Chapter 5 Six Hours Before the Murder

5

The kitchen staff was doing its usual mad dash to prepare for dinner service when Mercy walked in. She darted out of the way, barely missing a stack of plates that was piled over the dishwasher's head. She caught Alejandro's eye. He gave her a quick nod that everything was okay.

Still, she asked him, "You got the message about the peanut allergy?"

He nodded again, this time with a tilt of his chin that said she should leave.

Mercy didn't take it personally. She was content to let him work. Their last cook was a handsy old coot with a bad oxy habit who'd been arrested for trafficking the week after Papa's accident. Alejandro was a young Puerto Rican chef fresh out of the Atlanta Culinary School. Mercy had offered him carte blanche over the kitchen if he could start the next day. The guests loved him. The two townie kids who worked the kitchen seemed enthralled. She just didn't know how much longer he'd be content to cook bland white-people-spicy up in the hills.

She pushed open the door to the dining room. A sudden wave of nausea sent her stomach into a spin. Mercy braced her hand against the door. Her brain kept pushing down all the stress, but her body kept reminding her that it was there. She opened her mouth to draw in a deep breath, then got back to work.

Mercy went around the table, adjusting a spoon here, a knife there. The light caught a water stain on one of the glasses. She used her shirt tail to wipe it off as she scanned the room. Two long tables bisected the space. During Papa's time, there had only been bench seating, but Mercy had splurged on proper chairs. People drank more when they could sit back. She'd also invested in speakers to play soft music and lighting that could be dimmed to set the mood, both of which Papa hated, but there wasn't much he could do about it because he couldn't work the controls.

She returned the glass, adjusted another fork, moved a candelabra to center it on the table. She silently counted place settings. Frank and Monica, Sara and Will, Landry and Gordon, Drew and Keisha. Sydney and Max, the investors, were down with the family. Chuck was by Fish so they could sulk together. Delilah had been put at the end like an afterthought, which seemed appropriate. Mercy knew that Jon wouldn't show his face. Not only because he'd probably talked to Papa about the investors by now, but because Mercy had foolishly given him the night off. Alejandro didn't do dishes and the townies liked to be off the mountain by eight-thirty at the latest. Mercy would be up until midnight cleaning and doing breakfast prep.

She looked at her watch. Cocktail service would start soon. She walked onto the deck. Another upgrade after Papa's accident. She'd had Dave enlarge the viewing platform that the boards cantilevered over the cliff. He'd had to get help with the supports, him and his buddies drinking beer while they dangled from ropes over a fifty-foot drop into the ravine. He'd finished off the project by wrapping string lights around the railings. There were bench seats and ledges for drinks and it was actually perfect if you didn't know he'd been six months late and charged her three times what he'd quoted.

Silently, Mercy let her eyes scan the bottles of liquor on the bar. Their exotic labels showed well in the early evening sunlight. Under Papa, the lodge had only offered a house wine with the taste and consistency of Smucker's. Now, they sold whiskey sours and gin and tonics for ridiculous amounts of money. Mercy had always suspected their level of guests would pay for Tito's and Macallan. What she hadn't anticipated was that the lodge could bring in almost as much from liquor sales as they could from the rack rate.

Penny, another townie, was behind the bar getting things ready. She was older than the rest of the staff, time-worn and no-nonsense. Mercy had known her for years, dating back to when Penny started cleaning rooms in high school. They had both partied their asses off during those days, then both hit sobriety the hard way. Fortunately, Penny didn't need to drink to know what tasted good. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of obscure cocktails that thrilled guests and encouraged them to order more.

Mercy asked her, "Going good?"

"It's going." Penny looked up from slicing limes when voices echoed down the trail. Then she looked at her watch and frowned.

Mercy was not surprised to see that Monica and Frank had shown up early for cocktails. At least the dentist could hold her liquor. Monica wasn't loud or obnoxious, just eerily silent. Mercy had been around her share of drunks, and the quiet ones were usually the worst. Not because they could turn nasty or unpredictable. Because they were on a mission to drink themselves to death. Frank was annoying, but Mercy didn't see that he was drink-yourself-to-death bad.

Then again, people thought the same thing about Dave.

