Back on the front porch, he set the pail down and stared at her. There was so little left of the Mercy he had covertly watched for so many years. The woman in the rocker was frail and fragile and bruised. Nothing like the dignified, composed woman she had always appeared to be.
“Okay… So…here we go. I’m just going to take your shirt off and clean you up.” His face went hot—goddamn, he was probably blushing. Fucking blushing. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen a naked woman before. He’d seen too damned many. The hybristophiliacs—he hated using their cutesy name, Killer Killion’s Kissers—loved flashing him their boobs like he was their own personal Mardi Gras. They couldn’t have sex with an actual serial killer, so why not fuck the son that looks almost like one? Or at least they tried. Both women and men. Yeah. Not fun.
His hands shook like a junkie’s. Get a goddamned grip. He clenched his fists so tight they trembled, then released them. Much steadier now. He reached for her shirt and stopped—his gaze locked on the thick, puckered scar ringing her neck like a pink choker collar. How she survived was a miracle no doctor had been able to explain, and seeing it up close, Cain had to agree. Nothing short of magic and wonder and a bit of divine intervention had allowed her to live through that. She really was a special human being.
He began drawing her shirt up her torso. He didn’t mean to ogle, but he couldn’t help noticing—he wasn’t blind—the concave stomach, the line of ribs, the…black goddamned bruise the size of a softball. The edges were a fading rainbow of color from stormy sky to sage to sick yellow.
Liz hadn’t been bullshitting him. “Do your ribs hurt?”
“Likeasonofabitch,” Mercy murmured, her words slurred but understandable. He was surprised she was even awake enough to respond. She lay slumped exactly as he had set her and looked completely unconscious. The meds. Maybe her mind was aware, but her body wasn’t quite up to speed.
“I’ve got to pull your shirt up over your head. Can you lift your arms for me?”
This time she didn’t say anything and didn’t move. So much for her cooperation. He started with her right arm, lifting and threading it through the shirt, then did the same with her left, moving extra slow because of her ribs, and finally pulled the material over her head. She sat bare chested in front of him, and the one thing his eyes locked on wasn’t her breasts or the bruise. It was the filigreed cross scored—scarred—into the flesh over her heart.
Chapter 4
As we near the twenty-year anniversary of the Ledger murders, it is important to remember that Adam Killion has never confessed. To this day, when confronted with DNA and scientific evidence, he refuses comment. Friends and even some staff at Petesville Super Max have periodically questioned whether this man could actually commit the crimes he’s incarcerated for because he always seems like “such a nice, normal guy.”
—Lee Sheets, the Manseon Dispatch
Wood crackled and snapped from the small blaze in the fireplace. Shadows and bronze light fought each other for dominance in the small room—the shadows seemed to be winning. Cain didn’t mind one bit. The darkness concealed him, smothering the constant worry over Mercy’s reaction when she finally recognized him.
She’d been conscious, unconscious, and in some crazy in-between state, but from one moment to the next hadn’t been able to remember a danged thing—courtesy of the shock treatments. And so far, she’d been too out of it to recognize him, but the time was coming.
He settled his hand on Mercy’s forehead—an act that reminded him of Mac—and felt her temperature. For the past two days, she’d run hot with a fever, vacillating between chills and sweats as the drugs metabolized out of her system. But now, her skin felt cool and dry. The fever had broken. Finally. They were turning a corner, speeding down a one-way highway that would end either in her acceptance or her total rejection of him.
Her eyes blinked open so suddenly he yanked his hand off her head as if he’d been caught coppin’ a feel.
“How are you feeling?” He’d asked her the question a dozen times over the past days, but hadn’t always gotten an answer.
She turned her head to him, her face scrunching up, most likely from her bruised cheek. “Wow. I feel drunk and hungover at the same time.” Spoken with a clarity of tone she hadn’t possessed in previous days. “And a little bit like I’ve got the flu. But, hey, I’ve been worse.” An out-of-place cheerfulness infused her voice.
“Do you remember where you are?”
“Ward B of the Center of Balance and Wellness. The name doesn’t fit. It should be called the Center of Indifference. No one here cares—except for Liz. You know Liz?” He opened his mouth to answer, but she bulldozed over him, her words coming out in a rush. “She looks like Nurse Ratchet, but her personality is all Mary Poppins. She always lets me stay up past lights-out since it’s the only solitude to be had in the whole place. Once, she snuck a cupcake in on my birthday. Now isn’t that sweet? She—” The words were speeding out of her mouth.
Not that he was complaining. He preferred her hyped up over out of it, but she might backslide if she didn’t stay somewhat calm. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Take a breath. We’ve got all the time in the world here.” Had to be the meds or lack of meds—some strange part of the withdrawals—causing her diarrhea of the mouth.
She grabbed in one good breath, then was off again. “You know there aren’t many people to talk to in here.” She turned her voice down to a whisper. “Everyone’s crazy. I mean really crazy. Certifiable. It’s hard to carry on a rational conversation with someone who keeps talking to the demon that lives in their ankle. You ever have that happen? Where you’re talking to someone, and all of sudden they lift their foot up in front of their face and start having a conversation with it? It’s a bit off-putting, if you know what I mean.”
Her expression was full-on seriousness, and he probably shouldn’t laugh—definitely he shouldn’t—but he couldn’t help it.