Mercy
WEEKS HAVE PASSED, and I’ve managed to leave Milo alone about what he does when he leaves most nights. He still comes home smelling like smoke and alcohol or the lingering scent of perfume, but with his ring on my finger, I overcome the urge to ask him where he’s been.
To keep my mind occupied, I’ve thrown myself into researching the muti. I no longer fall back to sleep in Milo’s arms once he crawls into bed. Instead, I wait for him to sleep, then I go down to the pantry to feed my insatiable need for information.
This morning is no different.
Girl lured by her boyfriend to be murdered for muti.
In dark letters against a shining white background, multiple articles cover the story and I’ve read each one at least a dozen times. A seventeen-year-old boy murdered and mutilated his albino girlfriend because a traditional healer promised him doing so would make him wealthy.
I imagine holding the hand of the man I love as he leads me into a dark, secluded field. I wonder what she thought as other men jumped out from the darkness to throw her to the ground. What must she have been thinking when she looked up into the eyes of the boy who had told her he loved her, his hands squeezing her neck until he forced the life from her body? She probably wondered how she hadn’t seen her own death on the horizon. She most likely beat herself up for being unaware of who he truly was.
A shiver of dread skates down my back, and I curl around the device. Did he have a moment of regret as he hacked off her arms, legs, and head? When he doused what was left of her body with gasoline and lit her on fire, did he ever wonder if maybe he’d made a mistake?
Tears fall freely down my cheeks, and I tremble with fear and vulnerability. Can someone in my position ever really trust anyone? I sniff back the emotion and touch another article, reading it once again while—
The pantry door swings open. Light pierces my eyes, temporarily blinding me.
“What the fuck are you doing with that?”
Before my eyes adjust, the device is ripped from my hands. Esteban towers over me. I duck my head in my arms and cringe, waiting to feel the heavy blow of his fist. Instead, he grasps my upper arm and drags me to my feet.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
My bare feet stumble behind me as he drags me into the kitchen and shoves me into cabinets, the only thing that keeps me standing. I don’t turn around but keep my face down to the countertop, afraid to look into his eyes, and continue to apologize.
I hear Maria’s hurried Spanish from the kitchen doorway. I can’t understand what she’s saying, but it carries the same cadence of my apology. Esteban roars at her, and I wince as the sound crashes over me.
“Stop, please,” I hear myself say through my fear.
When they don’t stop, I stand and find Maria, her face pale as she braces herself in the doorway against Esteban’s violent tirade. I turn slowly to face him and see he has the tablet in his hand. His face is bright red with anger, and he lunges toward me.
I recoil, but stay facing him. “It’s my fault. She didn’t know. It’s my fault, I took it.”
“You’re a fucking liar and a thief!” He slams the thing against the tile and it shatters into a million pieces.
Something inside me dies as all the slivers of glass scatter across the floor. “Why did you do that?”
Esteban seems surprised by my question, and his eyes grow tight with tension. “Are you communicating with the cops?”
“Cops?”
“You’re a fucking snitch!” He raises his hand.
I turn to block my face when barking outside the window draws his attention. A car pulls up to the front door.
He drops his hand and scowls at Maria. “Limpia esta mierda!”
She scurries to the supply closet to pull out a broom, and he steps in close to me, so close his hips dig into my stomach and my lower back aches against the countertop. The fragile glass crunches on the tile under his booted feet.
He smells of cologne and sweat as he brings his lips to my ear. “If cops show up at my gate, I’ll make you watch him die before I throw you out into the street. Tell me you understand.”
I suck in a stuttered breath. “Yes.”
“Good. If you tell Milo about this, I’ll keep him for myself and make you disappear. Got it?”
I nod, and the movement makes me light-headed. My fingers ache on the countertop behind me as I hold myself upright. Esteban backs up, grabs a fistful of my hair, and shoves me out of the kitchen. Tears burn my eyes, and as soon as he releases me, I run up the stairs and close myself in my room. The sound of the shower from our bathroom helps me get ahold of my emotions.
