![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.inkslingerpr.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/SavingMercyBanner-1024x390.jpg\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
Series: Fatal Truth Series
\nGenre: Dark Romantic Thriller
\nPublication Date: April 4, 2017<\/p>\n
Buy Now<\/strong><\/p>\n Amazon<\/a> | iBooks<\/a> | Nook<\/a> | Google<\/a><\/p>\n Add to Goodreads<\/a><\/p>\n [youtube https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=FDuuI7KtiBc]<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em> The air reeked of dirty pennies and death. Days ago the bodies had been removed, but Cain Killion could still feel<\/em> the desperate energy of the dying and almost\u2014almost<\/em>\u2014hear the echoes of their screams imprinted on the bones of the house. He abhorred the sight of blood and yet here he was standing in another murder house, in front of another wall smeared, splattered, and sprayed with gore. Lift your feet when you<\/em><\/p>\n Dance around the old well,<\/em><\/p>\n Be careful or you\u2019ll tumble pell-mell.<\/em><\/p>\n Look into the dark, dark, waters<\/em><\/p>\n For the blood of your fathers.<\/em><\/p>\n Show some courage young man,<\/em><\/p>\n Find <\/em>your calling <\/em>young man.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em>He loved the song. He hated the song. But that was life, wasn\u2019t it? It was all one big paradox.<\/em> Mercy Ledger sat in the therapy circle with eleven other crazies from Ward B. The pungent funk of unwashed bodies and rotting chicken\u2014thanks to Bo Coray and his chicken fetish\u2014hung heavy in the air. The suicidal, homicidal, or just plain psychotic didn\u2019t care about trivial things like hygiene. GRATITUDE JOURNAL<\/em><\/p>\n Practice an attitude of gratitude!<\/em><\/p>\n List three things you are grateful for today!<\/em><\/p>\n Three days later\u2026<\/em> You Can Find Abbie Roads Here:<\/u><\/p>\n Website<\/a>\u00a0|\u00a0Facebook<\/a>\u00a0|\u00a0Twitter<\/a><\/p>\n Dangerously Dark Darlings Facebook Group<\/a><\/p>\n ![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.inkslingerpr.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/SMHighRespicmon-183x300.jpeg\")
\nHe\u2019s found her at last\u2026<\/em><\/strong>
\nCain Killion knows himself to be a damaged man. His only redeeming quality? The extrasensory connection to blood that he uses to catch killers. His latest case takes a macabre turn when he discovers a familiar and haunting symbol linking the crime to his horrific past\u2014and the one woman who might understand what it means.
\nOnly to lose her to a nightmare<\/em><\/strong>
\nMercy Ledger is brave, resilient, beautiful\u2014and in terrible danger. The moment Cain finds her the line between good and evil blurs and the only thing clear to them is that they belong together. Love is the antidote for blood\u2014but is their bond strong enough to overcome the madness that stalks them?
\n <\/p>\nSAVING MERCY<\/h1>\n
\nIt\u2019s a sad testament to the state of humanity that we elevate serial killers to the level of mega-celebrity. <\/em>
\n~Ellsworth Garyington, M.D, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies<\/em>
\n <\/p>\nChapter 1<\/h2>\n
\nHis heart banged against the cage of his ribs, trying to bust out and make a break for it. A bead of sweat slid in agonizing slowness down the center of his spine.
\n\u201cYou don\u2019t look so good.\u201d MacNeil Anderson stepped into his line of sight, diverting his attention away from the blood. The furrows around Mac\u2019s eyes cut deeper than normal and three days\u2019 worth of old man stubble fuzzed his cheeks, giving him a haggard and homeless appearance. Not exactly the look the FBI was going for when they promoted Mac to Senior<\/em> Special Agent.
\nCain almost smiled at his own thoughts, but laughter no longer existed in this place. Only horror could thrive here now.
\n\u201cDo I ever look good when I\u2019m about to\u2026?\u201d Yeah. There wasn\u2019t a name for what he did. To the bureaucrats with their thumbs jammed up their asses Mac called it profiling\u2014had to call it something. But it wasn\u2019t profiling. Not at all. What he had to do with the blood was something worse than profiling. So much worse.
\n\u201cThis is different.\u201d Mac reached up and put his dry palm on Cain\u2019s forehead. \u201cYou sick? Have a fever?\u201d
\nCain might be thirty years old and lived on his own since he was eighteen, but Mac had never outgrown the role of his adopted dad.
\n\u201cYou can always walk away.\u201d Mac made this offer at every kill scene.
\nAnd every time, Cain\u2019s legs twitched with the urge to run. Only determination, masochism, and the promise of sick satisfaction kept him locked in place. \u201cI\u2019m staying. I always stay.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019d stop calling you out for these cases, but I know you\u2019d just find someone else who would.\u201d Mac\u2019s words were slow and glossed with sadness.
\n\u201cNo one else has the history I have. No one else can do what I do. No one else can give you the information I can.\u201d Yeah. His profiles<\/em> were more accurate, more detailed than anything a traditional profiler could come up with. In the majority of cases his work guided law enforcement directly to their perpetrator. \u201cIt\u2019d be stupid not to call me.\u201d Not to mention he needed<\/em> to be around that dynamic duo\u2014blood and death. They stripped away his mask of normalcy leaving him naked to the one truth about himself he could never forget.
\nHe was Killer Killion\u2019s Kid\u2014Triple K<\/em>\u2014the media called him. The spawn of a killer with the genetic predisposition to be a murdering machine. One of the only ways he\u2019d found to curb the ugly urges was to force himself to attend these murder scenes. Force himself to witness the destruction.
\nHis deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret\u2014the thing he would never utter out loud because it terrified him: Sometimes he enjoyed himself.
\n\u201cSon, you don\u2019t have anything to prove. Not to me.\u201d Mac used a caring tone, but that word\u2014son<\/em>\u2014threatened to transport Cain back to his childhood. Back to his biological father using that word like a curse.
\nNot going there.
\nCain stepped around Mac and moved to look out at window. The Victorian home sat on a miniature peninsula of land that jutted out into a large pond. Such an odd place for a house. A beautiful place, breathtaking, and yet eerie in its loneliness and total isolation. Just the kind of place Cain loved.
\nHad location been a consideration for the killer? Had he finished with his bloody work then stood in this very spot staring out the window at the water?
