“I’m going to try fine coffee grounds in my next batch of soap.” Kaylie’s comment pulled Mercy out of the past. “I think it will add a great scent and a bit of abrasiveness to the bar.”
Don’t lose the skills of the past.
In a world that collapsed, a simple skill such as soap making created a useful item for barter and cleaning.
“That sounds like a great idea,” said Mercy. “I stocked more coconut oil and oatmeal like you asked.” She smiled. “I wasn’t sure if it was for soap or baking.”
“Both.” Kaylie opened a cabinet in the tiny kitchen. “Hey. What’s this? When did you bring this up here?”
She pulled out a tiny espresso machine.
Mercy stared. It wasn’t a spendy machine. In fact, it was probably the least expensive machine on the market. But she hadn’t brought it to the cabin.
Truman.
He’d asked why she drank drip coffee at the cabin when she was addicted to her espresso Americanos back home.
An espresso machine was an indulgence; therefore it wasn’t part of her supplies.
She touched the little machine and her lips curved. She should be annoyed that he’d broken one of her rules, but her vision blurred. Truman did all sorts of things he didn’t need to. He checked her tires’ pressure when he thought one looked low. He always kept her favorite cream in his kitchen. He picked Kaylie up from school when her car wouldn’t start and got the car fixed before Mercy got off work. She’d found new books on alternative power sources and home defense on his bookshelf. Little things.
“I didn’t put it there,” Mercy said softly.
Kaylie scowled. “Then how—awww! He’s so great.” A big grin filled her face. “You need to hang on to him, Aunt Mercy.”
“It’s not practical,” Mercy muttered. “Takes special beans and sucks too much power.”
Her niece was amused. “Even on the TV show Survivor they get to pack one luxury item.”
“That’s not real life.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to use it for as long as you can. If the big day comes, you can symbolically destroy it.”
Mercy studied the little black machine.
I could never destroy it.
THIRTY-THREE
Death flows from him.
Beside me Morrigan runs as fast as she can, but pushing through the snow on her short legs is nearly impossible. We both sink to our knees with every step, and my lungs burn from short shallow breaths. I urge her on. I could carry her, but I don’t think it’d be faster. Instead I grip her mittened hand in mine and pull.
We spot our steps from earlier and our speed picks up as we plant our feet in the premade holes.
“Why?” Morrigan pants. When I’d said we needed to leave immediately, she didn’t ask questions. But now our grueling pace is making her wonder.
“Trust me.” Sweat runs down my back.
“Was that him?” she gasps between words, and I’m proud of her as she pushes on.
“Yes,” I wheeze.
“How did he find us?”
“I made a mistake.” My heartbeat reverberates through my head.
“We shouldn’t have played in the snow?”
“It wasn’t that. I was wrong about where to hide.”
The roof of our cabin comes into view, and I nearly cry with relief. I love the tiny cabin. Even though its purpose is to hide from the world, its rustic elegance and beauty make me feel as if we lived at a high-end mountain resort. There hasn’t been a moment when I didn’t feel safe and secure. Until today.
We burst through the door and I slam to a stop at the sight of a male figure in my kitchen. Brent whirls around, his hand reaching inside his open jacket, but relief fills his face, and the weapon he removes points down.
He was unpacking groceries. Time seems to stop as I spot a box of the dry cereal that is Morrigan’s new obsession, and a wave of thankfulness rolls through me. We’ve been in caring hands.
“Gabriel.” I force the name out and bend over, resting my hands on my thighs, afraid I’ll vomit as adrenaline and exhaustion hit me at the same time. “It’s Gabriel.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to kick myself for hiding my daughter under the nose of danger. Everything feels upside down.
How could I have been so wrong?
Brent grabs my upper arms. “What about him?”
“I was wrong. It’s not my father. It’s Gabriel.” I’m still addled by my mistake, and his name feels foreign on my tongue. “It’s Gabriel,” I repeat, mentally trying to understand my blunder.
“Gabriel? How?” His tone rises in confusion.
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know why,” I choke out. “But he spotted us and ran back to the main house. He’ll be here next.” I lift my head to look Brent in the eye. “I felt and saw his hatred. He killed my mother. Morrigan and I are next.”
Brent and I have had long talks over dinner. I told him I felt a deep sadness radiate from him when he looked at Morrigan, and he admitted his younger sister died at around the same age. She was blonde like my daughter. He doesn’t quite believe in my gift, but he’s come to trust me, and I trust him. Brent was the exception to my order that Christian tell no one when he hid Morrigan and me on his property. Nothing gets by Brent’s notice on this land. My mother always warned me that my father’s reach was long. His associates still walked outside the prison walls. Who knew what an old friend would do for him? Absolute secrecy was a must.
But it wasn’t my father who killed my mother and the judge. It was Gabriel.
Skepticism crosses Brent’s face, and he searches my eyes. I smell the change in the air as he decides to believe me.
“I need to call Christian.” He places his gun on the granite kitchen counter and touches his phone’s screen.
“We’ve got to get out of here.” I turn to Morrigan, who’s been listening, her eyes wide. “Get my emergency bag. It’s in my closet.” She vanishes to obey. I’ve been prepared. I have money, passports, new credit cards, and all our important papers in there, ready to grab at a moment’s notice. Ready for this very moment.
“Fuck. I got voice mail.” He clears his throat. “Christian, I’m at Salome’s cabin. She says Gabriel is the one after her, not her father. He’s spotted her and we’re going to get out of here.”
“Will Christian be okay?” My stomach twists at the thought of my friend in danger.
“He can take care of himself.”
“But it’s his brother.”
Brent’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s Christian’s issue.”
“Here, Mama.” Morrigan thrusts the bag into my hands. Her eyes are clear and her mouth determined. She is brave.
“Get in the car,” I order her.
“We’ve got better vehicles at the house,” Brent argues.
“But the house is hundreds of yards away and Gabriel is there. We’re taking my Subaru.”
“But the snow—”
“It’s good in snow.” My voice is as strong as my mind is full of doubt. The long road to the cabin has been ignored for two days as Brent allowed the snow to cover my car’s tracks. I follow Morrigan to the tiny garage and hit the button to raise the door. It strains, making a grinding noise, and stops.
“There’s too much snow against the front,” Brent says. He pushes past me into the garage and grabs a snow shovel. “Stay inside.” He darts back into the house, picks up his gun, and goes out the front door. I follow to the doorway.