At the same time Mercy wanders back toward me, Bryce opens his lawn chair and takes a seat.
My eyes coast up to hers in a brief plea before I return to the screen. “Mercy, go, baby.”
She ignores me, slowly roaming toward me as if she were possessed. I’m about to address it when Bryce’s gaze lands on Ty—or the precise area he’s perched in. It’s like he’s looking at me through the screen.
What the fuck is he doing?
“I know you’re there,” he proclaims, his thundering tenor rising over the crashing waves and his hands up in a surrendering motion.
“Move in,” Ty commands.
Gage is crouched low, slinking toward Bryce from behind and shouting orders for him to keep his hands up.
Bryce smirks, his eyes gleaming like coal in the tangerine light. “Tell Mercy that, much like her father learned, all choices have consequences.”
The sound of her name on his lips makes me utterly murderous. Molten rage simmers in my veins, and the next three beats fall like the haunting notes of an eerie ballad.
Mercy sprints the last few steps to me, clutching her chest and panting, “He’s gonna—”
Her thought is clipped. Bryce’s foot snaps down on the bottom of the chair, a deafening boom of a thunderclap rumbles, and in a whoosh, the beach house goes up in explosive flames.
“Oh my God,” Mercy wheezes, falling to her knees as her eyes lock on to the screen and her coffee cup clatters and spills on the floor. “Emma was in there? Oh God, she was in there.”
I shut my phone off, scooping her into my lap as she sobs and keeps repeating the same sentences. Over and over.
“Emma was in there. He knew I’d tell you. He knew they were coming. Emma was in there.”
MERCY
My parents instilled in me a passion for knowledge, for in-depth analysis of my interests, for letting them swallow me until I discovered every angle there was to see. Homeschooling became a philosophy. Every situation provided an opportunity for learning. Boredom was a portal. Debating was growth. Loving was sociology.
It molded me into someone who competes with a problem, not a person. I never had to strive to be the best in the class or outscore my peers. My motivation has always been rooted in solving issues and being a better version of myself. Even in my badass attorney days, it was less about beating the opposing side and more about unveiling truth and conquering the case.
That perspective shaped the need to win into the desire to persevere. To become.
I’ve never been more appreciative of that than I am today.
It’s been thirty-nine hours since I watched Emma get murdered, devoured by the flames of a madman. I’ve spent most of that time reflecting and scrutinizing, dissecting these horridevents much like my mother taught me to study simple subjects, like snakes and religions.
Through it all, I’ve had an oppressive boulder stuck in my throat.
Desperate for a break and a breath of fresh air, I saunter up to the penthouse rooftop pool. The upper level is primarily their personal recreation space. It also has a movie room, a weight room, a sauna and changing area, another family room, and a couple of the guys’ bedrooms.
As soon as I step onto the terrace, the humid breeze envelops me with the comforting fragrance of New Orleans—moss and magnolia trees, cypress and a trace of Creole.
The blanket of stars cocoons me like a Snuggie of blissful tomorrows, and the city lights glimmer in the distance. Despite the shadows and alleyways, the city still bustles with the culture that feeds my veins. It still feels promising.
Ryker is swimming laps. He comes up here every night, and I generally allow him to have that private retreat. It’s his escape from his responsibilities and regrets, from the kingdom he rules over. Maybe I’m holding out for a piece of that temporary sanctuary.
Both of us have been processing the past day and a half.
He’s worked and raged, watched over Remy and held me as I spiraled.
I’ve cycled through a range of emotions. I stared at the wall for hours through a fog of unrelenting tears. I rocked my precious boy, both guilt-ridden and grateful for the privilege. I berated myself for not catching on to Bryce sooner, for not getting Emma away from him, for not circumventing all of this by listening to Ryker as we stood by my car all those years ago.
I’ve struggled with survivor’s guilt and empathized with how distraught my father must have felt after my mother’s senseless death.
Mostly, I’ve been wondering what winning could possibly look like in this situation, after such catastrophic loss.