\nCain sucked in a breath, held it for as long as his lungs would allow then blew it out slowly. \u201cI know I don\u2019t have anything to prove to you. I do this for me.\u201d He tried to make his tone firm, but it came out a little shaky. Mac the-FBI-guy would hear it, but Mac his-adopted-dad wouldn\u2019t press. Time for a change of subject. \u201cYou notice anything odd about this place?\u201d
\n\u201cIt\u2019s not the typical.\u201d Mac\u2019s words were spoken on a sigh. \u201cNot that there is a typical. This just isn\u2019t like any other location I\u2019ve been called to investigate.\u201d
\n\u201cYeah. Victorian house. In the woods. On a pond. I get why our guy would like the isolation of this place. But there\u2019s something more. It has to do with\u2026\u201d He had trouble finding to words to describe the gut-level truth inside him. \u201c\u2026 all of it. The house. The woods. The pond. The family. It\u2019s like this guy wanted the complete package.\u201d
\nMac nodded, his expression serious as a gravedigger. \u201cYou get that from the blood?\u201d
\n\u201cJust a feeling I have.\u201d It was the kind of place he\u2019d choose if he were going to plan a murder. Kind of like how salt and sweet tasted so good together\u2014this was violence and peace in one location.
\nEnough stalling. He turned away from the window and faced the room.
\nThree walls were covered in Victorian era wallpaper\u2014rich gold background, red blossoms on a vine, and fancy peacocks. Ostentatious was the word that came to mind. One wall, the longest, largest wall had been painted the same color as the paper\u2019s background. Yeah. Four walls of peacocks and posies might\u2019ve caused bleeding eyeballs.
\nFinally, he forced himself to look at the blood on the wall. Rosettes of red seeped into the wallpaper, the fat watercolor splotches almost blending in with the flowers.
\nMac cleared his throat as if gearing up for a formal speech. \u201cThe techs released the scene this morning. They worked round the clock to get everything cataloged and bagged so we could get you on this ASAP. The blood is, of course clean, I wouldn\u2019t have called you in otherwise.\u201d He pointed to the three distinct blood pools. \u201cThe family\u2014Dad, Mom, girl\u2014were found here. Killed here, too. Forensics places their time of death at\u2014\u201d\u201cMac.\u201d Cain spoke the name loud enough to smother whatever the guy had been about to say. \u201cQuiet.\u201d He needed the absence of sound to see<\/em> what happened. And he needed to do it now before he pussied out.Mac clamped his lips closed, nodded, and moved across the room\u2014out of the way.Just fucking get it over with.<\/em>Cain knelt at the altar of blood. The sweet scent of rotting biological material an abomination to his nose and yet, foul anticipation crawled underneath his skin. His mind slid sideways like it always did when around the red stuff. Back to his childhood. Back to a time when he was very much his father\u2019s son. Back to when blood covered his skin\u2014the slick, silky, warmness of it so wrong and yet so horribly soothing at the same time.He slapped his hands down into the congealed sludge. The coldness sent pleasant shock waves up his arms. He didn\u2019t want to feel pleasure, didn\u2019t want to enjoy this, but that other<\/em> part of him had terrible intentions. Helpless to stop himself, he smeared his hands around in the red like a kid playing with finger paints. Only when they were coated with the family\u2019s blood did he raise them to his face.A miniscule part of him rebelled against what he was about to do, but the rebellion was quashed before it began. He spread the blood over his forehead, his cheeks, coating his skin in the thick, sweet, goo. He painted his neck, his bare arms, then lifted his T-shirt and wiped his hands on his chest.
\nHis head fell back on his shoulders. His breath came in shallow, hyper-ventilating gulps. From a distance, he heard himself moan, only it wasn\u2019t a moan\u2014it was more like the yowling of a feral cat fighting for its life. Or getting ready to mate.
\nBlood did that to him\u2014was a pleasure and a pain. A gift and a curse.He had a complicated relationship with blood. He hated it. He loved it. Blood was a conduit, a link, a connection, between him and those who slayed souls. Blood opened a doorway, allowing him to step into the mind and body of those who found bliss in ending life. He became the killer. He saw what the killer saw. Did what the killer did. Felt what the killer felt.
\nAn incandescent light flashed behind his eyelids. Cain was gone. He was now the killer.
\nHe stood on a ladder, rolling simple white primer on the wall.<\/em>
\nA song had been locked inside his head for months and only now was it time to give voice to the words.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nA breathy sound intruded. He turned on the ladder to see the ones on the floor.<\/em>
\nThey were laid out in a neat row in the middle of the room. Each of them on their stomachs, hands bound behind their backs and tied to the shackles on their feet, mouths obliterated by duct tape. The male\u2019s wrists were hamburger, dripping blood from fighting against the metal cuffs. But none of them struggled now.<\/em>
\nTheir faces were wet from tears, or maybe sweat\u2014didn\u2019t really matter\u2014and splotchy red and pale. The child grunted.<\/em>
\n\u201cDo you want to sing along?\u201d He used a soft tone, the same as he would if he were cajoling a whipped dog. \u201cI will let you, but you must sing it properly. No mistakes.\u201d <\/em>
\nMore tears slicked the girl\u2019s face and dripped on the drop cloth underneath her. A bubble of snot blew from her nostril and hovered there waiting to pop. She shrank from him. The female seal-humped herself up and over the girl as if to hide the child beneath her body.
\nOh, well. He wouldn\u2019t allow them to destroy the pure freedom of this moment. He turned back to his task, losing himself in his song once more.
\nSave pomegranate seeds
\nas payment for the ferry man,
\nOffer red, red wine
\nas payment to the bar man.
\nCarve some red, red meat
\nas food for the hungry man.
\n
\nShow some courage young man,
\nFind your calling young man.
\n
\nAnd then, the wall was done, the completion of it sneaking up on him like a surprise party. He stepped off the ladder, moved it to the side to have an unobstructed view and then unzipped his painter\u2019s coveralls and let them slide down his body.
\nThe cool air whispered over his naked flesh like an endearment, the sensation wonderful after the confines of the material. His head fell back on his shoulders and he stood there absorbing and savoring. Everything from this moment to his finish would be carefully recorded in his memory. No matter what happened, no one could erase his memories. They were his alone\u2014safe and untouchable\u2014to be lovingly replayed until his death.
