A Merciful Secret Read online

  There’s no way he found out that I know Christian.

  “Maybe you should start with the other son,” she suggested.

  “I plan to talk to Gabriel after I talk to Christian. Brenda Lake too. She’s already agreed to meet with me to talk about her ex.” His big smile told her he’d charmed the judge’s ex-wife into an interview. “I’ve done all my research about Malcolm Lake’s role in the D’Angelo case. Of course, I remember a lot of it from when it happened. It was hard to miss.”

  Mercy agreed. The notorious movie star Beau D’Angelo had murdered his wife during a visit to Portland. Malcolm Lake had shot to fame as the trial judge who told D’Angelo to shut the fuck up when he complained during a witness’s testimony. The national press had already blanketed the trial with coverage, and D’Angelo’s marriage and career were daily news staples. But once the judge’s curse caught the media’s attention, their repetitious reporting created a new celebrity. Eventually D’Angelo walked on a technicality and the public uproar was deafening. For a brief time Judge Malcolm Lake was a household name. In Portland he became the most wanted guest for every elite dinner party and fund-raiser. He fed on the attention, and lawyers whispered that the coverage had inflated his ego.

  Mercy faintly remembered reading about Christian in some articles during the trial, usually as one of the judge’s successful sons. She wondered how he had felt about the publicity. Now it was back again, and she’d heard the judge’s murder was the top news story every evening. National media had descended on Portland and filled its airtime with flashbacks of the famous Beau D’Angelo trial. Before the trial the movie star had backed out of a signed contract because he would be stuck in a courtroom for a month. His career tanked. A few years later he popped up on a reality TV show, stranded on an island with other minor celebrities. D’Angelo was the first one kicked off the island, hated by the other contestants on the show. Last night Mercy had watched an online interview clip in which D’Angelo had shared kind words about the judge, stating his thoughts and prayers were with the judge’s family.

  Thoughts and prayers.

  Mercy tried not to snort.

  Not a word had been said in the news about the death of Olivia Sabin. So far the reporter across the table appeared to be the only member of the media who had connected the two cases. Mercy crossed her fingers that time would stay on their side, keeping the media out of this aspect of the investigation.

  The waitress set down a spinach salad topped with a few slices of medium-rare steak in front of Mercy. Michael eyed it. “I should have known you were a salad person.”

  Then her own serving of chocolate bread pudding appeared.

  He grinned. “That’s more like it.” His gaze shot over her shoulder, and Mercy knew Truman had arrived.

  Truman squeezed her shoulder and leaned down to kiss her before shaking Michael’s hand. Mercy spotted the same caution in Truman’s gaze that she felt around the reporter. He wouldn’t let his guard down either. He took the chair next to her and raised a finger at their waitress across the restaurant, who nodded and winked at him.

  Truman always gets the female winks.

  Or the lingering stares and the second glances. Especially when he wore his coat and badge. He naturally exuded stability, integrity, and honor. He was crack for women. Single or married.

  “Are you getting a salad too?” Michael asked.

  “Not today. It’s a BLT for me,” answered Truman. He picked up a fork and took a bite of Mercy’s dessert. “Sweet baby cheeses, that’s as incredible as always.”

  Truman had not had a sweet tooth until he met her. Sugar was one of Mercy’s primary vices. One she’d been unable to shake. That and caffeine. She’d laid in a huge store of the luxury items at her cabin.

  Her father wouldn’t have approved.

  “Mercy didn’t tell me we were meeting you for lunch,” Truman said.

  “You weren’t. You got lucky.”

  Mercy suddenly wondered if the reporter had been lying in wait for her again. She ate lunch at the restaurant at least twice a week. I shouldn’t be so predictable.

  “Why are you here, Michael?” she asked. The subtle twitch of one eye implied her suspicion had been correct.

  “I want you to get me an interview with Christian Lake.”

  She sighed.

  “Why ask Mercy?” asked Truman.

  “They know each other.”

  “Barely,” added Mercy. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Except for yesterday,” added Michael with the lift of one eyebrow.

  “I can’t tell him what to do.” Mercy stabbed her spinach, aware there was no point in asking how the reporter had gotten his information.

  “Did he tell you his brother Gabriel is in town?” Michael asked.

  Her head jerked up and Truman tensed beside her. “He’s back from California? Why didn’t he go home to Portland?” she asked.

  “That was my question too. He flew in this morning and headed straight to Christian’s home.”

  “Did you tell Ava this? She needs to interview him.”

  “Not yet. I’ve called her twice and asked her to get back to me. It hasn’t happened yet.”