"Welcome!" Mercy plastered on a smile when they reached the deck. "Everything good?"

Frank smiled back. "It's fantastic. We're so glad we came."

Monica had gone straight to the bar. She tapped a bottle, telling Penny, "Double, neat."

Mercy felt her mouth fill with saliva as Penny opened the bottle of WhistlePig Estate Oak. She told herself the sudden longing was because her throat still felt raw from where Dave had strangled her. A little sip of rye would soothe the pain. Which was exactly what she'd told herself the last time she'd slipped, only that was with corn mash.

Monica scooped up the glass and pounded down half the contents. Mercy couldn't begin to know what kind of high-flying life you needed to live in order to get drunk at $20 a pour. After the second glass, you couldn't taste it anyway.

The crunch of gravel under Papa's chair announced his arrival. Bitty was pushing him with her usual scowl on her face. A man and woman walked on either side of the chair. They had to be the investors. Both were probably in their late fifties, but were rich enough to be Atlanta Forties. Max was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. The cut of both made him look like a million bucks. Sydney was wearing the same, but where he had on HOKAs, she was sporting a well-worn pair of leather riding boots. Her bleached blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail on top of her head. She had cheeks as sharp as glass. Her shoulders were back. Her breasts were up. Her chin was lifted.

Mercy pegged her for a true horsewoman. You didn't get that posture from slumping around the shopping mall. The woman probably had a stable full of warmbloods and a full-time trainer on her estate in Buckhead. If you were paying somebody ten grand a month to teach a bunch of $200,000 ponies how to do-si-do, twelve million bucks for a second or third home was not going to worry you.

Bitty tried to catch Mercy's eye. Her mother's snarled face had a look of intense disapproval. Bitty was clearly still mad about the meeting. She liked things to go smoothly. She had always served as Papa's fixer, guilting them all into subservience and often into forgiveness.

Mercy couldn't handle her mother right now. She went back into the dining room. Her stomach pitched again. She let herself feel just a little bit of grief. Mercy had been half-hoping Jon would be loping behind Papa's chair. That her son would ask Mercy for her reasons, that they would talk it through, that Jon would understand he had more of a future here with the family business. That he would not outright hate her, or at least agree to disagree. But there was no Jon. Just her mother's scornful look.

Mercy was going to lose everybody before this night was over. Jon was not like Dave. His temper simmered before it exploded, and once it was out there, it took days, sometimes weeks, for him to reset to normal. Or at least a new normal, because Jon collected his grievances like trading cards.

There was a soft click. Mercy looked up. Bitty was gently closing the dining-room door. Her mother did everything with a deliberate quiet, whether it was cooking an egg or walking across the floor. She could sneak up on you like a ghost. Or Death, depending on her mood.

Her mood right now was firmly in the latter category. She told Mercy, "Papa's here with the investors. I know you've got your feelings, but you need to put on your best face."

"You mean my ugly fucking face?" Mercy saw her flinch, but she was only quoting her father. "Why should I be nice to them?"

"Because you're not gonna do all that stuff you were talking about. You're just not."

Mercy looked down at her mother. Bitty had her hands tucked into her narrow waist. Her cheeks were flushed. With her cherubic face and petite build, she could be mistaken for a theatrical child.

Mercy said, "I'm not bluffing, Mother. I'm going to ruin every single one of you if you try to push this sale through."

"You most certainly are not." Bitty impatiently stamped her foot, but even then, it was more like a shuffle. "Stop this foolishness."

Mercy was about to laugh in her face, but she thought of a question. "Do you want to sell this place?"

"Your father told you—"

"I'm asking what you want to do, Mother. I know that doesn't happen often, that you get a say." Mercy waited, but her mother didn't answer. She repeated the question, "Do you want to sell this place?"

Bitty's lips pressed into a tight line.

"This is our home." Mercy tried to appeal to a sense of fairness. "Grandaddy always said we aren't owners—we're stewards of the land. You and Papa had your time. It's not fair to make decisions for the next generation that won't affect your lives."

Bitty kept silent, but some of the anger had left her eyes.

