Page 7 of This is Why We Lied

“Where’re they from?”

“Atlanta.”

“Real Atlanta or metro Atlanta?”

“I don’t know, Dave. Atlanta-Atlanta.”

He walked toward the window. She watched him stare across the compound at the main house. She knew something had set him off, but she didn’t have it in her to ask. Mercy had put in her time with Dave. Trying to help him. Trying to heal him. Trying to love him enough. Trying to be enough. Trying, trying, trying not to drown in the quicksand of his aching need.

People thought he was Mr. Laid Back Easy-Going Life-of-the-Party Dave, but Mercy knew that he walked around with a giant ball of angst inside his chest. Dave wasn’t an addict because he was at peace. He had spent the first eleven years of his life in the foster care system. No one had bothered to look for him when he’d run away. He’d hung around the campsite until Mercy’s father had found him sleeping in one of the bachelor cottages. Then her mother had cooked him dinner, then Dave had started showing up every night, then he’d moved into the main house and the McAlpines had adopted him, which had led to a lot of nasty rumors when Mercy had gotten pregnant with Jon. It didn’t help that Dave was eighteen and Mercy had just turned fifteen when it happened.

They had never thought of each other as siblings. They were more like two idiots passing in the night. He had hated her until he’d loved her. She had loved him until she’d hated him.

“Heads-up.” Dave turned away from the window. “Fishtopher’s comin’ in hot.”

Mercy was tucking her phone into her back pocket when her brother opened the door. He was holding one of the cats, a plump ragdoll that flopped over his arms. Christopher was dressed the way he was always dressed: fishing vest, bucket hat hooked with fishing flies, cargo shorts with too many pockets, flip-flops so he could quickly pull on his waders and stand in the middle of a stream all day throwing out lines. Hence the nickname.

Dave asked, “What lured you here, Fishtopher?”

“Dunno.” Fish raised his eyebrows. “Something reeled me in.”

Mercy knew they could go on like this for hours. “Fish, did you tell Jon to get the canoes cleaned out?”

“Yep, and he told me to go fuck myself.”

“Jesus.” Mercy shot Dave a look, like he was solely responsible for Jon’s behavior. “Where is he now?”

Fish placed the cat on the porch alongside the other one. “I sent him into town to get some peaches.”

“Why?” She looked at the clock again. “We’ve got five minutes until family meeting. I’m not paying him to ass his way around town all summer. He needs to know the schedule.”

“He needs to be gone.” Fish crossed his arms the way he always did when he thought he had something important to say. “Delilah’s here.”

He could’ve said Lucifer was dancing a jig on the front porch and gotten less shock out of her. Without thinking, Mercy grabbed for Dave’s arm. Her heart was gonging against her ribcage. Twelve years had passed since she’d faced off against her aunt inside a cramped courtroom. Delilah had been trying to get permanent custody of Jon. Mercy still felt the deep wounds from the fight to get him back.

“What’s that crazy bitch doing here?” Dave demanded. “What does she want?”

“Dunno,” Fish said. “She passed right by me on the lane, then went into the house with Papa and Bitty. I found Jon and sent him off before he saw her. You’re welcome.”

Mercy couldn’t thank him. She had started to sweat. Delilah lived an hour away inside her own little bubble. Her parents had brought her up here because they were up to something. “Papa and Bitty were on the porch waiting for Delilah?”

“They’re always on the porch in the morning. How would I know if they were waiting?”

“Fish!” Mercy stamped her foot. He could tell the difference between a smallmouth and a redeye from twenty yards, but he couldn’t read people for shit. “How did they look when Delilah pulled up? Were they surprised? Did they say anything?”

“Don’t think so. Delilah got out of her car. She was holding her purse like this.”

Mercy watched him grip together his hands in front of his belly.

“Then she walked up the stairs and they all went inside.”

Dave asked, “She still dressing like Pippi Longstocking?”

“Who’s Pippi Longstocking?”

“Hush,” Mercy hissed. “Delilah didn’t say anything about Papa being in a wheelchair?”

“Nope. None of them said anything at all, now that I think about it. Strangely silent.” Fish held up his finger to indicate that he remembered another detail. “Bitty started to push Papa’s chair inside, but Delilah took over.”