Page 11 of This is Why We Lied

Mercy felt like her lungs were out of air. “Y-you can’t. The trust says—”

“It’s done,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get ourselves out of this place before you run it into the ground.”

“Run it into the ground?” Mercy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Mercy!” her mother hissed. “Mind your language.”

“We’re booked out through the season!” She couldn’t stop yelling. “Profits are up thirty percent off last year!”

“Which you squandered on marble bathrooms and fancy sheets.”

“Which we’ve made back in repeat bookings.”

“How long is that going to last?”

“For as long as you stay the fuck out of it!”

Mercy heard the angry screech in her voice as it bounced around the room. Guilt flooded through her body. She had never spoken to her father this way. None of them had.

They’d been too afraid.

“Mercy,” Bitty said. “Sit down, child. Show some respect.”

Mercy slowly sank into her chair. Tears streamed from her eyes. This was such a betrayal. She was a McAlpine. She was supposed to be the seventh generation. She had given up everything—everything—to stay here.

“Mercy,” Bitty repeated. “Apologize to your father.”

Mercy felt her head shaking. She tried to swallow down the splinters in her throat.

“You listen to me, Miss Thirty Percent.” Papa’s tone was like a razor flaying apart her skin. “Any asshole can have a good year. It’s the lean years you won’t be able to handle. The pressure will grind you into the ground.”

She wiped her eyes. “You don’t know that.”

Papa huffed a laugh. “How many times have I had to bail your ass out of jail? Pay for your rehabs? Your lawyers? Your parole? Slip the sheriff some cash to look the other way? Take care of your boy because you were so blind drunk you were pissing yourself?”

Mercy stared at the stove over his shoulder. This was the deepest part of the quicksand, the past that she would never, ever escape.

Dave said, “Delilah drove down for a vote, right?”

Papa said nothing.

Dave said, “The family trust says you’ve gotta have sixty percent of the vote in order to sell the commercial part of the property. You’ve got me working on those cottages so we can include that land in the commercial part, right?”

Mercy could barely hear what he was saying. The family trust was byzantine. She had never really studied the language because there had never been a chance it would matter. Every generation going back decades had either despised the place enough to leave or begrudgingly worked for the common good.

Dave said, “There’s seven of us. That means you’ve gotta have four votes to sell.”

Mercy barked out a surprised laugh. “You don’t have it. I’ve got Jon’s proxy until he turns eighteen. We’re both a no. Dave’s a no. Fish is a no. You don’t have the votes. Even with Delilah.”

“Christopher?” Papa lasered in on Fish. “Is that true?”

“I—” Fish kept his gaze on the floor. He loved this land, knew every rise and fall of the earth, every good fishing hole and quiet spot. But that didn’t stop him from being who he was. “I can’t get in the middle of this. I recuse. Or abstain. Whatever you wanna call it. I’m out.”

Mercy wished that she was surprised by his retreat. She told her father, “That puts us each at fifty percent. Fifty percent is not sixty.”

“I’ve got a number for you,” Papa said. “Twelve million bucks.”

Mercy heard Dave’s throat work as he swallowed. Money always changed him. It was the Dr. Jekyll’s potion that turned him into a monster.

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