"We've poured our lives into this place." Mercy indicated the dining hall. "I helped put the nails in these boards when I was ten. Dave built that deck people are out there drinking on. Jon's been on his knees cleaning that kitchen. Fish caught some of the food they're cooking right now. I've eaten almost every dinner of my life on this mountaintop. So has Jon. So has Fish. Do you want to take that away from us?"

"Christopher said he doesn't care."

"He said he doesn't want to get in the middle of it," Mercy corrected. "That's different from not caring. That's the opposite of not caring."

"You've devastated Jon. He wouldn't even come to supper."

Mercy's hand went to her heart. "Is he okay?"

"No, he's not," Bitty said. "Poor baby. All I could do is hold him while he cried."

Mercy's throat tightened, and the sharp, sudden pain caused by Dave's hands served to steel her spine. "I'm Jon's mother. I know what's best for him."

Bitty huffed a disingenuous laugh. She'd always tried to act more like a friend than a grandmother to Jon. "He doesn't talk to you like he talks to me. He has dreams. He wants to do things with his life."

"So did I," Mercy said. "You told me if I left, I could never come back."

"You were pregnant," Bitty said. "Fifteen years old. Do you know how embarrassing that was for me and Papa?"

"Do you know how hard it was for me?"

"Then you should've kept your legs closed," Bitty snapped. "You always push things too far, Mercy. Dave said the same thing about you. You're just going too far."

"You talked to Dave?"

"Yes, I talked to Dave. I had Jon crying on one shoulder and Dave on the other. He's torn up about all of this, Mercy. He needs that money. He owes people."

"Money won't change that," Mercy said. "He'll just end up owing different people."

"This time is different." Bitty had been reading from that same script for over a decade. "Dave wants to change. The money will give him the opportunity to do better."

Mercy felt her head shaking. Bitty had buckets of grace where Dave was concerned. There was an endless number of corners he could turn. Meanwhile, Mercy had been forced to endure a full year of monthly piss tests before her mother would let her have unsupervised time alone with Jon.

Bitty said, "Dave wants us to get a house down the hill where we can all live together."

Mercy laughed. Sneaky fucking Dave locking down Bitty and Papa's share of the sale, too. She'd give it a year before he was dipping into their retirement funds.

"He said we'd find something big, something all one level so Papa doesn't have to sleep in the dining room, with a pool for Jon so he can bring his friends over. The boy's lonely up here," Bitty said. "Dave can make a good life for us and Jon. And you, too, if you weren't so blasted stubborn."

Mercy laughed. "Why do I feel any surprise that you're taking Dave's side? I'm just as gullible as you are."

"He's still my baby, no matter how much you've twisted that around in your head. I've never treated him any different from you and Christopher."

"Except for all the constant love and affection."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself." Bitty quietly stamped her foot again. "Papa was going to tell you this tonight, but no matter what happens with the investors, you're fired."

For the second time that day, Mercy felt gut punched. "You can't fire me."

"You're going against the family," Bitty said. "Where are you gonna live? Not in my house, no ma'am."

"Mother."

"Don't you Mother me," Bitty said. "Jon will stay, but you're out of here by the end of the week."

"You're not keeping my son."

"How are you going to support him? You don't have a dime to your name." Bitty's chin tilted up in arrogance. "Let's see how far you get down the mountain looking for a job with a murder charge hanging over your head."

Mercy got in her face. "Let's see how far your bony ass gets in prison."

Bitty reared back, stunned.

"You think I don't know what you've been up to?" There was something so intensely satisfying about the show of fear in her mother's eyes. Mercy wanted more. "Try me, old woman. I can call the cops any time."

"Listen up, girl." Bitty jabbed her finger in Mercy's face. "You keep up these threats, somebody's gonna put a knife in your back."

"I think my mother just did."

"When I come for somebody, I look them in the eye." She glared at Mercy. "You have until Sunday."

Bitty turned on her heel and left through the door. The fact that she departed without making a sound was far worse than any stomping and slamming. There would be no apologies or take-backs. Her mother had meant what she'd said.

Mercy was fired. She had a week to vacate the house.

