Page 148

I glance at the church building looming before us, at the stained glass windows depicting saints and martyrs, at the cross mounted high above the entrance.

“Ready?” I ask, knowing full well she isn’t.

She nods anyway, not wanting me to see the truth. I push my door open, and the rain immediately assaults me, cold drops finding their way down the collar of my shirt as I push my doorclosed. The smell of wet asphalt rises from the ground as I circle around to her side.

I open her door with a flourish that feels both gentlemanly and theatrical. The audience is gathering—I can see them now. Two figures standing beneath the overhang of the church entrance, their posture rigid even from this distance.

I can feel their eyes on me.

Mercy’s parents.

Good, let them look.

They’ll have a lot more to look at very soon.

Mercy hesitates for a fraction of a second before placing her trembling fingers in mine. Her skin is cool and damp, either from tears or nervous sweat, I can’t tell which. She steps out of the car, her legs unsteady beneath her.

“They’re watching,” she whispers, her gaze fixed on her parents.

“Let them,” I reply, squeezing her hand with a perfectly measured amount of reassurance. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

The lie tastes sweet, like communion wine on my tongue.

I shut the car door behind her and pull her forward, one arm protectively around her shoulders. She’s stiff in my arms. The parking lot stretches before us, a patchwork of aging asphalt and faded yellow lines.

Mercy’s parents don’t move from their position, forcing us to come face to face with them in order to enter the church. They’re trying to scare me off.

Don’t they know I’ve dealt with things a whole hell of a lot bigger than either of them?

“They hate me,” she murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it beneath the patter of rain.

“They don’t. They’re confused,” I tell her. “They don’t understand.”

Her fingers dig into my hand, clinging as if I’m a lifeline rather than the undertow that will drag her under. The irony doesn’t escape me. I allow myself a small smile, quickly concealed as we draw near enough for her parents to see our expressions clearly.

Mrs. Clarke’s face is a map of disapproval, lines etched deeply around her down-turned mouth and between her over plucked brows. She’s aged a decade in the week since Mercy told her what happened. Her hair, usually arranged in a neat bun, seems hastily pinned today, strands escaping to frame her face and stick up like ten horns upon her head.

Where are her crowns?

Mr. Clarke stands slightly behind his wife, his large frame somehow diminished by the circumstances. His eyes, so like Mercy’s in shape and color, fix on me with an anger that I can feel, even at a distance. His right hand rests at his side, fingers curling and uncurling as if he’s imagining them around my throat.

I hope he is.

I hope he wants me dead.

And after today, I hope he fuckin’ does something about it.

Give me a reason to draw blood, old man, and I’ll take it.

“Mercy,” Mrs. Clarke says as we approach, her voice as cold as the rain that falls around us. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all.

“Hi mom,” Mercy replies, but she doesn’t look up.

I strengthen my grip on her waist, and I make sure her parents can see me do it.

Let them see.

Let them wonder.