Page 1 of Cold Mercy

PROLOGUE

Flashback: Sophia, 6 years old

Everyone called him the Highlander. Maybe because he’d once lived in the mountains. Possibly because nicknames are cheaper than truth. He wasn’t my father, just the man who’d been there as long as I could remember.

His accent never belonged to him. Every vowel dragged as if he were performing toughness, the way people do when they want everyone to think they’re tougher than they are. I learned to listen for that same heavy, rhythmic drag in his footsteps, a sound that echoed through the metal structure long before he reached the door.

The stairs to our apartment ran up the outside of the building, long and steep, the kind you had to take slowly after school when your backpack felt heavier than you did. Those steps were the border between the open air and whatever waited behind our door. Most days, I stopped halfway just to breathe, because once you reached the top, there was no turning back.

And even though most days with the Highlander were bad, indistinguishable from each other, one stands out. That was the day the war between him and my mother didn’t stay behind the door. It started on these goddamn stairs, where everyone in the building could see. Despite that, no one came.

I heard the thud of shoes on metal steps and looked through the window. He was dragging her by her dyed blond hair, step by step, his other hand gripping the railing as if this were nothing more than a chore. She begged him to stop. He didn’t. He just told her to shut up and pulled harder. When the door burst open, her face was the color of raw sunburn, her scalp marked with pale patches where hair used to be. He threw her in, holding the torn strands between his fingers like proof he was right.

His eyes found me, like they always did. I froze in the hallway. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I was, and that was enough. Being anywhere near him counted as a mistake, and he needed very little to justify turning on me.

He didn’t run because he had never needed to, grabbing the leash from the hook, the one for Buddy, our black-and-white rescue, who was already trembling under the chair. Milo, the younger one, tried to melt into the wall. He grabbed my ear and threw me to the ground, hitting me before I even realized it had started.

The leash cracked through the air and found my skin again and again. It didn’t matter where. Arms, legs, back. I stopped screaming a long time ago. Screaming only fed him, only made him even more irritable.

One crack, two cracks on the floor, count them till he's out the door. Three cracks, four cracks, on the wall, don't you look, or you will fall.

Instead, I made myself small. I curled up tight, hands over my ears, whispering to myself between sobs, “Don’t listen. Don’t make a sound. It’ll be over soon.”

When he was done, he loomed over me, breathing hard.

“Don't leave this room,” he snarled, pointing a finger at my face. “Do you fucking understand? You stay here.”

I nodded, too scared to speak, and crawled into the corner.

Hours passed. The sun went down, and the house grew dark. My stomach started to hurt, a sharp, twisting cramp that was louder than my fear. I waited until the TV noise in the living room got loud, then crept out.

I reached the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. There was a heel of bread left on the counter, stale and hard enough to break a tooth, but I knew better than to check the fridge. It was always empty. If I could go back now, I would have grabbed the whiskey bottle instead. That was the only thing in our house that never ran out, while food was a luxury we couldn't afford.

I reached for it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

I spun around. He was standing in the doorway, blocking the light.

“I told you not to come out!” he yelled, stepping toward me.

“I was hungry,” I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek before I could stop it.

“I don't give a shit!” he screamed, swatting the bread from my hand. “That food isn't for you! You don't earn it!”

I looked past him, searching for help. My mother was sitting at the table, a glass in her hand. For a second, our eyes met. I begged her silently. Please.

She looked at me, then away, turning her back. Her silence was louder than his shouting. It said, You deserved it.

He grabbed my ear again, dragging me, and threw me back into the room, slamming the door shut. I heard the lock click from the outside.

And as I sat in the dark, hungry and aching, I learned the lesson they were teaching me.

No one was coming. And mercy was something you had to beg for but never received.

Later, my mother would say “after.”

After he calms down. After the paycheck. After I find the right moment.