The realization hit her like a blow to the head. Mercy sank down into a chair. She felt dizzy. Her hands trembled. Her palm left a sweaty streak on the table. Could they fire her? Papa was the trustee, but most everything else came down to a vote. Mercy couldn't count on Dave. Fish would stick his head in the sand. Mercy had no bank account, no money except for the two tens in her pocket, and that was from petty cash.

"Rough day?"

Mercy didn't have to turn around to know who'd asked the question. Her aunt's voice hadn't changed in the last thirteen years. It made a cruel kind of sense that Delilah had chosen now to come out of the shadows.

Mercy asked, "What do you want, you dried up old—"

"Cunt?" Delilah sat across from her. "Maybe I've got the depth, but certainly not the warmth."

Mercy stared at her aunt. Time had done nothing to alter Papa's older sister. She still looked like exactly what she was: an old hippie who made soap in her garage. Her long gray hair was braided down to her ass. She wore a simple cotton shift that could've been made from a flour sack. Her hands were calloused and scarred from soap making. There was a deep gouge in her bicep that had healed like a piece of wadded up burlap.

Her face was still kind. That was the hard part. Mercy couldn't reconcile the Delilah she'd grown up loving with the monster she'd ended up hating. Which was basically how Mercy felt about everybody in her life right now.

Except for Jon.

Delilah said, "It's startling when you think about the valiant stories that have been passed down about this old place. As if the entire area wasn't a staging ground for genocide. Did you know that the original fish camp was built by a Confederate soldier who went AWOL after the Battle of Chickamauga?"

Mercy didn't know the AWOL part, but she knew the place was founded after the Civil War. Family history had it that the first Cecil McAlpine was a conscientious objector who'd fled up to the mountains with an escaped lady's maid.

"Forget the romantic rigamarole," Delilah said. "That whole Lost Widow story is a steaming pile of horse shit. Captain Cecil brought an enslaved woman up here with him. The idiot thought they were in love. She saw it more as kidnapping and rape. She slit his throat in the middle of the night and ran off with all the family silver. He almost died. But you know McAlpines are hard to kill."

Mercy knew that last part for sure. "Do you think telling me that my ancestors were disgusting human beings is going to shock me into selling? You know I've met my father, right?"

"Oh, I have." Delilah pointed to the rough patch of skin on her bicep. "This wasn't from a riding accident. Your father swung an ax at me when I told him that I wanted to run the lodge. I hit the ground so hard that it broke my jaw."

Mercy bit her lip to keep from reacting. She was intimately familiar with that bit of truth. She had been hiding in the old barn behind the paddock when the attack had happened. Mercy had never told anyone what she'd witnessed. Not even Dave.

"Cecil put me in the hospital for a week. Lost part of the muscle in my arm. They had to wire my jaw shut. Hartshorne didn't bother trying to take a statement. I couldn't talk for two months." Delilah's words were brutal, but her smile was soft. "Go ahead and make the joke, Mercy. I know you want to."

Mercy swallowed the lump in her throat. "What's the point of this? Are you telling me to walk away like you did, before I get hurt?"

Delilah acknowledged the truth with another smile. "It's a lot of money."

Mercy felt her stomach fill with acid again. She was so damn tired of fighting. "What do you want, Dee?"

Delilah touched the side of her own face. "I see your scar healed better than mine."

Mercy looked away. Her own scar was still an open wound. It was carved into her soul like the name that was carved into that gravestone down at the cemetery.

Gabriella.

Delilah asked, "Why do you think your father left me out of the family meeting?"

Mercy was too exhausted for puzzles. "I don't know."

"Mercy, think about the question. You were always the smartest one up here. At least after I left."

It was her lilting tone that cut into Mercy—so soothing, so familiar. They'd been close before everything went to shit. As a child, Mercy would stay with Delilah during the summers. Delilah would send her letters and postcards from her travels. She was the first person Mercy had told she was pregnant. She was the only person who was with Mercy when Jon was born. Mercy had been handcuffed to the hospital bed because she was under arrest. Delilah had helped her cradle Jon to her bare chest so that she could nurse him.

And then she had tried to take him away for ever.

Mercy said, "You tried to steal my son from me."

"I won't apologize for what happened. I was doing what I thought was best for Jon."

"Taking him away from his mother."

