Chapter 21 #2
The dark bedroom was as minimally furnished as the rest of the home, containing only a queen bed with a pair of end tables and a dresser.
There weren’t even lamps, just a charging cord to indicate which side of the bed Mercer claimed as his own.
The whole space had his smell, soap that may well have been Old Spice and the detergent scent that informed me the sheets were not only made with a precision that could only be described as military, they were also clean.
But still no throw blankets or even a toss pillow. The door on the wall likely led to his closet, but a quick check of that found it stuffed to the gills with a folding treadmill and stacks of unopened boxes.
I spared a passing glance at the en-suite bathroom and found it immaculate.
Sparse, but tidy. Soldier boy clearly didn’t need anyone to clean up after him.
But there was something missing: comfort.
The small touches that softened a space and made it feel inviting.
Our rooms at the Dollhouse had suffered a similar deficit when Maslow held the purse strings, but with Beck’s blessing, I was fixing that.
My boys deserved to feel well-nested, with things like photo frames and plug-ins so the place didn’t look like a frat house and smell like one too.
Mercer might not have lived under my roof, but he worked under my watch. That made him one of my boys too, and he deserved better than this.
Slinking out of the master bedroom, I started back toward the living area but paused outside Molly’s room. That place felt almost sacred. Set aside. But it called to me. Mercer’s care and the affection he’d woven into every detail resonated deeply.
I peeked past the open end of the hall to make sure Mercer was still asleep, then turned the knob and eased inside.
Once inside, I pushed the door to and flipped on the light.
Pastels and plush textures abounded, and I found myself in as much awe as I had been the first time I’d seen them. Not because the décor was lavish or abundant, but because love lived here.
It was intentional. Curated, like Mercer’s movie choice. He put thought into this room above all the others. My gaze traced over the bed and the plush toys, the rocking chair, the untouched surfaces.
Sorrow lived here too.
I remembered how frantic Mercer had been when he learned I’d met his daughter. His confession—that he hadn’t seen her in some time—carried a pain that echoed in me. I wondered what kept them apart, and what convinced his ex he needed more time to “adjust.”
From where I stood, he seemed more than adjusted.
It didn’t take long to observe all there was to see, and while I would have happily stayed here, there was a very cuddly Marine waiting for me on the sofa. While turning to leave, I noticed the closet door ajar. I moved to shut it, but the bedroom light caught on something inside and stopped me.
I slid the door aside, expecting more of Molly’s things or, with luck, an elusive throw blanket. Instead, I found a pair of crutches leaned against the inner wall and a collapsed wheelchair beside them.
I did a double take, but there was no mistaking what they were.
Why did Mercer have a wheelchair?
The closet was shallow and wide, so all it took was one more tug on the door to reveal the rest of its contents. A khaki duffel bag slumped in the corner, rugged and faded with age. Military standard-issue.
I should’ve stopped there, closed the door, and walked away.
But there I was crouching, unzipping, and tugging open the weathered old bag.
The canvas was worn soft, but sturdy and stuffed full.
Clothes—no, uniforms—were folded beneath a clear zip-top bag.
Inside that was a pair of small velvet boxes that were too big and flat to hold rings.
Maybe necklaces? But why would Mercer stash jewelry with his service gear?
Temptation and decency wrestled, but curiosity won the fight. I opened the Ziploc, drew out both boxes, and flipped the lids.
Two medals gleamed in the light. One was purple with a matching ribbon edged in gold, and the other hung on a green and red ribbon with a letter V pinned in the center of it.
Mercer’s résumé had mentioned commendations from his time in the service. These must have been them.
I turned the boxes over in my hands. Awards like these were meant to be displayed and honored. They should’ve been framed on the wall or sitting in a case for everyone to see.
So why were they hidden with old uniforms and forgotten things?
And why the crutches? The wheelchair?
My thoughts raced as pieces clicked into place. I’d noticed his limp and assumed it was wear and tear, the kind of thing anyone might carry after a decade in the armed forces.
But maybe it wasn’t age or strain. Maybe it was injury. Something permanent.
“I used to be a Marine,” Mercer had said.
A strange qualifier, but an important one.
I closed the boxes, careful not to let the lids snap shut too loudly, then placed them back in the bag. Guilt sat like a stone in my gut, but so did a growing concern. Whatever had happened to Mercer out there, he’d brought it home and buried it.
After rezipping the duffel and shutting the closet, I stood.
Mercer admitted he hadn’t been honest enough on our first outing. I knew now that he still had more to tell, and I had more to learn.
As much as that, I wanted to help him. He was one of my boys, after all, and just because he wasn’t a demon didn’t mean he didn’t have his own.
Guarding demons was one of my specialties.
Maybe I could guard Mercer’s too.