“It’s okay. Milo didn’t hear.” I take a few shuttered breaths and calm my racing heart. An emptiness fills my chest that I’ve lost the ability to learn more about the muti, but a bigger fear has me sliding down the door and crashing on the floor.
He threatened to kill his own son.
My lungs squeeze, and I fight for a full breath as a sob crawls up my throat. I knew Milo’s dad wasn’t a good man, but I didn’t know he was capable of murdering his own blood. The tears come even faster, and when the shower turns off, I scurry into bed, throw the covers over my head, and pretend to sleep. Milo can’t find out about his father’s threats.
I pinch my eyes closed and will my eyes to dry.
Mikkel. The muti. Esteban.
There is so much evil in the world.
No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get away from it.
Milo
I RUN A comb through my hair and put on a quick swipe of deodorant, excited to go downstairs and find Mercy. My morning shower provided some good thinking time and I came up with an idea that would keep her busy on the estate, but I want to run it by her first.
I tighten my towel around my waist and exit the bathroom to see a Mercy-sized lump beneath the covers. Worry chips away at my mind, and I circle the bed to see she’s pulled the covers over her head and her breathing is slow and steady. She must’ve gone back to sleep. I tug back the comforter and push hair out of her face. Her cheeks are flushed. I check her forehead. She seems a little warm. I replace my hand with my lips and kiss her softly, not wanting to wake her.
Quickly, I throw on clothes and shoes and slip out of the room to go downstairs. The kitchen is empty. I check the clock on the microwave. Ten thirty in the morning—where is everyone?
I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit near the window, wondering what Esteban will have for me today. If I get some free time, I’ll run out and get what I need for Mercy so when she feels better, I can tell her all about my idea. I pull out my phone and make a list—canvases, paints, brushes, sketchbooks, pencils, and charcoal. I sip my coffee. I’ll probably have to go to Tijuana for the supplies.
My mind cranks back to the drawing of an angel on Mercy’s wall in LA. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen her flipping through some coffee table books that I’m sure Maria placed around the house to make Esteban look cultured. They’re filled with famous paintings I’ve watched Mercy run her fingers across, mimicking brush strokes.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think to do this sooner,” I whisper and continue working on my list.
At eleven fifteen, I wonder if I’m the only one on the property and decide to hunt down Maria. If Mercy is sick like I think she is, I need Maria to look after her while I’m out today.
I swing open the front door and almost flatten a guy who is walking inside, just a few feet in front of Esteban.
“Where is everyone?” I ask Esteban in Spanish.
“I gave Maria the day off,” he answers and pushes past me. “We’re having some of the crew over tonight.” He continues toward his door under the stairs, yelling over his shoulder in Spanish, “I expect you to be there.”
I open my mouth to tell him I can’t as the door slams closed. Shit. There’s no way I’ll expose Mercy to one of Esteban’s notorious house parties. I suppose it’s a good thing she’s not feeling well. That’ll keep her in our room all night. I contemplate how long it’ll take to put a lock on the door that I can engage from the outside to keep fuckers from wandering in. Niguel, who manages the property, might be able to do that for me.
There’s a saying I learned in high school about the road to hell being paved in good intentions. Those words buzz in my head like an annoying mosquito, but I swat them away and jog to Niguel’s.
AFTER RUNNING INTO town to grab some things for Mercy, I come back to find her sitting in the shade on the porch with Toro curled up to her side.
I gather my bags from the El Camino and squeeze in next to her on the loveseat, earning a series of grunts from Toro. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
She smiles, but it looks all wrong and her eyes are glassy. “I feel okay.”
“I noticed you were sleeping. Are you sick?”
She shakes her head, but her cheeks turn pink when she presses her palm to her stomach.
“Ahh . . .” I nod in understanding. “Female problems.”
She doesn’t confirm or deny, which isn’t a surprise. She’s always been very private about these things.
“I picked up some stuff for you today.” I hold up the bags.
Her expression lightens a bit as she studies my loot. “What is it?”
