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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

MERCY

I can’t believe I let him do that to me—twice. I let him have me twice, even though I know what he is, a murderer and a monster and an abomination.

The boogeyman.

And yet the boogeyman lets me take a shower to wash the rest of his blood away. I stand motionless under the spray, the water steaming around me, my thoughts empty. I’m too exhausted to be confused.

He also brings a change of clothes—an oversized T-shirt, a pair of men’s boxer shorts. “Don’t have any ladies’ clothes,” he says apologetically, but that actually makes me feel better. It would be so much worse if he had women’s clothes in this house. Women’s clothes, but no women.

He’s a murderer , I think as I slip on the T-shirt and the boxers. They feel utterly strange to me after a lifetime of dressing for modesty. Decadent, almost. They aren’t even particularly revealing, and yet I feel exposed, with my bare thighs peaking below the boxers, my knees open to the cool air of his house. Ambrose glances at me when I walk into the living room after my shower, sweeping his gaze over my body, making me feel naked and beautiful all at once.

“Want something to eat?”

I should say no. I should fight. I should run. I’m not chained up. But Ambrose would certainly catch me. I’ve seen what he’s capable of, even if it feels impossible.

And even if he didn’t—where would I go? I’ve looked out the windows. We’re in the middle of nowhere.

So I just nod, smoothing my shirt down distractedly. “Yes, “ I tell him. “Yes, something to eat would be nice.”

What he fixes for lunch isn’t anything fancy: just a can of tomato soup heated up on the stove, a grilled cheese sandwich. I eat it because I’m hungry, and I feel dizzy with everything that’s happened.

And because it tastes good.

When we’re finished, Ambrose clears the dishes. I sit at the table in the dining room, listening to him clatter around in the kitchen, fighting the urge to get up and help him the way I was taught. Max snoozes at my feet, his body warm against my leg. He’s followed me everywhere since?—

Since what happened earlier.

Roxi keeps her distance, though, sitting on her haunches in the kitchen doorway, her eyes on Ambrose. He sings as he puts the dishes away, a soft, haunting melody, the lyrics in Spanish. I catch every other word—something about a witch, something about children.

When he finishes, he comes to stand in the doorway next to Roxi, wiping his hands on a towel before flinging it over his shoulder and then, to my dismay, smiling at me in a way that makes my stomach clench up.

He’s so handsome. As handsome as the devil, especially with the dark, blurry tattoos crawling over his bare shoulders.

All of Reverend Gunner’s sermons were right. Satan really is Heaven’s most beautiful angel. And now I’m in hell with him .

Even if it doesn’t feel like hell.

“You’ve got free run of the house,” Ambrose says, leaning in the doorway. “You can go out in the yard if you want, although with this heat?—”

I stare at him from across the table. “And if I run?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “You’re welcome to try. We’re fifteen miles from the closest highway. Twenty miles from the nearest gas station. There aren’t any other houses out here.” He smiles a little, and fear and lust both quiver down my spine. “Plus, I told you. I’m faster and stronger than you. I’ll hunt you down before you reach either one.”

“And kill me?” I shoot back.

“No.”

We stare at each other, neither of us speaking. The silence burns around me.

“What about clothes?” I finally say. “I can’t wear T-shirts and boxers for the rest of my life.”

“I told you—your life isn’t going to end in the next few days.”

Icy fear shoots down my spine; I hadn’t even been thinking of it in that sense. I don’t say anything, though, just wring my hands together under the table.

“We can order some things for you,” he says. “Have them delivered in the next few days.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?” I spit out the question before I can stop myself. Ambrose tilts his head.

“I thought I made it clear that I’m fond of you.”

Then he disappears back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the dining room. For a long time, I just sit there, trying to process everything that’s happened. This is the murderer who terrorized the Church of the Well. This is the man who cut off Raul’s head and threw it in the Concho River, the man who cut Burl’s throat and then crucified him against Reverend Gunner’s fence .

The man who brutalized Deacon Price because he touched me when I didn’t want it.

It does not escape my attention, even though I feel strange about it, that Ambrose didn’t brutalize me for giving in to Deacon Price. Because that’s what Reverend Gunner would have done. Well, not literally. He wouldn’t have killed me.

But he would have hit me. He would have called me a slut and a whore and reminded me that I belong to him. It wouldn’t matter that I hadn’t wanted Deacon Price, because it never mattered that I didn’t want Reverend Gunner.

But I did want Ambrose.

And Ambrose protected me.

Maybe that’s why I still—why I still want him.

how can you want him he killed Raul

I shove away from the table and stalk into the living room, my heart racing. I half-expect Ambrose to be in there, waiting for me, but he isn’t. The couch is, though. It’s still soaked with his blood.

I whirl away from it and sit down in the overstuffed recliner instead. Turn on the TV. The women aren’t allowed to watch TV on the Church of the Well compound, just as we aren’t allowed to have cell phones or learn how to drive.

