Chapter Twenty-One
Whiskey
Mercy House sits thirty-five minutes outside Official on a road that looks like it ain’t been maintained since Clinton was in office.
Woods crowd close on both sides, swallowing old fence lines beneath brush and weeds, and when the house finally appears beyond a sagging gate, it looks like the land has been trying to reclaim it for years.
The two-story place must’ve been white once. Now the siding has gone dirty gray, paint curling off in strips. Half the windows along one side are boarded, the porch sags in the middle, and an empty rusted sign frame leans near the road with weeds growing through its base.
Nothing identifies the property. Nothing says girls once lived here.
Legend parks first, Royal pulls in behind him, and I take the rear. Twila rides with me even though we could’ve taken one of the club cages.
Didn’t.
She climbs off the Harley and studies the house before removing her helmet completely. Her eyes move from the windows to the porch, then toward the tree line and the rutted drive, taking in sight lines and entrances the way a deputy does even when she ain’t wearing the uniform.
“Looks abandoned.”
Royal says, “That’s usually when horror movies tell you to go inside.”
Twila checks her weapon. “You scared?”
“Of tetanus.”
Legend looks at both of them. “Shut the fuck up.”
I smile.
Twila looks toward the front door. “Anybody got a warrant?”
Royal turns toward her. “You worried about procedure now?”
She smiles. “Just wanted to hear you admit you know what one is.”
He flips her off.
Twila pats the folded paper inside her jacket. “Signed before we left. Daddy got the judge on the affidavit.”
Royal looks disappointed. “You had to ruin the fun with procedure.”
“I’m still a deputy.”
“Tragic.”
Legend mutters something about children.
The front door ain’t locked. That bothers me more than if it were.
Twila pulls on gloves and opens it with one hand, then starts through first. Every instinct I own tells me to hook my fingers into the back of her jacket and pull her behind me.
I don’t.
I step through beside her.
Inside, the air is cool and damp enough to settle against my skin. Dust floats through our flashlight beams, the old carpet has gone dark with mildew, and somewhere deeper in the house water drips in a slow, steady rhythm.
Under all of it is another smell.
Bleach.
Twila turns her head slightly.
She caught it too.
“That ain’t twenty years old.”
“No.”
The entry hall is mostly empty. Picture frames still hang along one wall, but the photographs are gone, leaving cleaner rectangles inside dusty glass and pale spaces where other frames were recently removed.
Royal sweeps his light across them. “Somebody cleaned house.”
“Recently,” Twila says.
Legend crouches near the baseboard and points out several tracks cutting through the grime. None belong to us. Different boots, maybe work shoes, more than one person.
We move deeper.
The first bedroom contains three metal bed frames with no mattresses, though the dust outlines show where they once sat.
Twila crouches and runs her flashlight low along the wall. “Look.”
An eye bolt is screwed into the baseboard near the first bed.
Another sits beside the second.
Royal stops joking.
I think about Kaylee’s wrists when we found her, purple and raw enough that I wanted to tear the whole damn building down with my hands.
Twila touches my arm. Not enough to restrain me. Enough to bring me back into the room.
“I know.”
I look at her.
She does.
We move on.
The second room has the same setup. The third still holds one mattress shoved against the wall, bare and stained beneath years of dust.
Twila checks beneath the bed frame. “Zip ties.”
Several have been cut. Some are brittle and yellowed with age, while others are clean enough that nobody needs to explain what that means.
Legend’s face hardens. “Bag ‘em.”
Twila does.
Royal opens the closet.
“Fuck.”
We turn.
White dresses hang shoulder to shoulder inside.
Royal whispers about old ghost stories, “Mama Crowley.”
I ignore him and study the dresses. They aren’t fancy and they sure as hell aren’t wedding dresses. They’re plain, cheap things, some closer to nightgowns and others shaped like uniforms. Every one has a narrow line of gold stitching along the edges.
Twila stops.
Her hand goes into her jacket and comes back with the evidence bag from my property. She holds the strip of white fabric beside the hem of one dress.
Same width.
Same gold pattern.
Close enough that my blood turns cold.
“That came from my fucking yard.”
Twila looks at me. “I know.”
“Near Wren.”
“I know.”
Royal has gone completely quiet.
Legend steps closer without touching either piece. “Could be the same supplier.”
Twila nods. “Could.”
“But?”
She looks from the dress to the bag. “Feels like shit odds.”
Yeah.
It does.
Somebody carrying material tied to this place was in the woods behind my daughter’s bedroom.
My hand closes around the edge of the closet door hard enough that the old wood complains beneath my grip.
Twila closes her fingers around my wrist. “Whiskey.”
I look down.
“Don’t break evidence.”
Her voice is calm, almost teasing, just enough to pull me back without making me feel handled.
I let go.
“Bossy.”
“Yeah.”