\nThe female sobbed, deep throaty sounds similar to gagging. He faced the ones on the floor and used a gentle voice. \u201cI do understand this is distressing for you, but I\u2014\u201d He dropped his tone a couple of octaves to show his seriousness. \u201c\u2014need. Complete. Silence.\u201d He took his time, meeting and holding each one of their gazes before he continued. \u201cI need to rest now.\u201d
\nOnly when they all quieted did he sit on the couch he had moved to face the wall. The material he\u2019d spread over the cushions\u2014couldn\u2019t risk leaving DNA when he left\u2014scratched against his ass and testicles, but that couldn\u2019t be helped. He laid back, stretched out, waiting for his body to relax.
\nThe blank canvas before him was a beautiful thing. All the potential in the world was right here. A picture waiting to be born.
\nHe emptied his mind of all thoughts and feelings and stared at the wall. He stared, unblinking, until his vision yellowed and then darkened into something that looked akin to an x-ray. He stared, until tears watered his cheeks and his eyes burned like hot coals in their sockets. Only then did he catch a flash of what needed to be created\u2014all he needed was a glimpse.
\nWings. He saw wings.
\nHe was about to create a masterpiece in blood.<\/em>
\nA sense of timelessness came over him as he killed and painted. Painted and killed. He lost himself in his work. Not thinking about anything, just letting his hands wield the brushes mindless of the image he produced. When the blood was nearly gone and an image had been born upon the wall he came back to himself. <\/em>
\nHe stepped away from the wall taking more and more of it in with each footstep until he stood on the other side of the room, taking in the full magnitude. <\/em>
\nThe color contrast of blood on white was as breathtaking and beautiful as a flock of cardinal against the brilliance of snow. Tears burned his eyes. His face stung, and a wild freedom he\u2019d hadn\u2019t experienced in years surged through him. He recognized the feeling. In this moment he was God. The author of destruction. And creation. <\/em>
\nThe image he\u2019d painted was so\u2026 No words existed to convey the gloriousness. Words were small and meaningless compared to this wall.<\/em>
\nOn the wall\u2014a man knelt, head bowed, hair falling forward, shielding his face from view. Even in that supplicant\u2019s position, supremacy and authority radiated from him. He looked like the strongest of warriors after a great battle\u2014exhausted, but not weak. No. Never weak. There wasn\u2019t an ounce of vulnerability in his sinew, muscle, and bone. Nor was there any delicacy to the lacework of scars marring the skin of his arms. And on his chest, directly over his heart were two criss-crossed slashes that dripped blood down his torso.<\/em>
\nSurrounding him were a magnificent pair of wings. Not the kind you\u2019d see on a sparrow or even on a chubby cupid, but the kind of wings that conveyed power and strength and utter indestructibility.<\/em>
\nHe loved the picture as he loved himself.<\/em>
\n\u00a0<\/em>
\nAn incandescent flash and Cain returned to reality, to the stench of decomposing blood smeared over his face.
\nHis brain re-categorized everything that he\u2019d just seen and done into the it-wasn\u2019t-really-me file. But that didn\u2019t take the feelings<\/em> away. The awe spreading through his chest at what he\u2019d seen. The guilt sinking into his gut because he\u2019d had no remorse.
\nA dull thumping started behind his eyes. Usually when he did his blood work, he was there for only a few seconds before skipping on to the next images and the next. Those flashes gave him a migraine every time, but seeing entire scenes like this\u2026The migraine was gonna be a badass bitch today. He had maybe ten minutes before the pain ratcheted up to the level of axe-buried-in-his-brain.
\nMac handed him a black towel\u2014black concealed the blood better than any other color.
\n\u201cYou back?\u201d Mac knelt next to him, his face full of concern, but Cain could see the concealed disgust in the way Mac\u2019s mouth turned down at the corners, like he was fighting an outright grimace.
\nThat look\u2014especially when it was aimed at him\u2014always took him back to the moment Mac found him. When Cain had been covered in snot and blood and shame. He had to give it Mac, the guy had tried to hide his horror, tried to pretend Cain was just a kid when he\u2019d never been a kid. He\u2019d been more monster than anything.
\nCain scrubbed the material over his face, his arms, wiped his hands. The blood on his body\u2014so thick and dry it smeared into<\/em> his skin\u2014would only come off after a good scouring down in a scalding shower.
\nHe turned his attention to the image on the wall. But\u2026 There was no image, instead the wall had been painted gold, perfectly coordinated with the rest of the room. Mac must\u2019ve called him back before the killer covered up his work with the paint.
\nHoly.
\nFucking.
\nChrist.
\nHis legs wobbled when he stood. His hand shook like an alcoholic in need of his jolly juice, but he pointed at the wall. \u201cHe painted a picture.\u201d His brain bashed against the backs of his eyeballs. He wanted to press his hands to his eyes to keep them from exploding out of their sockets, but his hands were smeared with the family\u2019s blood. The pain was only beginning.
\n\u201cI\u2026 I don\u2019t know what you mean.\u201d Mac\u2019s tone was full of question.
\n\u201cHe painted the wall white\u2014made a blank canvas. Then he created a portrait\u2014using the family\u2019s blood\u2014of some guy\u2014\u201d Cain closed his eyes, seeing on the back of his lids the scars lined up and down the man\u2019s arms, the slashes over his heart, just like the ones on his\u2014
\n\u201cFuck!\u201d His lids popped open, his gaze automatically sought the wall, hoping to see the actual image again, but gold paint pulsed in his vision from the thumping inside his head. He held his arms out in front of him. Underneath the thin coating of blood on his skin, a network of white slashes ran from his wrists to his shoulders.
\nThe wounds had healed decades ago, but the scars still remained. He pulled his shirt up high, and looked down at his chest stained with drying blood. A thick white criss-crossed scar rested over his heart\u2014cut into his flesh by his father. Every scar on his body\u2014placed there by his father.
\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d Mac\u2019s tone was full of question, mixed with a bit of suspicion. \u201cYou\u2019ve got to talk to me. I don\u2019t know what\u2019s going on.\u201d
\nCain\u2019s heart galloped up and down his rib cage, but he forced himself to speak slowly and quietly\u2014in deference to the axe beating against his skull. He told Mac everything he\u2019d seen and everything he remembered about the artwork in blood. \u201cIt\u2019s there. You can\u2019t see it, but it\u2019s there. I\u2019m<\/em> there. Underneath that gold paint.\u201d
\nIt took a lot to catch Mac off guard and score one for Cain\u2014he\u2019d just done it.