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll show you.” I hop up and take her hand, grateful when her smile becomes more animated and a little more genuine.
At the top of the stairs, I spot the added lock on the door. Mercy doesn’t seem to notice. I told Niguel to put it in after she woke so he wouldn’t disturb her.
I take her shoulders and sit her down on the bed. “I know you’ve been really bored here alone.” I reach into the bag and pull out a couple dozen different paints and paintbrushes, which I set on a table by the patio doors. “I have a bunch of canvases in the car. Every size you could possibly need. And an easel.”
She squints at the table but seems happy.
I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I should’ve asked her first. “Do you think you’d like to paint?”
“Yes, I would, but I’ve never painted before.” She gets up from the bed and picks up and studies each tube of paint, holding them close to her eyes.
I wait, watching as every new color she picks up seems to dissolve a little of the tension in her shoulders.
“What do I do?”
“I’ll show you.” I grab my keys from my pocket. “Let me go get the rest.”
I jog downstairs and return with an armful of canvases and a small table easel. I set it up on the table facing the ocean, then I pull one of my white button-up shirts from the closet.
“Put this on.”
She pulls her shirt off over her head to reveal her pale torso in the dimming light. Her pink bra is simple cotton, but it’s thin and I can make out the perfect shape of her nipples. I snap myself out of studying her and slip the shirt up her arms. Her hands move to do the buttons.
“Please, let me?”
Her expression warms and she nods. I take my time buttoning the shirt and brush my knuckles against the swells of her breasts, making her giggle.
“There—wait!” I run to grab one of Mercy’s hair ties from the bathroom and come up behind her, gathering her long, white hair into a bunch and securing it at the back of her neck. “Now you’re ready.”
After a quick explanation on how to use the acrylic colors and how to clean the brushes, I have her sit in front of a blank canvas.
“You can try to recreate some of the paintings in the books you like downstairs.”
Her cheeks grow pink, but she continues to inspect the canvas.
“Or you can paint what you see here.” I motion to the room, the ocean, the flowering vines that grow around our balcony. “Or what you see in here.” I kiss her forehead.
“I’m nervous.” She’s smiling. That’s a great sign.
“Take your time. There’s no wrong answer when it comes to this stuff.”
A few minutes pass before she finally picks up a brush and a blue paint tube. I sit back on the bed and fold my hands behind my head. Her strokes are tentative at first and become more confident with each passing minute.
Niguel pops his head into the room. “I have the key to the lock,” he says in Spanish, his eyes darting to Mercy then back to me with a hint of judgment in his gaze.
He has no fucking idea why I’m forced to lock her away.
I don’t thank him, and I palm the keys before closing the door, eager to go back to watching Mercy paint. I can’t make out the form of what she’s painting yet, but it doesn’t matter. She’s enjoying herself, hopefully enough that I can go downstairs for an hour or so, however long it takes to show my effort before I can get the fuck out of there.
I freshen up in the bathroom, throw on a clean shirt, and holster my nine just in case. I pull my shirt over my belt to make sure the gun is hidden from Mercy before I snag the key to the new lock and come out to find her in the same spot, painting and content.
“It’s a wave.” I come up behind her and rub her shoulders.
“You can tell?” She tilts her head, her nose scrunched up adorably with a swipe of blue paint across her cheek.
“Of course. You’re a natural.” I kiss the top of her head and linger a few seconds in order to soak her in. “Listen, I need to run downstairs for an hour, but I want you to—I think you should stay up here.”
She tilts her head back to look at me. “Why?”
I try to act casual about the fact that there’s likely already a dozen cartel pendejos and an equal amount of hookers downstairs. “A work meeting and Maria has the night off. I’d just feel better if you stayed here. I won’t be long. I’ll bring dinner when I come back.”
She seems to notice for the first time the music and commotion faintly wafting through the solid wood door. Her eyebrows pinch together. “Sounds like a party.” There’s a hint of accusation in her voice.
