Page 172 of This is Why We Lied

“It’s what I’ve fucking seen!” Spit flew out of his mouth. “Look at how pathetic you are. You’re not trying to protect me. You’re running to that cop because you can’t accept that I found somebody who makes me happy. Who cares about me. Who loves only me.”

He sounded so much like Dave that it nearly took her breath away. That bottomless pit, that never-ending quicksand. Her own child had been running alongside her all this time and Mercy hadn’t bothered to notice.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should’ve seen. I should’ve known.”

“Fuck your sorry. I don’t need it. Fuck!” He threw his hands in the air. “This is exactly what she warned me about. What the fuck do I have to do to stop you?”

“Baby—” She reached for him again, but he slapped her hands away.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he warned. “She’s the only woman who gets to touch me.”

Mercy held up her hands in surrender. She had never been scared of Jon, but she was scared of him now. “Take a breath, okay? Just calm down.”

“It’s you or her,” he said. “That’s what she told me. I have to decide. You or her.”

“Baby, she doesn’t love you. She’s manipulating you.”

“No.” He started shaking his head. “Shut up. I need to think.”

“She’s a predator,” Mercy said. “This is what she does to boys. She gets in their heads and she fucks them up so bad—”

“Shut up.”

“She’s a monster,” Mercy said. “Why do you think your daddy’s so fucked up? It wasn’t just what happened to him in Atlanta.”

“Shut up.”

“Listen to me,” Mercy begged. “You’re not special to her. What she’s doing to you is the exact same thing that she did to Dave.”

He was on her before she knew what was happening. His hands snaked out, wrapping around her neck. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Mercy gasped for air. She grabbed his wrists, tried to pull away his hands. He was too strong. She dug her fingernails into Jon’s chest, tried to kick out with her feet. She felt her eyelids start to flutter. He was so much stronger than Dave. He was squeezing too hard.

“You pathetic bitch.” Jon’s voice was deadly quiet. He had learned from his daddy that you didn’t make too much noise. “I’m not the one who’s leaving here tonight. You are.”

Mercy felt light-headed. Her vision blurred. He was going to kill her. She reached back to her pocket, wrapped her fingers around the red plastic handle of the knife.

Time slowed down to a crawl. Mercy silently took herself through the motions. Pull out the knife. Slice him on the forearm. Were there arteries there? Muscle? She couldn’t damage him—he was already hurt almost beyond repair. She should show him the knife. The threat would be enough. That would stop him.

It didn’t.

Jon snatched the knife away from her. He swung the blade over his head, ready to drive it down into her chest. Mercy ducked down, crawling on her knees as she scrambled across the ground. She felt the air move as the blade slashed within inches of her head. Mercy knew a second blow was coming. She grabbed her backpack, held it up like a shield. The blade skipped across the thick, fireproof material. She didn’t give Jon time to recover. She swung the backpack at his head, knocking him backward.

Instinct took over. She clutched the backpack to her chest and started running. Past the first cottage, the second one. Jon was fast on her heels, closing the gap. She sprinted up the stairs to the last cottage. Slammed the door in his face. Fumbled to send the bolt home on the lock. Heard the loud punch of his fist against the solid wood.

Mercy gasped for air, her chest heaving as she listened to him pacing across the porch. Her heart felt like it was inside of her throat. Mercy put her back to the door, closed her eyes, listened for her son’s loping gait. There was nothing but silence. She could feel a breeze drying the sweat on her face. All the windows were boarded up but one. The moon put a blue glow on the grain in the rough-hewn walls, the floor, her shoes, her hands.

Mercy looked up.

Dave had not been lying about the dry rot in cottage three. The back wall of the bedroom had been completely stripped away. Jon had slipped in through the studs. He stood with the knife in his hand.

Mercy blindly reached behind her. Slid back the bolt. Twisted the handle. Threw open the door. She turned, and it felt like a sledgehammer hit between the shoulders as Jon drove the blade in to the hilt.

The blow knocked the wind out of her. She stared at the lake, mouth open in horror.

Then Jon pulled out the knife and slammed it in again. And again. And again.

Mercy careened off the porch, falling down the stairs, landing on her side.

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