Page 170 of This is Why We Lied

“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.”