\nMac\u2019s mouth was slightly open, lips twitching like they were trying to form words, until a one finally spilled out. \u201cInfrared.\u201d The word came out soft and hesitant. \u201cWe might be able to see the image using infrared photography.\u201d Things went quiet for a moment while Mac stared at the perfectly painted gold wall. \u201cWhy paint you? Why not paint Killion? I mean people are obsessed with you both, but why choose you over him? And this guy made it clear it was you he painted. Without those scars we would\u2019ve thought it was Killion.\u201d
\nYes. Cain was cursed with looking too much like his father\u2014like one of the world\u2019s most horrendous killers. It usually took a double-take and some head scratching before people realized he wasn\u2019t Killer Killion.
\nMac shook his head. \u201cBut then our guy covered up what he\u2019d painted. Probably thinking we\u2019d never know the image was there.\u201d
\n\u201cHe even fucking signed it.\u201d Cain didn\u2019t realize until the words exited his mouth that he had<\/em> seen a signature.
\n\u201cHe put his name on it?\u201d
\n\u201cNot his name. A symbol.\u201d Cain wiped his hands harder on the towel then dropped it on the floor. He yanked his cell from his back pocket, and tapped on the art pad app. The white light from the phone lasered into his skull. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open and not groan out loud. He drew a Christian cross then put a hook on the bottom of it that looked like an upside down question mark \u201cYou\u2019ve seen this before. I\u2019ve seen this before.\u201d
\nHe showed the image to Mac and watched the guy\u2019s face turn pink, then tomato with recognition.
\n\u201cYeah.\u201d Cain voice was straight as a line. \u201cIt\u2019s from my father\u2019s last kill. But he didn\u2019t do this. Not unless Petesville Super Max allows weekend furloughs.\u201d
\nMac snorted. \u201cOnly way he\u2019s getting out of there is in a body bag.\u201d
\nCouldn\u2019t happen soon enough. His father was a stain on humanity. \u201cSo we know he didn\u2019t do this.\u201d
\n\u201cBut\u2026\u201d Mac\u2019s words disappeared for eight thumps of Cain\u2019s brain. \u201cThe girl\u2014Mercy Ledger\u2014made that mark on the wall as she was bleeding out from your father cutting\u2026 From her throat being cut. It didn\u2019t mean anything. It doesn\u2019t mean anything.\u201d
\n\u201cDidn\u2019t<\/em> mean anything until today. That symbol was at that scene twenty years ago and it\u2019s here now.\u201d
\nMac shook his head slowly like an old dog with neck problems. \u201cNo one ever questioned her about it. The prints on the wall were hers. Jesus\u2014we need to find Mercy Ledger.\u201d
\nMac didn\u2019t say it, but Cain knew how the man\u2019s brain worked. Mac thought Mercy must\u2019ve done this. \u201cShe didn\u2019t do this. She\u2019s been locked down in The Center of Balance and Wellness for the past few years.\u201d The words popped out his mouth before he censored them. And he really should\u2019ve censored them.
\nHe lifted his arm, pressed his eyes against a clean patch of material near his shoulder, and spoke without looking at Mac. \u201cI\u2014\u201d Yeah. Just what was he going to say? It wasn\u2019t like he could confess that he\u2019d been checking up on Mercy Ledger for the past twenty years. That would make him sound like a damned stalker. And stalking was considered the gateway drug to killing. \u201cLiz told me.\u201d Bold faced, flat-out, flaming-bright lie. And Mac would know it. The guy was trained to spot a lie at thirty paces. And yet, Cain would rather endure the cost of the lie, than spend the truth. Call him chicken shit\u2014he would own it. He kept his eyes closed against his shoulder.
\n\u201cIsn\u2019t that a violation of confidentiality or something?\u201d Mac worded it as a question, but it sounded like a statement. \u201cLiz could lose her nursing license.\u201d
\nBut Liz hadn\u2019t actually<\/em> told him. He\u2019d guessed. He\u2019d known Liz long before he\u2019d met Mac. In those dark days of childhood, his father had forced Cain to work with him at The Center. Liz had been a night nurse and the only person to ever show kindness to him. Even after his father had been caught, she remained a part of Cain\u2019s life\u2014babysitting him when Mac was away for work. She was one of the few people he considered a friend and the closest thing he\u2019d ever had to a mother. And now he\u2019d tossed her in front of the bus because he was a pussy.
\nThe quiet closed in around him. His head felt like it was about to burst off his shoulders. His stomach started rolling.
\n\u201cThe Center?\u201d Mac finally broke the quiet. \u201cThat\u2019s a horrible irony.\u201d
\nAnd it was. That Mercy Ledger had lived the past few years of her life among the same hallways his father had roamed as a janitor was beyond irony. It was downright wrong.
\n
\nIn a recent online auction, the knife Adam Killion used in the Ledger family murders sold for a record breaking 2.3 million dollars. The Son of Sam Law prohibits convicted felons from profiting from their crime, but someone just made a fortune. <\/em>
\n~J. C. Brown, www.criminalnewsinvestigations.com<\/em>
\n
\n <\/p>\nChapter Two<\/h2>\n
\nDr. Payne wore his usual attire\u2014three-hundred dollar shirt, perfectly tailored pants, and shoes so shiny when he stepped in front of her she could see her reflection in them. He looked too GQ to be a psychiatrist in this underfunded, overpopulated, dump of a mental hospital.
\nHe handed her a sheet of paper. In what had once been bold letters, but now were more in the realm of fuzzy gray from over photocopying, it read:<\/p>\n
\nGratitude? Seriously? After two years on Ward B, there wasn\u2019t a whole lot to be thankful for.
\nDr. Payne held out the box of crayons to her. They didn\u2019t trust the residents of Ward B with pens or pencils. Guess no one had ever gotten shanked with a Crayola. \u201cWhat color are you going to choose?\u201d His words themselves were benign, but each syllable was threaded with judgment.
\nHer pulse pounded in her veins, her face got hot, her hand holding the paper began to shake.
\nThe vibe that came off of Dr. Payne was something she recognized. Ever since that long, terrible night with Killion she\u2019d been able to sense people\u2019s bad intentions as if she had an early warning system. It had to do with their energy\u2014it connected with her differently than most people. But then most people hadn\u2019t survived what she\u2019d survived.