"You were in and out of jail, in and out of rehab, then that awful thing happened with Gabbie. They barely managed to sew your face back together. You could've just as easily ended up dead yourself."

"Dave was—"

"Worthless," Delilah finished. "Mercy-love, I have never been your enemy."

Mercy snorted out a laugh. All she had these days were enemies.

"I secreted myself in the sitting room while Cecil was conducting the family meeting." Delilah didn't have to say that the walls in the house were thin. She would've heard everything, including Mercy's threats. "My girl, you're playing a dangerous game."

"It's the only game I know how to play."

"You would really send them to jail? Humiliate them? Destroy them?"

"Look at what they're trying to do to me."

"I'll grant you that. They've never been easy on you. Bitty would choose Dave over either one of her own children."

"Are you trying to cheer me up?"

"I'm trying to talk to you like an adult."

Mercy was overwhelmed with the desire to do something childish. That was the stupid side of her, the one that would torch a bridge while she was running across it.

"Aren't you tired?" Delilah asked. "Battling all these people. People who will never give you what you need."

"What do I need?"

"Safety."

Mercy's chest went tight. She'd had enough gut punches today, but the word hit her like a sledgehammer. Safety was the one thing she had never felt. There was always the fear that Papa would explode. That Bitty would do something spiteful. That Fish would abandon her. That Dave would—shit, it wasn't even worth going through the list because Dave did everything except make her feel safe. Even Jon didn't bring her a sense of peace. Mercy was always terrified that he would turn on her like the others had. That she would lose him. That she would always be alone.

She had lived her entire life waiting for the next punch.

"Sweetheart." Without warning, Delilah reached across the table and held on to Mercy's hand. "Talk to me."

Mercy looked down at their hands. This was where Delilah had aged. Sunspots. Scars from heating lye and oils. Callouses from packing and unpacking wooden molds. Delilah was too sharp. Too clever. This wasn't quicksand Mercy was running in. It was water set to boil.

Mercy crossed her arms as she leaned back in her chair. Delilah had been back on the property less than a day and already she was making Mercy feel raw and vulnerable. "Why did Papa leave you out of the family meeting?"

"Because I told him you have my vote. Whatever you want to do, I'll support."

Mercy shook her head again. This was some kind of trick. No one ever supported her, especially Delilah. "You're the one playing games now."

"There's no game on my part, Mercy. Per the rules of the trust, I still get copies of the financials. Based on what I can see, you've kept this place going through some very hard times. On a personal level, you've managed to right yourself." Delilah shrugged. "At my age, I would much prefer to walk away with the money, but I'm not going to punish you for turning your life around. You've got my support. I'll vote against the sale."

The word support grated on her like a bed of nails. Delilah wasn't here to offer support. She always had ulterior motives. Mercy was too tired to see them now, or maybe she was just fucking exhausted by her lying, hateful family.

She said the first words that came into her head. "I don't need your fucking support."

"Is that so?" Delilah looked amused, which was even more infuriating.

"Yeah, that's so." Mercy put a hard edge on the last word. Her hand ached to smack that smirk off Delilah's face. "You can stick your support up your ass."

"I see you haven't lost that famous Mercy Temper." Delilah still looked amused. "Is this wise?"

"You wanna know what's wise? Staying out of my fucking business."

"I'm trying to help you, Mercy. Why are you like this?"

"Figure it out yourself, Dee. You're the smartest one up here."

The walk across the room felt magnificent, like the most rewarding go fuck yourself ever. Warm air embraced Mercy as she pushed open the double doors. She took in the crowd. The deck was packed with people. Chuck was huddled with Fish, who wouldn't look at her when she tried to catch his eye. Papa was at the center of a group, giving them some bullshit story about seven generations of McAlpines loving each other and the land. Jon was still nowhere to be seen. He was probably eating a frozen dinner in his room. Or thinking about all the empty promises Dave had shot out of his ass about a giant house in town with a swimming pool and one big happy family that didn't include his fucking mother.

