By the time they reached the clearing, she was panting from the effort of dragging him behind her.

She dropped both backpacks on the ground. There were cigarette butts everywhere. Dave hadn't prepared for the storm. Everything was laid out exactly where he had left it. Sawhorses and tools, a can of gasoline with the cap off, a generator turned onto its side. The shitty state of the worksite was a sharp reminder of who Dave really was. He didn't take care of things, let alone other people. He couldn't even bother to pick up after himself. Mercy couldn't trust him with this.

Yet again, she was on her own.

"Mom," Jon said. "Please, just drop this, okay? Let me go back."

Mercy looked at him. He had stopped crying, but she could hear the whistle of air through his stuffy nose.

"I n-need to go back. She told me I could go back."

"No, baby." Mercy pressed her hand to his chest. His heart was pounding so hard that she could feel it through his ribs. She couldn't stop the sob that came out of her mouth. The enormity of what had just happened caught up with her all at once. The terrible things that her mother had done to her son. The rot that had taken hold of her family.

She said, "Baby, look at me. You're never going back. That's settled."

"I don't—"

She grabbed his face in her hands. "Jon, listen to me. We're going to get help, okay?"

"No." He peeled her hands away from his face. He took a step back, then another. "Bitty doesn't have anybody but me. She needs me."

"I need you!" Mercy's voice was hoarse. "You're my son. I need you to be my son."

Jon's head started to shake. "How many times did I ask you to leave him? How many times did we pack our bags, and the next day, you were fucking him again?"

Mercy couldn't argue with the truth. "You're right. I've failed you, but I'm making up for it now."

"I don't need you to do anything," Jon said. "Bitty's the one who protected me. She's the one who kept me safe."

"Safe from what? She's the one who's hurting you."

"You know what Dave did to me," he said. "I was only five years old. He broke my arm, and you told me I had to forgive him."

"What?" Her whole body was shaking. That wasn't what happened. "You fell out of a tree. I was standing right there. Dave tried to catch you."

"She warned me you would say that," Jon said. "Bitty protected me from him. You told me I had to forgive him, to let him do whatever he wanted so he didn't get mad again."

Mercy felt her hands go to her mouth. Bitty had filled him with disgusting lies.

"Jon—" She said the first thing that came to mind. "We're going to cottage ten."

"What?"

"The couple in cottage ten." She could finally see a way out of this. The solution was there all along. "Will Trent is with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. He won't let Biscuits sweep this under the rug. His wife is a doctor. She can look out for you while I tell him what happened."

"You mean Trashcan?" His voice raked up in alarm. "You can't—"

"I can and I will." Mercy had never felt more certain of anything in her life. Sara had told her that she trusted Will, that he was a good man. He would fix this. He would save them both. "That's what we're doing. Come on."

Mercy reached for the backpacks.

"Go fuck yourself."

The coldness in his voice stopped Mercy in her tracks. She looked up at him. Jon's face was so hard it could've been cut from a single piece of marble.

"All you care about is winning," he said. "You only want me now because you know you can't have me."

Mercy realized that she needed to be very careful. She'd seen Jon angry before, but never like this. His eyes were almost black with rage. "Is that what Bitty told you?"

"It's what I've fucking seen!" Spit flew out of his mouth. "Look at how pathetic you are. You're not trying to protect me. You're running to that cop because you can't accept that I found somebody who makes me happy. Who cares about me. Who loves only me."

He sounded so much like Dave that it nearly took her breath away. That bottomless pit, that never-ending quicksand. Her own child had been running alongside her all this time and Mercy hadn't bothered to notice.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should've seen. I should've known."

"Fuck your sorry. I don't need it. Fuck!" He threw his hands in the air. "This is exactly what she warned me about. What the fuck do I have to do to stop you?"

"Baby—" She reached for him again, but he slapped her hands away.

"Don't fucking touch me," he warned. "She's the only woman who gets to touch me."

Mercy held up her hands in surrender. She had never been scared of Jon, but she was scared of him now. "Take a breath, okay? Just calm down."

"It's you or her," he said. "That's what she told me. I have to decide. You or her."

"Baby, she doesn't love you. She's manipulating you."

"No." He started shaking his head. "Shut up. I need to think."

"She's a predator," Mercy said. "This is what she does to boys. She gets in their heads and she fucks them up so bad—"

"Shut up."

"She's a monster," Mercy said. "Why do you think your daddy's so fucked up? It wasn't just what happened to him in Atlanta."

"Shut up."

"Listen to me," Mercy begged. "You're not special to her. What she's doing to you is the exact same thing that she did to Dave."

