“That’s what you’re worried about?” I ask, shaking my head as I join them. “Your knife?”
“I threw it at those assholes before they opened fire,” he says. “Think I got one of them too.”
“I hope he fucking dies,” Saint growls, taking Heath’s hand. He strokes it while Dr. Swift finishes bandaging our friend.
“What happened after I passed out?” Heath asks.
“You mean after you fainted like a fucking princess?” Saint asks, releasing his hand and shoving his shoulder.
Heath winces but offers a loopy grin. “Yeah, that.”
“We dragged your ass out of there,” I say. “And brought you here. No one else is hurt.”
“Good,” Heath says, his eyes falling shut. “M’s okay?”
“I’m okay,” Mercy says, hesitantly approaching the bed. “I—I’m so sorry, Heath.”
“S’okay,” he slurs. “I’m gonna get mad respect now. I got shot. I’mma have a gnarly scar to show off…”
He drifts off, but Dr. Swift assures us it’s the shot of painkillers he gave him that will make him super sleepy. He gives us instructions on caring for him and says he’ll be back in a few days to check on Heath. The bullet went through his shoulder and lodged in his shoulder blade, but it didn’t hit any major arteries, so all in all, I’m calling it a win. Heath’s a lot tougher than he looks, and I know he’ll handle it like the fucking gangster he is.
“Let’s get back to business,” I say, since Saint’s obviously too caught up in his love-hate relationship with Mercy to be the stabilizing force he usually is. It’s probably good that it’s forcing me to step up and act like a leader instead of just going with the flow. Don’t get me wrong, that’s way more fun, but sometimes Heath’s words echo back to me. He’s not wrong. Even in juvie, I was treated like a fucking king. It never bothered me, because I am a king, so I should be treated as such.
But kings also gotta do some work and lead their people, so that’s what I’m going to do.
“Mercy,” I say, fixing her with what Mom jokingly deemed “the North face” after she realized my cousins and her own kids all inherited the same icy death glare from our fathers. It’s a tool from my arsenal that I rarely have the need to utilize, being the spoiled prince that I am.
“Yes?” Mercy asks, and I swear the girl has just as effective a front as I do. Except instead of a deadly stare, she has one of the purest innocence. And the girl could teach a master class on deflection. Somehow, she gets out of answering all our questions every single time.
“What were you doing at Sinners Tower?” I ask, unflinching. “No bullshit about just going to a party with friends.”
“I told you, I wanted answers,” she says. “I talked to one of the Sinners, and I think I got something. He basically said that they’re part of the ‘skin trade,’ and that they make girls like E disappear all the time. What is that?”
“Human trafficking,” I say bluntly.
She nods thoughtfully, not a trace of the horror and shock I expected. “I thought it might be something like that,” she says. “Hopefully she’s just a maid for some rich guy.”
And there’s the innocence popping up. She thinks labor is all someone would want from a fourteen-year-old girl.
I try not to think about it more than I already have to. Maybe it’s callous of me, but I’d rather believe Eternity is dead than think about what she’s been going through for the past four years if she’s not.
“Is that it?” Saint asks. “All you found?”
“What do you mean, all I found?” Mercy asks, eyes widening. “This is huge. We know who took her, what they did with her. Now we just need to find out where they took her.”
“And how do we do that?” I ask. “It’s not like some guy swiped his credit card to buy her.”
“And even if he did, we don’t know who sold her,” Saint says. “Just that it was the Disciples.”
Mercy’s quiet a long moment, gripping the edge of her little dress. It distracts me for a minute. I’ve only ever seen her out of her clogs once, and that time, she was in tennis shoes. I’ve definitely never seen her dressed up for a party, but she’s smokin’ hot in her little black dress. I contemplate sneaking into her room when she’s asleep and tossing her clogs in the trash. Maybe changing out all the clothes in her closet too. At least cutting all her skirts to six inches above the knee. Her legs are sexy as fuck.
“I have to ask you something,” Mercy says at last, reaching for her cross the way she does when she’s nervous. “Why did you leave her? Don’t get mad. I’m not blaming you. It’s my fault too. I left her too. But after… That initiation y’all did under the bridge…”
I catch Saint’s eye, and then we both look away at once. That’s our burden, our shame.
Because as nice as Mercy’s being, she has a right to ask. She has a right to accuse us. And as pissed as we all were that she turned on us and told the judge, she’s right. She only told him the truth. She never lied. We didn’t want to face our guilt, because then we’d have to admit the truth.
It is our fault.
