A Merciful Death (Mercy Kilpatrick #1)(102)

“Mercy!” Truman said sharply.

She turned, adrenaline racing. “Levi’s not moving! I have to get to him!”

Truman had put his thin jacket on Rose, and she batted away his hands as he tried to check her bloody wounds. “I’m fine,” Rose insisted. He turned his attention to Craig. He pulled off his shirt and pressed it against the puddle of blood on his chest.

Mercy tore out of the room.



Craig’s eyes opened, meeting Truman’s gaze.

“Hold on,” Truman ordered. “Help’s coming.”

“Fuck you,” Craig muttered, coughing.

“Yeah, well, I love you too,” Truman said, pressing harder on the shirt he’d balled up against Craig’s wounds. It grew wet beneath his fingers.

“You were always such an ass,” Craig mumbled. “Always doin’ the goddamned right thing.” Foaming blood came out of his mouth as he coughed.

Too much blood.

Rose’s hand touched Truman’s shoulder, and she reached out for Craig with the other. Her fingertips danced across his chest, noting the blood and holes. She touched his mouth, felt the red foam, and pulled back.

“It’s not good,” she whispered.

“You’re not gonna save me this time, Truman.” Blood flowed from Craig’s mouth, and he went still.

“Craig!” Truman shook his shoulder. The man’s gaze was unfocused.

“He’s gone,” Rose said softly. “It was too much.”

Truman sat back, his soaked shirt wet in his hand, staring at the dead man.

What could I have done differently?





FORTY-ONE


Mercy fought with the locks on Ned’s front door, her fingers fumbling, and finally flung open the door and launched herself down the steps. “Levi!”

Her brother was sprawled in the dirt, blood flowing from the side of his neck.

She slid to the ground, ripped off her jacket, and pressed it on the wound. She could feel the pulse of the blood as it left his body.

Craig had hit an artery.

How can I put a tourniquet on a neck?

Levi opened his eyes. “Rose?”

Mercy leaned closer. “She’s going to be fine.” I hope.

“Good. Should have told you about Craig earlier.”

“You weren’t sure.”

“I wondered.” He held her gaze. “I missed you. I’m glad you’re back.”

She smiled at him with shaking lips. “Me too.”

“Take care of Kaylie for me. Keep her mother away.”

Ice flooded Mercy’s veins. “Don’t talk like that.” She pressed harder against his neck.

“Not Pearl,” he whispered. “Not Mom. You.”

She swallowed hard. His words were so faint. The pulsations under her fingertips grew farther apart.

Sirens sounded. County deputies.

“You’re going to be just fine,” she pleaded. He can’t leave me now. I just got him back.

“Tell her I love her.”

“Tell her yourself!”

“Kaylie,” he whispered. His eyes closed, and he took a shuddering half breath.

Mercy stared at her brother’s body, ignoring the car doors that slammed in the driveway.

This isn’t happening.





FORTY-TWO


Three days later



Mercy hated funerals.

She’d been to only two in her lifetime, but this third one would be filed in her memory forever. She watched them lower Levi’s casket and gave up trying to hold in her tears. All day she’d held them in, trying to be strong for the rest of her family, but the finality of watching her brother disappear below the earth was too much. She looked up, past the mourners and acres of trees. Familiar white mountain peaks stood against the blue sky, and the dusty dry smell of the pines soothed her.

Central Oregon was still her home; her roots here were deeper than she’d realized. The fifteen-year absence seemed to dissolve, and she drew strength from the physical beauty around her.

Rose’s grip on her hand tightened.

She was the reason Mercy had tried so hard to be stoic. Rose had suffered at the hands of her kidnapper and lost her brother, yet Rose was the one who’d shown strength. Scabs had formed over the long slashes on Rose’s face, chest, and arms. Remnants of how Craig had made her scream . . . to torment Mercy.

It’d worked. She heard Rose’s screams in her dreams every night.

The wounds were superficial. Rose might have some scarring, but every time Mercy looked at her sister, Craig Rafferty came to the forefront of her thoughts. Rose didn’t care about the scabs; she held up her head. Men stared at her injuries. Children backed away. Women teared up. Rose ignored their reactions and offered support and thanks to everyone who talked to her about Levi.

“It’s about Levi today,” she’d told Mercy. “Marks on my face don’t matter.”

At the house Mercy had seen her gently trace the marks on her cheeks, her expression blank. Then she’d touched her stomach, a look of wonder on her face.

Mercy had begged her to get the morning-after pill.

Rose refused.

“I won’t do that,” she said. “If there’s a baby, I want it.”