That earns her a look.
We keep moving.
The back room looks like an office somebody emptied in a hurry. Desk drawers stand open, and one filing cabinet has been stripped almost bare except for a single locked drawer.
Royal kicks it.
Metal bangs loud enough to echo through the house.
Twila sighs. “Subtle.”
“Opened.”
“Evidence integrity.”
“Crime already happened.”
“Still.”
Legend crouches and pulls out what remains.
Most of the folders are empty, but a few contain old registration sheets listing initials, dates, and intake numbers instead of full names. Twila photographs each page before anybody moves it.
Then she stops.
“K.Q.”
I look over her shoulder.
The date is recent enough to matter.
Kaylee Quill.
Who else?
Royal points lower on the same sheet. “C.C.”
The entry is much older.
His face loses all color.
“Cider.”
Legend looks at the initials, then the date. “Could be.”
“It’s her.”
“Could be.”
Royal grabs the page before anybody can stop him. “Age lines up.”
“Royal.”
“My sister.”
“I know.”
His entire body is wound tight enough that I can see the fight in him from across the room.
“Then don’t tell me could.”
Legend steps closer but doesn’t take the sheet from him. “Until we know, it’s could.”
For a moment, I think Royal might swing on his own brother.
Then he drags in one breath, takes another, and sets the page back down.
Twila photographs the entry. “Club tech can cross-reference dates and initials.”
Royal nods once.
The bottom desk drawer holds one folder the cleaners missed. It’s blue, faded from age, with MERCY HOUSE stamped across the front.
Twila looks at me.
I look back.
Legend takes it out and opens it on the desk.
Inside are program guidelines, discipline schedules, and transfer forms. Some names have been blacked out. Other documents use only initials.
One phrase appears again and again.
TRANSFER TO B.R. FOR CORRECTION
Twila runs one gloved finger beneath the line without touching the ink. “Blue room?”
“Maybe.”
Royal looks sick. “Correction.”
Nobody likes that word.
Then tires crunch outside.
Legend’s hand goes up, and the room changes instantly.
Twila takes the protected side of the interior wall beside the hall opening. Royal moves to the window. I take the opposite angle while Legend peers through a narrow crack between the boards.
A black SUV rolls to a stop in front of the house.
Clean. Ordinary plates. Nothing about it worth remembering.
The driver’s door opens.
Reverend Crowley steps out.
Well.
Ain’t that convenient.
I look to Legend and Royal. “Who alerted your father?”
Legend balks. “Don’t even go there.” The fact that the reverend adopted Legend and Royal as teens for the church to raise isn’t lost on anyone. But it’s a mighty sore subject.
Reverend wears a dark coat over a white shirt with no clerical collar. Same pleasant face from the fundraiser photograph, only older now, and he looks way too fucking calm for a man arriving at an abandoned house occupied by three armed bikers and one pissed-off deputy.
He looks directly at the building.
Then at our bikes.
Smiles.
Royal whispers, “I can shoot him from here.”
Twila answers just as quietly. “No.”
“Why did we bring the cop?”
I lean toward him.
Legend’s phone rings.
Everybody looks.
Unknown number.
He answers. “Yeah.”
Outside, Crowley raises his own phone to his ear.
“You boys are trespassing.”
Legend smiles without humor. “Call the cops.”
Twila covers her mouth.
Royal nearly laughs.
Crowley’s smile doesn’t move. “I don’t think Deputy Dix wants that complication.”
Twila’s amusement disappears.
Legend’s eyes go cold. “You know she’s here.”
“I know a great many things.”
I start toward the door.
Twila catches the back of my cut. “No.”
“He knows you’re here.”
“I heard.”
Crowley continues like he knows exactly what he just set off inside me. “Deputy Dix should ask her father what happened the last time his family mistook curiosity for courage.”
The room seems to lose several degrees.
Twila goes pale.
Royal looks at her.
Legend’s face turns murderous.
My hand reaches the door.
Twila closes her fingers around my wrist. “Don’t.”
“He threatened you.”
“He gave us something.”
“What?”
“Proof.”
I look at her.
She’s right.
Hate that.
Crowley says, “Sheriff Dix learned wisdom eventually.”
Twila steps closer to Legend. “Speaker.”
He puts the call on speaker.
Crowley’s voice fills the empty room. “Some doors are locked for a reason, Deputy.”
Twila answers loud enough for him to hear. “Funny. Your front door wasn’t.”
Crowley pauses.
Royal flashes a grin.
My woman.
Crowley says, “Your father understood the value of family.”
Twila’s grip tightens around her flashlight. “So do I.”
“Does Whiskey?”
My blood goes cold.
Wren.
Motherfucker.
I move again.
Twila plants herself directly in front of me.
“No.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“He’s talking about Wren.”
“I know.”
“Twila.”