\nHer mind\u2019s early warning system flashed her snatches of tomorrow\u2019s session with Dr. Payne. If she selected the yellow or orange crayon he would say she was trying too hard to be cheerful. If she picked red, he would accuse her of having angry or violent thoughts. If she grabbed blue or gray he\u2019d declare her depressed. If she chose black he\u2019d claim she wanted to disassociate. Whatever the color, he would make sure she was going to be wrong, forcing her to spend all of tomorrow\u2019s session with him defending tonight\u2019s color selection. And if she wasn\u2019t successful in her defense\u2014he\u2019d use that as an excuse to have more private sessions with her.
\n\u201cMercy. Take a crayon.\u201d Dr. Payne\u2019s voice sounded like a calm ocean, but underneath the surface hungry sharks swam.
\nShit. She grabbed the purple crayon.
\n\u201cI can stay after group to help you process your reluctance.\u201d His tone was full of fake helpfulness.
\n\u201cNo. I\u2019m sorry. I was just daydreaming.\u201d Great. Now she was going to have to come up with a reason why she\u2019d stared at the damned crayon box so long without choosing one. It wasn\u2019t like she could tell him the truth\u2014that she knew what he wanted and had been trying to out think him. The level of control he had over her life scared her nearly as much as Killion had all those years ago.
\nHe moved on to Bo, handing him the paper and giving him a crayon, but she still felt the burden of his gaze on her\u2014watching her, assessing her, looking for an excuse\u2014any excuse\u2014to increase her meds and decrease her ability to think.
\nShe settled her hand over the six-inch ridge of puckered skin scarring her neck. The old injury was always cold and the heat of her palm soothed something inside of her, reassuring her soul that she had already survived the worst of life and she would survive Ward B and Dr. Payne too.
\nBut she better get her hand off her neck, before he decided she needed to talk about Killion again. Dr. Payne enjoyed her tragedy too much.
\nShe moved her hand away from her throat and the scar went cold. She held the purple crayon by the fingers of both hands.
\n\u201cFor tonight\u2019s education group\u2014\u201d Dr. Payne used his Moses-parting-the-seas voice and took the empty seat next to her. He always<\/em> sat next to her. \u201c\u2014we\u2019re going to talk about happiness and some of the research being conducted in the field of positive psychology. A group of Harvard psychologists have found that happy people have a particular set of habits.\u201d
\nNone of the patients on Ward B gave two shits about happiness. They were all too damned crazy to care about such an elusive term. Now if this evening\u2019s group had been about how to score smokes, line-up conjugal visits, or get extra pudding cups\u2014most of the patients would have been taking notes.
\n\u201cI\u2019m already happy!\u201d Bo let out a high-pitch little girl giggle that sounded nine kinds of wrong coming from a three hundred pound guy. \u201cI\u2019m Bojangles! See!\u201d He framed his face with his pudgy hands and smiled an open-mouthed, deranged clown smile.
\nHe called himself Bojangles\u2014partly because of his chicken fixation and mostly because the name sounded like a clown\u2019s name and that\u2019s exactly what Bo thought he was\u2014a clown. That crazy smile and his carrot colored afro only solidified the delusion.
\n\u201cI\u2019m so happy!\u201d Bo swayed violently in his seat bumping in to her, knocking her into Dr. Payne whose arm went around her locking her against his hard body. He held her too hard and too wrong. The room fell away. Bo\u2019s shouting vanished. The only thing that existed was his horrible strength, trapping her against him and the urge\u2014the almost uncontrollable urge\u2014to scream.
\n\u201cAre you all right? If he hurt you\u2026\u201d His breath fanned across her cheek smelling of sweet tea and summer. He should be the one who smelled like rotting chicken. Her body went into rigor mortis. She couldn\u2019t move or breathe or think.
\nBo jumped to his feet and moved into the center of the circle. Dr. Payne let her go. What had felt like an eternity of being pinned against him had probably lasted only two seconds since no one seemed to notice.
\n\u201cLet\u2019s be happy together!\u201d Bo hollered at the top of his volume range and began twirling like a morbidly obese ballerina. \u201cBojangles. Bojangles. Bojangles.\u201d He sang his name at an ear throbbing volume.
\nDr. Payne didn\u2019t move, didn\u2019t blink, just watched Bo with an expression of absolute indifference on his face. That was part of how Mercy had known he was a sociopath. He never reacted normally\u2014and he didn\u2019t have the excuse of being pumped full of anti-psychotics and sedatives like the rest of the group. He never seemed threatened, no matter the situation. Probably because he was always the biggest threat in the room.
\nBo pirouetted to a stop in front of her. \u201cDance with me baby doll!\u201d He snatched her up against his flabby body and hurled them around. His rotten chicken stench, assaulted her nose, but no matter how bad he stank, she wasn\u2019t scared of him. Bo would never intentionally hurt her or anyone else. He was like a mastiff pup. He didn\u2019t understand how big he was, or how strong, or how his size could intimidate.
\n\u201cBo, I don\u2019t feel like dancing right now.\u201d She pushed against his pudgy man boobs.
\nHis bottom lip jutted out shiny with saliva, but he stopped and let her go, just like she knew he would.
\nHis chest bellowed, his lungs wheezed and whistled. Hauling around three hundred pounds would do that to a person.
\n\u201cNow why don\u2019t you sit down, catch your breath, and let Dr. Payne finish tonight\u2019s\u2014\u201d
\nBo began toppling over sideways, taking his time to fall, the way a giant tree goes down in a thick forest. She reached out to grab him, but his momentum and weight were too much. He landed\u2014knee, hip, then shoulder\u2014the sound of flesh slapping concrete punctuated by the thud of heavy bones. Where Bo had been only a second before, Dr. Payne now stood, staring at her. Not the man on the floor.
\nAnd that\u2019s where her ability to sense bad intentions fell short. Spontaneity. When someone acted without planning, her internal warning mechanism failed every time. She could never fully rely on it.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019d you do to him? He was done. He was going to sit down.\u201d The moment the words flew out her mouth she wished she could suck every syllable back inside and swallow them down whole.
\nAn unnatural silence engulfed the room. No one in the group moved, no one spoke, no one checked on Bo. They all stared at her. At her. As if she\u2019d done something wrong. And she had done something wrong. She\u2019d challenged Dr. Payne\u2014talked back to him instead of being subservient. And worst of all she\u2019d shown caring for Bo.
\nThere was a terrible pattern to her life, one she tried to deny, one she tried to tell herself wasn\u2019t real. But the undeniable truth, the thing that loomed over her ever since that night with Killion: If she cared for someone, they were bound to get hurt.
