Page 31 of This is Why We Lied

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.”