Mercy felt a sudden unease come over her body. She grabbed on to the railing. Reality hit her like a hammer to the skull. What the hell was wrong with her, storming out of the dining hall like that? Delilah's vote would've meant that Mercy only had to peel off one more person from Papa's side. And here Mercy was, fucking herself over for a single, fleeting moment of pleasure. It was the same bad decision-making that kept her going back to Dave. How many times did she have to keep throwing herself into brick walls before she realized that she could stop fucking hurting herself?

She touched her fingers to her bruised throat. Swallowed the spit that had flooded into her mouth. Ignored the flop sweat dripping down her back. The famous Mercy Temper. More like the famous Mercy Insanity. She willed her hands to stop shaking. She had to banish the conversation from her mind. Banish Delilah. Banish Dave. Her family. None of them mattered right now. She just had to get through dinner.

Mercy was still the manager here. At least until Sunday. She checked on the guests. Monica was sitting off to the side with a glass in her hand. Frank was standing close to Sara, who was politely smiling at Papa's yarn about a distant McAlpine wrestling a bear. Keisha was showing Drew a water spot on her glass. Fucking caterers. Let them deal with hard water and stoned townies who always rolled in half an hour late.

She looked for the other guests. Her stomach flipped when she saw Landry and Gordon coming down the trail. They were the last to arrive. Their heads were bent in private conversation. The investors were looking out over the ravine, probably discussing how many timeshares they could sell. Mercy hoped someone would toss them over the railing. She did another scan, searching for Will Trent. She had missed him at first. He was off in the corner, kneeling down to pet one of the cats. He still looked dick drunk, which meant Dave was the last thing on his mind.

Mercy should be so lucky.

"Hey there Mercy Mac." Chuck rested his hand on her arm. "If I could—"

"Don't touch me!" Mercy hadn't realized she'd shouted until everyone was looking at her. She shook her head at Chuck, forcing a laugh, saying, "Sorry. Sorry. You just scared me, silly."

Chuck looked confused as Mercy rubbed his arm. She never touched him. Avoided it at all costs.

"You're really packing on the muscle there, Chuck." She asked the crowd, "Does anyone want a refill?"

Monica held up a finger. Frank pushed down her hand.

"So, anyway, the bear," Papa said. "Legend goes he ended up running a cigar store in North Carolina."

There were some polite chuckles that broke the tension. Mercy used that as cover to walk toward the bar, which was fifteen feet away but felt like fifteen hundred yards. She turned the bottles, lining up the faded labels, silently longing for the taste of any or all of them in the back of her throat.

Penny whispered, "You all right, girl?"

"Hell no," she whispered back. "Lighten the pour on that one lady. She's gonna collapse at the table."

"If I put any more water in her glass, it's gonna look like a urine sample."

Mercy glanced back at Monica. The woman's eyes were vacant. "She won't notice."

"Mercy," Papa called. "Come meet this nice couple from Atlanta."

Her skin crawled at his jovial tone. This was the Papa that everyone adored. Mercy had loved watching this version of her father when she was a kid. Then she had started wondering why he couldn't be that same cheerful, charming man to his own family.

The circle parted as she walked toward him. The investors stood on either side of his chair. Bitty was behind him. She silently touched the corner of her mouth, coaxing Mercy to smile.

Mercy did just that, plastering a fake grin on her face. "Hey, y'all. Welcome to the mountain. I hope you'uns got everythin' ya need."

Papa's nostrils flared at her hillbilly accent, but he continued the introductions. "Sydney Flynn and Max Brouwer, this is Mercy. She's been running the place while we look for someone more qualified to take over."

Mercy felt her smile falter. He hadn't even told them that she was his daughter. "That's right. My daddy took quite a tumble down the mountain. It can be mighty dangerous up here."

Sydney said, "Sometimes nature wins."

Mercy should've guessed a horse lover would have a death wish. "I'm guessin' by your boots you know your way around a stable."

Sydney sparked to life. "Do you ride?"

"Oh, lordy, not me. My grandpappy always said horses are either homicidal or suicidal." Mercy realized that every single guest had booked a horse-riding adventure. "Unless they're really broken in. We only use therapy horses. They're used to working with kids. Max, do you ride?"

"God, no. I'm a lawyer. I don't ride horses." He looked up from his phone. Papa's no Wi-Fi rule for guests apparently had exceptions. "I just write the checks for them."