\nBut didn\u2019t anyone else care about Bo? Or that Dr. Payne had somehow caused Bo to fall? She wanted to scream at the group, at Dr. Payne, but clamped her lips firmly closed.
\nClick<\/em>. The sound was a mini explosion in Mercy\u2019s head. Her gaze shot to the panic button clipped to Dr. Payne\u2019s belt and his finger just lifting off the pad.
\nHer stomach kicked. No no no<\/em>. He wouldn\u2019t have hit the button because of her words. He wouldn\u2019t put her on Ward A just for questioning him. Or would he? On Ward A he\u2019d have supreme control over her. No interaction with anyone except for him. Just what he wanted and what she\u2019d managed to avoid for the past two years.
\nDr. Payne\u2019s eyes were black and unfeeling, his lips pinched in a promise of terrible things to come. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a syringe, uncapped it, and took a step toward her.
\nAn odd buzzing sound started in her ears, her vision narrowed until the only thing she saw was that syringe held between his perfectly manicured fingers. She couldn\u2019t let him inject her. Couldn\u2019t let him knock her so completely out that she would be unconscious and then in a sedated, vegetable state for days afterward.
\nDr. Payne jammed the needle in Bo\u2019s ass cheek. She sucked in a lungful of air\u2014she hadn\u2019t realized she\u2019d been holding her breath.
\nTwo security guards and two male nurses rushed into the room. She moved away from Bo and stumbled back to her chair, collapsing so hard on the metal seat her tailbone rang.
\n\u201cTransport him to Ward A.\u201d Dr. Payne returned to his place beside her. \u201cI\u2019ll be down to assess him in a few minutes.\u201d
\nShe wanted to cringe away from him, but forced her body to stillness and watched as each member of the security team took an arm or leg and dragged Bo out of the room\u2014he weighed too much to carry.
\n\u201cWe\u2019ll be cutting group short tonight. Everyone fill out your papers, return them to me, and then go to your rooms.\u201d
\nDr. Payne passed her a fresh sheet of paper and the pink crayon\u2014her paper and crayon had somehow disappeared in all the commotion. Using her leg for a solid surface, she scribbled the same thing on all three lines.
\nI\u2019m grateful to be alive. <\/em>
\nI\u2019m grateful to be alive. <\/em>
\nI\u2019m grateful to be alive. <\/em>
\nWithout glancing at Dr. Payne, she handed in her paper and crayon and strained to walk from the room, instead of run. \u2018Cause she wanted to run. She wanted far away from Dr. Payne and Ward B and this miserable existence where everything she did was under a microscope.
\nIn her room, she didn\u2019t bother with the overhead fluorescents, she went straight to her barred window and stared out into the night. There were no distant lights dotting the horizon, no stars twinkling in the sky. Nothing to indicate an entire world existed beyond her pane of glass. Just a void\u2014a massive, black nothingness stretching on to infinity. The emptiness\u2014the illusion of being alone\u2014soothed her.
\nHer door clicked and swung open. She clamped her teeth together and breathed a quiet huff of frustration. Privacy didn\u2019t exist on Ward B. To the staff, privacy equaled delinquency. The wavy image of a person reflected on her window. Liz\u2014the charge nurse\u2014always checked on her after she\u2019d done everyone else. She understood Mercy\u2019s need to experience the only peaceful moments of the day.
\n\u201cAll good here. I\u2019ll get in bed in a few minutes.\u201d Mercy forced lightness into her tone. If she let any irritation or tension leak into her voice, she risked Dr. Payne finding out.
\n\u201cMercy\u2014\u201d A man\u2019s voice.
\nShe startled, a jerking of muscle so violent it felt as if she\u2019d been electrocuted. She whirled from the window to face him.
\n\u201c\u2014I need to make sure Bo didn\u2019t hurt you.\u201d
\nHer mind rebelled against the message her eyeballs were sending. Dr. Payne stood in her doorway. He never entered a patient\u2019s room. And male staff were not permitted in the rooms of female patients. But here he was and here she was\u2014and this wasn\u2019t going to end well.
\nHer heart went off like a cannon.
\n\u201cI\u2019m responsible for you. You\u2019re under my care. I won\u2019t let anyone interfere.\u201d Dr. Payne wore a grin, his deep dimples giving him a look all the women\u2014staff and patients alike\u2014adored.
\n\u201cI\u2019m fine. No harm done.\u201d There was only a slight tremor in her voice. Maybe he wouldn\u2019t notice. She cleared her throat and aimed for a stronger tone. \u201cLiz knows my routine. She\u2019ll be in to do a check in a few minutes.\u201d Yeah. Remind him that someone might catch him if tried anything. \u201cShe\u2019s fine with me being awake as long as I don\u2019t bother anyone else.\u201d
\nDr. Payne took a step into the room. \u201cLiz is dealing with Bo.\u201d
\nSlowly, silently, the door began to fall shut behind him. The light from the hallway pinched off inch by inch until only darkness stood between them. The barely audible click of the latch sent a cold rush of adrenaline through her limbs.
\nHer internal warning system went off and she knew\u2014knew in the way of instincts and reflexes and urges\u2014knew with a clarity beyond understanding what he had planned for tonight. For her. The images flickered through her mind almost like memories, but they were of things to come. Him forcing her face down over her bed. Him taking what she wouldn\u2019t give. Him making it hurt. Him making her bleed. Him marking her as his.
\nFear licked down her spine and bit into her guts, but she refused to cower before him. She wouldn\u2019t be an easy victim. Not her. Never her. Never again. And if he didn\u2019t know that\u2014it just went to prove how much he sucked at his job.
\nShe would handle this. She\u2019d been through worse. She\u2019d survived<\/em> worse. This time all she needed to do was get to the hallway where the lights were on and the cameras were rolling and there was always someone at the nurse\u2019s station. Ten feet. That\u2019s all that stood between her and safety.
\nShe walked toward him. Better to be on the offensive instead of being forced to react. She put an extra sway to her hips, and prayed he\u2019d be too distracted to realize she was going for the door\u2014not him.
\nHe watched her, that dimpled predatory smile never leaving his lips. Her heart somehow exited her chest, floating up in her head and pounding in her ears. She stopped a mere foot away from him.
\nCalm. Keep calm. Breathe in slow. Exhale slow. She could freak all she wanted later. But not now. Not when it really mattered.
\nSlowly, she shifted to his side, a mere two feet from the door. No sudden movements. Not yet. Not until she knew she could grab the handle and get out into the hallway before he stopped her.