He was on her before she knew what was happening. His hands snaked out, wrapping around her neck. "Shut your fucking mouth."

Mercy gasped for air. She grabbed his wrists, tried to pull away his hands. He was too strong. She dug her fingernails into Jon's chest, tried to kick out with her feet. She felt her eyelids start to flutter. He was so much stronger than Dave. He was squeezing too hard.

"You pathetic bitch." Jon's voice was deadly quiet. He had learned from his daddy that you didn't make too much noise. "I'm not the one who's leaving here tonight. You are."

Mercy felt light-headed. Her vision blurred. He was going to kill her. She reached back to her pocket, wrapped her fingers around the red plastic handle of the knife.

Time slowed down to a crawl. Mercy silently took herself through the motions. Pull out the knife. Slice him on the forearm. Were there arteries there? Muscle? She couldn't damage him—he was already hurt almost beyond repair. She should show him the knife. The threat would be enough. That would stop him.

It didn't.

Jon snatched the knife away from her. He swung the blade over his head, ready to drive it down into her chest. Mercy ducked down, crawling on her knees as she scrambled across the ground. She felt the air move as the blade slashed within inches of her head. Mercy knew a second blow was coming. She grabbed her backpack, held it up like a shield. The blade skipped across the thick, fireproof material. She didn't give Jon time to recover. She swung the backpack at his head, knocking him backward.

Instinct took over. She clutched the backpack to her chest and started running. Past the first cottage, the second one. Jon was fast on her heels, closing the gap. She sprinted up the stairs to the last cottage. Slammed the door in his face. Fumbled to send the bolt home on the lock. Heard the loud punch of his fist against the solid wood.

Mercy gasped for air, her chest heaving as she listened to him pacing across the porch. Her heart felt like it was inside of her throat. Mercy put her back to the door, closed her eyes, listened for her son's loping gait. There was nothing but silence. She could feel a breeze drying the sweat on her face. All the windows were boarded up but one. The moon put a blue glow on the grain in the rough-hewn walls, the floor, her shoes, her hands.

Mercy looked up.

Dave had not been lying about the dry rot in cottage three. The back wall of the bedroom had been completely stripped away. Jon had slipped in through the studs. He stood with the knife in his hand.

Mercy blindly reached behind her. Slid back the bolt. Twisted the handle. Threw open the door. She turned, and it felt like a sledgehammer hit between the shoulders as Jon drove the blade in to the hilt.

The blow knocked the wind out of her. She stared at the lake, mouth open in horror.

Then Jon pulled out the knife and slammed it in again. And again. And again.

Mercy careened off the porch, falling down the stairs, landing on her side.

The knife cut through her arm. Her breast. Her leg. Jon straddled her, driving the blade into her chest, her belly. Mercy tried to buck him off, to twist away, but nothing would stop him. Jon kept swinging back and forth, stabbing the knife into her back, taking it out, plunging it in again. She felt the crack of bones, the explosion of organs, her body filling with piss and shit and bile until Jon wasn't just stabbing her, he was beating her with his fists because the blade had broken off inside her chest.

Suddenly, Jon stopped.

Mercy could hear him panting like he'd finished a marathon. He was spent from the attack. He could barely stand. He stumbled away from her. Mercy tried to take in a breath. Her face was in the dirt. She inched onto her side. Every part of her body was alive with pain. She had fallen across the stairs. Her feet were still on the porch. Her head rested on the ground.

Jon was back.

She heard liquid sloshing, but it wasn't the waves hitting the shore. Jon walked up the stairs with the gasoline can. She heard him spreading the fuel around the inside of the cottage. He was going to burn the evidence. He was going to burn Mercy. He dropped the empty can beside her feet.

He walked back down the stairs. Mercy didn't look up. She watched blood drip from his fingers. Stared at the shoes that Bitty had bought him in town. She could feel Jon looking down at her. Not with sadness or with pity, but with a kind of detachment she had seen in her brother, her father, her husband, her mother, herself. Her son was a McAlpine through and through.

No more so than when he struck a match and tossed it into the cottage.

The whoosh brought a blast of hot air across her skin. Mercy watched Jon's blood-soaked shoes shuffle through the dirt as he walked away. He was going back to the house. Back to Bitty. Mercy wheezed in a slow breath. Her eyelids started to flutter. She felt blood gurgling inside her throat. She was overcome with the sensation of floating. Her soul was leaving her body. There was none of the expected calmness, the sense of letting go. There was only a cold darkness that worked its way from the edges, the way the lake froze in the winter.

Then there was Gabbie.