Sydney gave the shrill laugh of a kept woman. "Mercy, you'll have to show me around the property. I'd love to see more of the land inside the conservation easement. We've got some aerial shots of the pastures, but I want to look at them from the ground. Stick my hands in the soil. You know how it is. The earth has to speak to you."

Mercy held her tongue as she nodded. "I think my brother has you booked for fly fishing tomorrow morning."

"Fishing," Max said. "That's more my style. You can't fall off a boat and break your neck."

"You can, actually." Fish had come out of nowhere. "When I was in college—"

"All right," Papa said. "Let's get inside for dinner, folks. It smells like the chef has prepared another one of his delicious meals."

Mercy made her jaw relax so she didn't break her teeth. Papa had done nothing but complain about Alejandro's cooking from the moment the man had stepped foot in the kitchen.

She hung back while the guests followed Papa into the dining room. She caught a sympathetic smile from Will as he took up the rear. She guessed he knew what it felt like to be publicly shit on. There was no telling what kind of hell Dave had put him through at the children's home. She was glad to see at least one person had managed to shake off his foulness.

"Merce." Fish was leaning against the railing. He looked down at his glass, spinning the dregs of soda. "What was that about?"

The shock of confronting Bitty and pissing off Delilah had worn off. Now the panic was kicking in. "They fired me. Gave me until Sunday to leave."

Fish didn't look surprised, which meant that he already knew, and judging by his silence, and the entire history of their lives together, he hadn't said a damn thing to defend her.

Mercy said, "Thanks a lot, brother."

"Maybe it's for the best. Aren't you tired of this place?"

"Are you?"

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Max says they'll keep me on."

Mercy let her eyes close for a moment. Today was just one betrayal after the other. When she opened her eyes, Fish had knelt down to pet the cat.

"It's a good way out for me, Mercy." Fish looked up at her as he scratched behind the cat's ears. "You know I've never had a head for business. They're gonna close the lodge. Turn it into a family compound. Build out space for the horses. I'm going to be the land manager. I'll finally get to use my degree."

Mercy felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. He was talking like it was already done. "So you're good with a bunch of rich people keeping all of this land for themselves? Making the creeks and streams private? Basically owning the Shallows?"

Fish shrugged, looking back at the cat. "Rich people are the only ones who use it now."

She could only think of one way to get through to him. "Please, Christopher. I need you to be strong for Jon."

"Jon's going to be fine."

"Do you really think so?" she asked. "You know for a fact how Dave gets around money. He's like a shark smelling blood in the water. He's already spun some crazy ass dream about how he's gonna buy a house for Papa and Bitty to live in. Jon, too."

Fish rubbed the cat's belly too hard and got a swat in return. He stood up, but he looked over Mercy's shoulder because he couldn't look her in the eye. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Dave loves Bitty. He'll always take care of her. Jon's always had a special connection with her, too. You know that she adores him. Papa can't hurt anybody from that chair. Living together could give them a fresh start. Dave's always wanted a family. That's why he came up here in the first place—to be somewhere he belongs."

Mercy wondered why her brother didn't think she deserved that, too. "Dave can't help himself. Look at what he's done to me. I can't even get a checking account. He'll scam them all out of their money and leave them high and dry."

"They'll be dead before that happens."

The truth felt more cold-blooded coming from her gentle brother. "What about Jon?"

"He's young," Fish said, like that made it easier. "And I need to think about myself for a change. It'd be nice to just do my job every day and not have all this family drama or the weight of the business. Plus, I can start giving back. Maybe set up a charity."

She couldn't listen to his hopey-dopey delusions anymore. "Are you forgetting what I said at the family meeting? I'm not going to let this place get stolen out from under me. You think I won't testify about what I saw at the shed today with you and Chuck? I'll have the feds come down on your ass so quick you won't even know what's happening until you're sitting in a jail cell."

"You're not going to do that." Fish looked her directly in the eye, which was the most chilling thing that had happened to her today. His gaze was unwavering, his mouth set. She had never seen her brother look so sure of anything in his life. "You told us that all your shit's already out there. That you've got nothing to lose. We both know there's something I could take away from you."

"Like what?"

"The rest of your life."