\n\u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing?\u201d His words were liquid nitrogen to her blood. She froze.
\nHe turned to face her, moving further into her space. He wasn\u2019t much taller than her, his dead eyes and taunting mouth right on the level of hers\u2014only inches away.
\nDo something. Do anything. Don\u2019t let him touch you. Her mind screamed the words to be heard over her heart thundering in her ears.
\nWith every ounce of force she possessed, she rammed her knee into his knobby knockers.
\nHe didn\u2019t make a sound. He didn\u2019t move. Didn\u2019t react.
\nHad she missed?
\nHe struck out with his fist so fast she didn\u2019t have a chance to flinch, block, or move. The impact sent a shockwave of agony through her face, the sensation so intense she couldn\u2019t feel the epicenter. She stumbled backwards, lost her footing, and landed on her ass. The impact vibrated through every bone in her body like a plucked violin string.
\nDr. Payne bent double, cupping his pulverized parts. He shuffle-walked the one step to her, drew back his foot and slammed it into her ribs. Air whoofed out of her. She collapsed back, rolling and writhing to escape the fire in her side.
\nHow long she laid there, she didn\u2019t know. But suddenly, Dr. Payne\u2019s face was in her line of sight and his intentions were in her head. Her mind flashed through images of the stark walls of Ward A, of herself drugged beyond awareness, of Dr. Payne amusing himself with her mind and body.
\nShe tried to move toward the door, but her body wasn\u2019t able to comply. She was lost in an inferno of pain.
\nDr. Payne ruffled his hands through his hair, making it messy. He pulled at his perfectly tucked in shirt making it sloppy, then knelt down next to her.
\nShe scooted away from him, but he grabbed her hand, forced her fingers open, gripping her middle finger in his fist. Was this some new form of torture? He yanked her finger to his face, jammed the nail against his cheek, then scraped it down over his skin, leaving a red trough of blood. He slammed her hand against the floor, grinding and mashing it in with his own. But she had reached a familiar place. A numb place. A place where physical pain no longer hurt her. He could slit her throat like Killion had and she wouldn\u2019t feel it.
\nHe stood and hit the panic button, then pulled another syringe from his pocket.
\n\u201cYou were the reason Bo acted out tonight. You stormed off from group without completing your assignment. I came here to check on you. You attacked me. You called me Killion. You\u2019ve had a break from reality.\u201d
\nThe whimpers and whines of a wounded animal filled the room. The sound came from her and no matter how hard she tried to shush herself\u2014something deep inside had broken and wouldn\u2019t be soothed.
\nHe raised the syringe over his head and slammed it down with all the force of a large hunting knife, stabbing her in the thigh. She watched as the clear fluid emptied into her body.
\n\u201cI think it\u2019s time we stepped up your treatment. ECT should help. I\u2019ll plug you in a couple times. See how you behave towards me then.\u201d
\nA wave crashed over her, but it wasn\u2019t a wave, it was her body. No, it wasn\u2019t her body moving, it was the drug hitting her system, pounding its way to her mind. The world went gray. She fought to stay on the surface, to not let the sedative pull her under, but the world went dark and she drowned under the drug\u2019s effect.
\n
\n
\nWhat does it say about us that our primary sources of entertainment are shows and movies that glamourize violence, rape, and murder? <\/em>
\n~Ellis Worth, M.D, Journal of Human and Philosophical Studies<\/em>
\n
\n <\/p>\nChapter Three<\/h2>\n
\nThe moon beamed pearlescent rays across the sky. But none of the beauty touched the expansive lawn around The Center. The grounds were tarnished with a hopelessness that could never be polished away. How could anyone get better when the environment itself sucked at your soul?
\nCain hated the place. Had hated it from that first night his father brought him to work on the night shift. Cain had been just five years old and forced to split the duties\u2014emptying the garbage, mopping floors, cleaning toilets, scrubbing vomit and feces off the walls on Ward A. By far not the worst of his childhood memories.
\nFrom the dense woods surrounding the building a coyote yipped and howled, the sound a wild combination of mournful exuberance.
\nHe pulled his cell from his pocket and hit the screen. 3:35 a.m. Liz was five minutes late. That didn\u2019t bode well for Liz or him or Mercy. Or their clandestine meeting.
\nHe had only two questions for Mercy. Did she remember drawing the symbol on the wall all those years ago? And what did it mean to her? Since Dr. God Complex refused to let Mac meet with her because it might jeopardize<\/em> her treatment, Cain decided to use the back door\u2014literally, he stood at The Institute\u2019s back door\u2014to get answers. There had to be a goddamned reason a picture of him\u2014in blood\u2014was signed with the same symbol Mercy had drawn as she was bleeding out from the wound caused by his father. He just needed to figure out that reason.
\nHis neck itched and his body twitched. He shifted from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. Christ. He felt like an ADHD kid hopped up on sugar, trying to rein in a surplus of energy. Only it wasn\u2019t energy pumping through him. It was anger. Rage. Fury. That\u2019s what this place did to him. Made him into the sullen boy he\u2019d once been who dreamed of wrath and revenge.
\n\u201cMercy.\u201d He whispered her name to the moon and some of the anger evaporated. \u201cMercy. Mercy. Mercy.\u201d He used the word as a mantra, reveling in the taste of those vowels and consonants inside his mouth. Just saying her name calmed him.
\nFrom inside the building, a rusty bolt scraped and banged, loud as a cherry bomb. The door swung inward, the squeal of old hinges shrieking through the night. In the woods, the coyote howled as if claiming its territory against the odd sounding intruder.
\nLiz backed out the door, pulling a wheelchair. Twenty-five years ago, when he\u2019d first met her here at The Institute she\u2019d looked like a mom\u2014a smile on her face, encouraging words on her lips, and a stout don\u2019t-break-the-rules attitude. Now she looked the grandma version with her gray hair and pleasant plumpness.
\n\u201cGetting her out here was easier than I expected.\u201d Liz didn\u2019t exactly whisper, but didn\u2019t speak at normal volume. \u201cWard A doesn\u2019t have cameras since everyone is locked down. Thank the angels the night shift are notorious slackers\u2014we didn\u2019t run into anyone.\u201d Liz turned the wheelchair to face him.
\nThe woman in the chair slumped in the corner of the seat, head hanging as if it were too heavy to lift. Her hair dangled in limp, stringy hanks that reminded him of blond worms.