“Don’t look at me, Güera. I just go where I’m told, and tonight I’ve been instructed to pop in. You’ll be okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Afraid she’ll ask another question, I cover her lips with mine, tasting the sweetness of her tongue. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll see you later.” She picks up her brush and continues to work on her painting.
I close the door behind me and lock it as quietly as I can. I follow the sound of murmured voices and music until I’m standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by strangers who all look at me as though they know me. I’m respectful but not friendly and spot Esteban in a conversation with some guy who looks like a Mexican George Clooney, suit and all. Their body language would make it seem as though they were deep in business discussions if it weren’t for the woman wearing nothing but a bra, skin-tight skirt, and high heels who has her hand down Esteban’s pants.
I check the time on my phone.
Three minutes down.
Only fifty-seven minutes to go.
Mercy
THE MUSIC AND murmured voices outside my door gets louder as the sky outside my window gets darker. My brush on the canvas has gone from gentle flowing strokes to angry slashes as my nerves prick with irritation. I attempt to smooth the lines of the picture but end up setting down the brush with a frustrated growl.
Nope. That sound came from my stomach.
The clock says it’s nine forty-five. What time did Milo leave?
I stretch the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back and decide it must’ve been longer than an hour since Milo left. Now that I’m up and moving, my stomach kicks angrily to be fed. Milo told me he’d feel better if I stay in our room, but he didn’t forbid me from going down to look for him. Besides, I’m really hungry.
A woman’s squeal comes from the other side of my door, followed by a man’s laughter and heavy footsteps. My pulse races with a sense of déjà vu, maybe a memory. My palms sweat, and the need to find Milo is overpowering.
Despite the warm temperatures, I slip on one of Milo’s sweatshirts and pull the hood over my head, then I slide on my flip-flops. I grab the doorknob and pull—the door doesn’t move. I twist and pull again, this time harder. Locked.
My throat swells and my pulse rages in my ears.
I try to swallow, but my mouth is suddenly dry.
I use both hands and yank.
“No.” I twist, push, flip the locks back and forth, and still the door is stuck. “Locked inside.” My stomach rolls over on itself and I beat my fists on the door. “Milo!”
My vision blurs, and I’m dizzy as panic floods my veins. Visions flicker behind my eyes.
The room.
The walls.
The door, always locked from the outside.
I slam my palms against the door. “Milo!” I press my forehead against the wood until it hurts. “Let me out! Milo!”
My throat hurts and tears stream down my cheeks. There are voices outside the door, but they’re speaking Spanish and I can’t really hear them over my crying.
My legs give out and I slide down the door to dissolve into a pool on the floor as I’m racked with soul-crushing sobs. “Why!”
The door clicks and I scurry backward, expecting Papa to barge in with a punishing hand.
“Mercy . . .” Milo’s expression is twisted in anguish as he drops to his knees in front of me. He reaches out, and I flinch away from his touch. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Mi alma, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes move over me in a frantic search for something, and mine do the same to him as my mind tries to convince me that he’s not Papa and that I’m safe.
“Please, let me . . .” He tugs me by the sweatshirt, and I fall forward into his arms.
“You said you’d come back.”
“I know, I tried. It was impossible to get away and Esteban—”
My tears pick up in coughing sobs.
“Dammit. I fucked up. I tried. I should’ve tried harder.”
“You . . .” I suck in a stuttered breath. “Locked me in.”
“I’m so sorry. I just wanted to keep you safe.” The words come from his lips so quickly I have a hard time following, but he repeats himself over and over until I feel the tension from my body fall away. “I didn’t do it to keep you in. I did it to keep people out. I wasn’t thinking. Fuck, I wasn’t fucking thinking. Forgive me, please. I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t . . .” My lungs squeeze tighter. “Breathe . . . I can’t—”
“Shh, I’m here. I’ve got you.” His lips press to the top of my head. “I’m here. I messed up. I’ll never do it again. Please, forgive me.”
I grasp at him for comfort, hating the fact that I need him as much as I do.