The threats she’d heard a thousand times from her teachers in the community spun in her mind like a tornado, giving her a rush of energy. Get away. She had to get away.
She pushed herself to her hands and knees and began to crawl away from the lights. Toward the grass. Toward the lockets Brother DJ had buried.
She hated her locket. But she needed it. Felt . . . wrong without it. She hated that she needed it.
Mama. Her mother’s locket was there, too.
Her mother, who was dead. Whose body was in the back of Brother DJ’s truck.
Her mother, who’d tried to save her.
The car behind her never moved. No people emerged. No one shouted a threat. No one tried to stop her. So she kept crawling.
Finally her knees touched grass and she wanted to cry. She hurt. So bad. The world began to spin, but she kept pushing her body forward.
Just a little more. A little farther. And then she saw it. The patch of earth Brother DJ had disturbed when he’d buried the lockets. She collapsed next to it and clawed at the dirt until her hand closed around the chain that Ephraim had used as a weapon against her so many times.
She dragged it from the ground, then clawed until she found a second chain. The lockets were covered with dirt, hiding the two children kneeling in prayer under an olive tree, all under the spread wings of the archangel Uriel. But Mercy didn’t need to see the engraved image. It was permanently etched in her mind. Just as were the names engraved into the backs of each locket.
Miriam. Rhoda. The names they’d been given in Eden. Miriam was so common a name, her mother had always called her Mercy for short. The past year Mercy had thought it a cruel joke, because there had been no mercy for her or her mother. But the nickname made sense now. Because my name is Mercedes.
She wasn’t Miriam. She was Mercedes. And her mother was Selena.
Except that her mother was dead.
Tears filled her eyes. Mama.
She didn’t know how long she lay on the ground, tears running down her face. But when the screech of sirens filled the air, she was too tired to move.
The police were coming and she was too tired to move.
‘Miss?’
Curled on her side, Mercy struggled to open her eyes. But she was too tired. So tired. Need to sleep.
Hands were on her, turning her to her back, and her mind screamed at her to run. But she couldn’t move. So tired. Leave me alone. Need to sleep.
‘Shit,’ a man said. ‘She’s been shot. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. Another midcalf.’
‘Pulse is thready,’ a woman said. ‘BP falling. Let’s get her loaded.’ A hand stroked her face. ‘It’ll be okay, honey. We’re going to help you.’
Mercy wanted to believe her. Wanted it so badly. But people didn’t help you out here. They lied and got you to lower your guard. Then they hurt you.
But Ephraim hurt you. Brother DJ hurt you, too. And they were inside. They were community. They were supposed to have taken care of her.
Whatever these people did to her, it couldn’t be worse than what her own husband had done.
And if they killed her?
She almost hoped they would. It would be a relief.
One
Sacramento, California
Saturday, 15 April, 4.45 P.M.
I’m back. Oh God, I’m back. Mercy Callahan inhaled deeply, hoping yoga breathing would calm her racing heart. Why did I think this was a good idea? This is a terrible idea. I’m just going to make things even worse.
‘Mercy, did you sleep at all on the flight?’
Mercy startled at the voice in her ear, glancing at her best friend as they emerged from the Jetway into the terminal, which teemed with people. Too many people. Mercy had to steel her spine against the urge to run away. To run back to New Orleans. Again.
‘No. I’m too . . .’ Anxious. Terrified. Wound tighter than a coiled spring. ‘Too everything.’
Farrah made a sympathetic noise. ‘I know, honey. But it will be okay. And if it’s not, I’m here. I won’t leave you, and if you need me to, I’ll take you home.’
Home. New Orleans truly had become home. People loved her there. People respected her there. People didn’t pity her there. Or they hadn’t until six weeks ago. There was something about having your face spread all over the front page of newspapers all over the country that kind of put a person in the public eye. When the picture was under a headline that read RESCUED FROM A SERIAL KILLER, the public eyes were filled with speculation and horror and a physical distance that Mercy rationally knew was a fear of saying the wrong thing. But it was still distance.
But she’d still been okay. Until that damn CNN interview five days ago. One of the other two survivors had talked at length about her experience, making sure to mention all the victims so that no one forgot their names. As if I could. Of course the woman being interviewed had mentioned Mercy and of course Mercy had tortured herself by watching it.
The content hadn’t been awful. It had been respectfully delivered, but seeing her own face on the TV screen, how pale she’d been, how absolutely terrified . . . Mercy hadn’t slept that night or any of the nights thereafter. It was like having a house dropped on her head. Everything changed.
And every one of her co-workers had seen the broadcast. Every single one. They didn’t have to tell her so. Mercy had seen the truth on their faces and it had rattled her to her core.
It made her feel like a stranger in the first place that had ever truly felt like home. But New Orleans was home thanks to Farrah, and that her friend was sticking close by her side was better than any gift Mercy had ever received. If Mercy did run back to New Orleans, Farrah would never blame her.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Farrah nudged her shoulder into Mercy’s. ‘One step at a time, girl. You know the drill.’
Yes, Mercy knew the drill. One whole day at a time had been too terrifying to contemplate, back when she’d first met Farrah, back when she’d been eighteen and trying so hard to make a life for herself. She’d managed a step at a time. A breath at a time. She still needed the mantra to keep her sanity, especially at night when the memories encroached like prowling wolves scenting helpless prey.
Or on flights back to Sacramento. Mercy preferred the wolves, quite honestly. This city, this state, they were frequent stars in her nightmares.
‘I know. One step at a time.’ Mercy made herself smile. ‘You showed me. You and Mama Ro.’
Farrah Romero’s mama was priceless, a woman with a warm smile who took no shit from anyone. Mercy wished her own mother had been more like Mama Ro, the wish shaming her more than words could say.