\n\u201cThis isn\u2019t my Mercy.\u201d Shit. The my<\/em> had just slipped out. He didn\u2019t look at Liz\u2014didn\u2019t want confirmation that she\u2019d heard the slip.
\nHis Mercy had always been strong. Even at ten years old, throat wrapped in a fat wad of bandages, she\u2019d seemed oddly poised and imperturbable during all the media interviews. She had survived something worse than what he had endured and yet retained her strength. She\u2019d inspired him, intrigued him and tied herself to him without ever knowing.
\nAnd she\u2019d always been pretty. All strawberry blond hair and turquoise eyes and features that he\u2019d just wanted to stare at because it made him feel all warm and nice on the inside. He\u2019d never gotten close enough to smell her, but he imagined her scent to be a cross between fresh baked cookies and sunshine\u2014not body odor and vomit like this woman.
\n\u201cIt is her. See what he\u2019s done to her?\u201d Liz\u2019s voice snapped like a whip.
\n\u201cWho?\u201d Cain asked the question to Liz, but his gaze remained locked on Mercy. She hadn\u2019t moved, hadn\u2019t spoken, didn\u2019t even seem alive.
\n\u201cDr. Payne. He\u2019s had a sick fascination with her from the first. Probably because she was the only person on Ward B who didn\u2019t deserve to be there. He\u2019s been pretty harmless until three days ago, when he moved her to Ward A.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy the fuck is she even here if she\u2019s not\u2014?\u201d He\u2019d assumed her past\u2014what his father had done to her and her family\u2014had finally caught up with her. He knelt in front of her wheelchair.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t you curse at me boy.\u201d Liz\u2019s tone was all angry mom, making him feel like a bad kid. \u201cHer official record says Undifferentiated Schizophrenia and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But I\u2019ve seen psychotic\u2014she\u2019s not psychotic and never has been.\u201d
\nHe\u2019d never spoken to Mercy before, never been this close to her, never dared to. He\u2019d been a wuss\u2014too damned scared of her reaction to approach her. She had every right to hate him. It was his father that killed her entire family, his father that slit her throat, and his father\u2019s blood that ran in his veins.
\nHe touched her hair, feeling the damp stickiness of it on his fingers, and smoothed it back over her shoulder. Moonlight gave him more than enough illumination to see. Mercy\u2019s eyes were half open and half rolled up in her head. A dark shadow marred the side of her face, spreading up and around her eye. His insides went arctic. \u201cWho hit her?\u201d The words exploded, loud and angry and conspicuous into the night. All the rage he\u2019d suppressed came surging back into his body, tensing his muscles, and nestling in his bones.
\n\u201cDr. Payne claims<\/em> she was hallucinating and thought he was Killion.\u201d
\nCain flinched as violently as if Liz had struck him. It was a reflex he couldn\u2019t subdue even after all these years. Hearing his father\u2019s name still had that effect on him.
\n\u201cI don\u2019t buy it. The good doctor claims<\/em> he was in the process of subduing her when she fell and hit her face. And her ribs. Seems bit odd to me that the bruise where he injected her with the sedative is the exact size of man\u2019s fist around the needle mark.\u201d
\nCain sucked in a slow breath, to calm the anger revving through his muscles. He felt like yelling at Liz for everything that had been done to Mercy, but the rational part of him knew it wasn\u2019t her fault. He metered and measured his voice to force it to sound calm. \u201cYou reported him, right?\u201d
\n\u201cThere\u2019s no point. It\u2019s his word against who? Mercy\u2019s? My speculation?\u201d Liz\u2019s tone contained the anger that Cain had been trying to control. She was as pissed off about this as he was.
\n\u201cDr. Payne claims<\/em> she\u2019s been unresponsive to meds so now he\u2019s shocked her twice in two days and still has her on enough meds to sedate an angry, bull elephant. But you won\u2019t find any of that on her official record. If it ain\u2019t recorded, it didn\u2019t happen.\u201d Liz\u2019s lips pinched so tight the tiny wrinkles around them turned into chasms. \u201cAt this stage the damage isn\u2019t permanent. Only short term memory loss. But the longer she\u2019s with him\u2026I\u2019m not risking my job so you can talk to her\u2014she\u2019s unable to talk. I\u2019m risking it so you can save her life. You have to take her away from here before he destroys her.\u201d
\nLiz\u2019s words fell into his brain one by one, each lining up until the meaning finally hit him. He jerked back from Mercy and stood. \u201cNo way. You know I can\u2019t.\u201d
\n\u201cYou will.\u201d
\n\u201cI just wanted to ask her a question. Maybe two. That\u2019s all. I can\u2019t take her. Be responsible for her.\u201d He was going to hit Liz with his best shot. \u201cShe wouldn\u2019t want me to take her. I look too much like him<\/em>.\u201d Cain backed a few steps away from Liz and Mercy.
\n\u201cCain\u2014\u201d Liz had that take-no-attitude tone. \u201c\u2014if you don\u2019t take her, Dr. Payne is either going to turn her into a vegetable or kill her. Do you want her emotional or physical death on your hands? Because it will be if you walk away.\u201d
\nHis heart jerked. Liz\u2019s words were a bulls-eye straight through everything he feared most\u2014being responsible for someone\u2019s death. And Liz fucking knew it. In that moment, for the first time in his life\u2014he hated her a little for using his fear against him. \u201cI never thought you would stoop so damned low.\u201d
\nShe gave the wheelchair a shove toward him. \u201cI can tolerate your anger, even your hatred, but I can\u2019t endure sitting back and watching Dr. Payne kill her a little more each day. If I take her, they\u2019ll just find her and put her back in here. Her best chance is with you. No one would ever think to look for her with you.\u201d
\nCain opened his mouth to say something, to argue the point, but his brain went devoid of thought. Liz slowly turned and walked back into The Institute. She shut and locked the door behind her. Only when she was gone did Cain find the words.
\n\u201cHoly fucking Christ!\u201d
\nHe was going to kidnap Mercy Ledger.
\n <\/p>\nAbout Abbie Roads<\/h1>\n
![\"\"](\"http:\/\/www.inkslingerpr.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/AbbieRoads-225x300.jpg\")
\nAbbie Roads is a mental health counselor known for her blunt, honest style of therapy. By night she writes dark, emotional novels always giving her characters the happy ending she wishes for all her clients. SAVING MERCY is the first book in her new Fatal Truth Series of dark, gritty, romantic suspense with a psychological twist.<\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\nGiveaway<\/h1>\n