A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(62)

Nothing.

All day the air surrounding Mercy had steadily grown thicker. It was becoming more difficult for her to move, to focus, and to breathe. Everything was heavy, weighing on her shoulders, her mind, and her composure. Pieces of her were splintering off, exposing her nerves and stealing her energy.

She couldn’t leave the office. She didn’t want to go home and tell Kaylie that there was no news. She was exhausted by the thought of another night of soothing the crying teen while Mercy desperately needed her own comfort. Consoling others as she slowly crumbled inside was too much.

Throughout the long day, the bag in her lower desk drawer had been calling her. An hour after Jeff left, she’d finally given in and pulled out the bottle of wine she and Truman had purchased on their last visit to the Old Mill District. Now the bottle was half-gone, and she was no closer to wanting to go home.

She didn’t want to see Truman’s shirts in her closet or see his toothbrush and deodorant in her bathroom. His scent on the pillow next to her had disturbed her sleep every night. But she refused to remove it from her bed.

It would mean she’d given up. I’ll never give up.

Touching the screen of her phone, she stared at the background photo. It was a shot Kaylie had snapped this winter of her and Truman outdoors on a snowy day at her cabin. The two of them had been laughing and unaware Kaylie caught them. It was a carefree moment. A scene of two perfectly happy people. Like a magazine ad. But it was from Mercy’s real life. One she’d never imagined for herself.

Now her cabin was gone, and Truman was gone.

The pillars of her sanity were being ripped away piece by piece.

Is the universe testing me?

She took another long sip from her coffee cup of wine.

The not knowing was the worst. Not knowing if he was dead. Not knowing if she’d ever see him again. Not knowing anything.

When she’d been shot two months earlier, Truman had panicked at the thought that she would die in his arms.

This was worse. She had no one to touch. Nothing to see. Nothing she could attempt to control.

She felt powerless.

A few years ago, at the insistence of a coworker, she’d taken a glider ride outside of Portland. “It’s soothing and peaceful,” the woman had said. “Just you and the sky.”

Peace held a strong appeal.

The plane had towed the glider, the pilot, and Mercy into the sky and then let go. No engine.

The lack of control had terrified her. She’d felt trapped and helpless.

Like now.

A text pinged her phone. UNLOCK THE OFFICE DOOR. It was Bolton.

She shuffled her way to the front door, surprised at how unsteady she was from the wine. I haven’t eaten since noon.

Bolton stood outside the glass, a concerned expression on his face. Panic shot through her.

Truman?

Her fingers fumbled with the bolt, but she managed to open the door. “What’s happened?” Focusing on his face took more effort than she’d expected.

“Nothing’s happened. I was driving home and spotted your vehicle out front. Do you know it’s nearly ten?” He moved past her into the office and looked around. “Are you the only one here?”

“Yes.”

“You smell like you’ve been on a wine tour.”

“Only a one-bottle tour.”

“The whole bottle?”

“Of course not.” She was offended.

“How do you plan to drive home?” Tension radiated from him.

She was silent. I don’t want to go.

“You are going home tonight, right?”

“I would have gotten an Uber.”

He relaxed a degree. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Working. Searching for Truman. I can’t stop.” She turned and walked back to her office. Bolton was right behind her.

“Oh yeah?”

“He has to be out there somewhere.” She plopped down in the chair behind her desk and moved a stack of paper, attempting to convince him she had tons to do.

“Anything new?” he asked.

Mercy wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Nothing worth mentioning.” Absolutely nothing.

He sat in a chair and propped an ankle on his other knee, staring silently at her.

Truman sits the same way.

Everything cracked open, and she buried her face in her hands. Sobs emerged from the deepest section of her heart, and hot tears soaked her fingers. Wheezing shallow breaths battled with her sobs. Bolton’s hand touched her upper back, and she cried louder.

“It’s okay to fall apart. No one can constantly stand tough through what you’re dealing with. Not even you.”

Snot and tears covered her hands and she yanked a tissue out of the box on her desk, refusing to look at him. Have I done everything I can?

Kneeling beside her chair, he placed an arm across her shoulders and gently pulled her against his ribs in an awkward side hug. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She bawled for what seemed like an hour. It wouldn’t stop. Every stress and worry and fear she’d bottled up inside broke out. She’d catch her breath and it’d start all over again. Raw and fresh.

“I don’t know what to do.” Her watery words were pointless, and she blew her nose in the tissue. “I feel so useless.”

“You’re doing everything possible—we all are,” he said against her ear.