I remember TV, though, from before my parents died. Hazy memories of cartoons and toy commercials. I flip through the channels, gazing at one image after another. Actors I don’t recognize. Commercials for drugs I wasn’t allowed to take. The Church of the Well compound?—

I freeze, my finger hovering over the channel button as I stare at the familiar entrance. A woman’s voice speaks over the image.

“—tragedy this month,” she’s saying. “The church’s leadership is urging anyone in the local community to come forward with information. ”

The image cuts to Reverend Gunner, and I nearly shriek, seeing his face fill up the screen. He looks straight into the camera. His eyes are dry, but that’s not a surprise. He’s never wept in his life.

“Although three of our brothers have joined their creator,” he says solemnly, “we may still be able to save the life of our sister in Christ, Mercy Gunner.”

My whole body goes rigid, hearing my name When my photograph appears on the screen, I feel myself disassociate, like I’m rising out of my body. It’s the photograph from my marriage ceremony with Reverend Gunner, me in a simple blue dress with flowers braided into my hair. I’m smiling, but only because I had to.

“You don’t look happy to be there.”

Ambrose’s voice makes me scream. I jump up in the chair and turn to find him standing behind me, smirking at the TV.

“They’re looking for me,” I snap, changing the subject so I don’t have to admit to him that he’s right. “They actually went to the press about it. To the police. Reverend Gunner doesn’t do that.”

Ambrose frowns and walks around to stand beside me just as the screen fills with a police sketch of his face.

“Police believe this man, calling himself Ambrose Echeverría, may be responsible for all three murders and the disappearance of Mercy Gunner. They ask that if you have any information, please come forward.”

I’m petrified, staring at the line drawing of the man who did, in fact, kidnap me. But it’s a new fear, and a strange one.

I’m afraid that the police will find Ambrose—that they’ll find me and take me back to the Church of the Well.

Ambrose picks up the remote and switches the TV off. The silence in the living room throbs in my ears.

“That made you afraid,” he says quietly .

I pull my knees up to my chest, staring at the black TV screen. I want to deny it because I’m supposed to be afraid of him, not Reverend Gunner. I’m supposed to want to be rescued.

Ambrose kneels down beside the chair. “Do you want to go back to the Church of the Well, Mercy?”

No. I don’t.

The realization hits me hard, as hard as Reverend Gunner’s beatings, and leaves me just as breathless. I wanted to be free of that place, and now I am. Maybe I’m not truly free here, either, but it’s?—

It’s different, somehow.

“They know who you are,” I say quietly.

Ambrose tilts his head, studying me. “They don’t, actually.” He smiles thinly. “Ambrose Echeverría’s my real name, but that’s not the name I bought this house with. Or the car parked in the garage.”

I don’t say anything.

“I didn’t let anyone take my picture while I was on the compound,” he continues. “That’s why they had to do that police sketch in the first place. And it wasn’t even that good of a likeness.” He leans close to me, close enough his breath warms my cheek. “I’m designed to hunt your kind, humanita. Which means I know how to blend in and how to hide.”

He trails his hand up my arm, and I take a shuddery breath, not wanting him to sense the relief in my chest but knowing he probably does.

“You’re a monster,” I say, thinking it will hide my true feelings.

“Never denied it,” he says. “Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?” Even though I know. It’s been searing in my thoughts this whole time .

“You don’t want to go back,” Ambrose says. “Do you?”

My skin prickles with goosebumps. And he notices. His eyes flash, his red tongue shoots out and licks his lips. He looks at me like a meal?—

And my body goes hot for it.

“Do you?” Ambrose purrs, his fingers trailing softly along my arm.

There’s no point in lying. He can sense everything I feel, and if I try to fight him, his body will stitch back together. I squeeze my shirt hem up in my fist.

“No,” I whisper, my voice jagged. “I don’t.”’

Admitting that feels like throwing up.

“You’d rather stay here than be there?”

I look over at Ambrose. His black eyes are unreadable. His fingers are still curled protectively around my wrist.

And he’s right. I would rather be here, with the devil, than back at the Church of the Well. I don’t want to be Reverend Gunner’s wife or helpmeet. But I also don’t want to be alone in the terrible, secular world.

“Why are they looking for me?” I ask. Anything to avoid answering Ambrose’s question. “Why do they care?”

Ambrose releases my wrist to brush his fingers against my cheek. “Sterling Gunner is not really a prophet of God,” he says. “God never told him he could take two wives. God never told him he could abuse his adopted fucking daughter.”

“I was just his ward,” I mutter, shaking beneath Ambrose’s touch.

“You’re dangerous,” Ambrose grabs my chin, his eyes flinty. I relent to his touch, letting him guide me to look up at him. “You can show the rot of that place. That’s why he’s looking for you.”

I tremble. That can’t possibly be true.

But it feels true .

“I won’t let him find you.” Ambrose ghosts his hand over my hair and stands up. “As long as you’re here with me, you’re safe from Sterling Gunner.”

And then he stalks out of the living room, leaving me alone with my fear and my confusion.