They were both hurtling through the air, but they weren't angels in heaven. They were being thrown from the car at Devil's Bend. Mercy turned to look at Gabbie's face, but only a bloody pulp remained. An eye dangling from a socket. An eruption through her skin of shattered teeth and bone. Then an intense, searing heat that threatened to engulf her.

"Help!" Mercy screamed. "Please!"

Her eyes opened. She coughed. Droplets of blood sprayed across the ground. Mercy was still on her side, still draped across the porch stairs. Smoke fouled the air. The heat from the fire was so intense that she could feel it drying the blood on her skin. Mercy forced her head to turn, to look back at what was coming. The flames were working themselves across the porch. Soon, they would chew their way to the stairs and find her body.

Mercy braced herself for more pain as she rolled onto her belly. She pulled herself off the stairs with her elbows. The broken knife inside her chest scraped into the dirt like a kickstand. She propelled herself forward, the threat of the fire spurring her to keep moving. Her feet dragged uselessly behind her. Her pants had come undone. Dirt caked into the material, pulling her jeans down around her ankles. The exertion quickly caught up with her. Mercy's vision started to swim again. She willed herself not to pass out. Delilah had said that McAlpines were hard to kill. Mercy wasn't going to live to see the sun rise over the mountains, but she could make it to the goddam lake.

As usual, even these last moments were a struggle. She kept passing out, waking up, pushing herself forward, passing out again. Her arms were shaking by the time she felt water on her face. She used the last of her strength to roll onto her back. She wanted to die looking up at the full moon. It was such a perfect circle, like a hole in the blackness. She listened to her heartbeat as it slowly pumped blood from her body. She heard the soft cupping of water around her ears.

Mercy knew that she was close to death, that there was nothing that was going to stop it. She didn't see her life flash before her eyes.

She saw Jon's life.

Playing in Delilah's yard with his little wooden toys. Cowering in the back of the room when Mercy showed up for her first court-appointed visitation. Being dragged from Delilah's arms by Mercy in front of the courthouse. Sitting in Mercy's lap as Fish drove them up the mountain. Hiding with Mercy when Dave was on one of his tears. Bringing Mercy books on Alaska and Montana and Hawaii so that they could get away. Watching her pack their bags again and again. Watching her unpack them because Dave had written her a poem or sent her flowers. Being handed off to Bitty while Mercy sneaked away to one of the cottages with Dave. Being abandoned with Bitty because Mercy had to go to the hospital for another broken bone, a cut that wouldn't heal, a suture that wouldn't hold.

Being constantly pushed into the arms of Mercy's mother, his grandmother, his rapist.

"Mercy …"

She heard her name like a whisper inside of her skull. She felt her head being turned, saw the world as if she was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. A face came into view. The man from cottage ten. The cop who was married to the redhead.

"Mercy McAlpine," he said, his voice faded like a siren passing down the street. He kept shaking her, forcing her not to give in. "I need you to look at me right now."

"J-Jon …" Mercy coughed out the name. She had to do this. It wasn't too late. "Tell him … tell him he h-has to … he has to g-get away from h-her …"

Will's face swam in and out of her vision. She saw him there one moment, then gone the next.

Then he screamed, "Sara! Get Jon! Hurry!"

"N-no …" Mercy felt a trembling in her bones. The pain was unbearable, but she couldn't give up now. She had one last time to get it right. "J-Jon can't … he c-can't … stay … Get away from … from …"

Will spoke, but she couldn't make sense of his words. What she knew was that she couldn't leave things with Jon like this. She had to hold on.

"L-love … love him … s-so much …"

Mercy could feel her heart slowing. Her breaths were shallow. She fought against the ease of slipping away. She needed Jon to know that he was loved. That this wasn't his fault. That he didn't have to carry this burden. That he could get out of the quicksand.

"I'm s-sorry …" She should've said this to Jon. Should've told him to his face. Now all she could do was ask this man to tell him her last words. "F-forgive … him … Forgive him …"

Will shook Mercy so hard that she felt her soul snap back into her body. He was leaning over her, his face close to hers. This cop. This detective. This one good man. She grabbed his shirt, pulling him even closer, staring so deep into his eyes that she could practically see his soul.

She had to suck in a breath before she could push out the words, telling Will, "F-forgive him."

He nodded his head. "Okay—"

That was all that Mercy needed to hear. She let go of his shirt. Her head cradled back in the water. She looked at the beautiful, perfect moon. She felt the waves pulling at her body. Washing away her sins. Washing away her life. The calmness finally came, and with it, a powerful sense of peace.

For the first time in her life, Mercy felt safe.