  Mercy checked the time. “She and Eddie just left for Portland.”

  “I guess Gabriel’s interview will have to wait until they get back.”

  She tamped down the urge to leap out of her seat and drive to Christian’s home.

  Truman’s phone buzzed. He scowled at the screen and excused himself to take the call outside.

  Mercy stared at Michael, her appetite gone. Even the bread pudding held no appeal. The reporter’s minibomb about Gabriel clogged her thoughts. Silent tension floated between her and Michael.

  “You know you want to go out there,” Michael said quietly. “I’m a good excuse for you to go to his home. You’ll simply be making an introduction. Your presence will smooth the way for Christian to open up to me.”

  He sounded like the devil sitting on her shoulder. “Do you always manipulate your conversations?”

  Michael shrugged. “I like to be efficient with my time.”

  She grudgingly respected that. No doubt their two encounters had gone exactly as he’d planned. But she wasn’t ready to lead him to Christian. She respected their old friendship too much. Michael would have to find another way. She opened her mouth, ready to tell him exactly that, when alarm crossed his face as he looked past her.

  She spun around in her chair. Truman was striding toward their table, his face grim.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Rob Murray has been murdered. I need to go.”

  Her mind scrambled to place the name. “The guy who abandoned Christian’s car?”

  “Yep. That was Evan Bolton from the Deschutes County Sheriff’s Office. Murray’s neighbors reported that my vehicle was at his apartment building a few hours ago, so the detective called me.”

  “Were you at his apartment?” asked Michael.

  “Yes.” Truman was tight-lipped, his face pale. “But he was breathing when I left.”

  “I’m coming with you,” stated Mercy.

  SEVENTEEN

  When I was sixteen I sold my potions to the girls at school. Business was brisk. Word of mouth kept my sales flowing, although none of the girls would speak to me except when they wanted their fix. It was amazing what a little bit of vodka mixed with fruit juice would allow a girl to do when she stood in front of her crush. Inhibitions went down, and the teenage boy’s interest was snagged.

  Easy money.

  But I was lonely. I started attending every party I heard about. Masses of teens would cram into someone’s home while the parents were out of town. Beer flowed and pot was passed around. I would heavily line my eyes, wear my tightest, shortest skirt and a sheer top. I wanted them to see me and they did.

  Worn pages from fashion magazines papered my bedroom walls. I would spend hours copying their makeup and attitudes. The pictures were
a snapshot of a world I’d never known, and I did my best to bring it to my life. At first I shoplifted the makeup, but as my potion business grew, I paid for the items, taking pride in my ability to take care of myself and swearing that I’d never rely on someone for my needs.

  The guys from my high school noticed.

  At the parties they were the snakes and I was the piper. In low voices they told one another I was dangerous; I became a glorified conquest. They celebrated getting in my pants and surviving without a curse placed on their heads. Quick sex in the bathroom, bedroom, or garage. Even outdoors on pool furniture. My reputation spread. To the guys I was easy. To the girls I was a slut, bitch, and whore. Probably because I would target couples. I lived for the rush of power from drawing the gaze of a “committed” guy.

  I preferred guys who claimed to be in a relationship. They would go running back to their girlfriends once I was done with them, their tails between their legs, terrified I would tell their partners. Like I cared. It was the predatory older men who made me cautious. Why would a man in his twenties pursue a teenager? It spoke of their mind-set and maturity—both lacking.

  I researched everything I could about my infamous namesake. I danced in my bedroom, learning the movements that would capture and hold the gazes of men. Once I asked my mother why she’d named me after the woman who had reputedly called for the death of John the Baptist. She held my gaze for a long time before answering. “Because I believed it would make you strong.”

  I didn’t reply, but my mind raced with questions. Why me? Why do I need to be strong? Don’t all the Kathys, Debbies, and Emilys of the world need strength?

  In my mind my name was synonymous with seduction. It was a legacy I strove to fulfill.

  When I was a senior in high school, I attended a party where several older men were reliving the glory of their high school years. I disdained adults who needed to mingle with teenagers, but the other students felt important as they rubbed shoulders with men who could legally drink.

  One man brought me a red cup, his gaze hot and intense, his goal apparent. My night had been slow, so I accepted and drank, turning up my allure to level ten. He was tall and attractive, wearing slacks and a dress shirt, unlike 95 percent of the other guys at the party. Success radiated from him and caught my interest. I explored. A subtle hint of red danger reached my nose, but I also scented a playfulness in his aura, an overriding need to pursue pleasure.

  My kind of guy.

  We talked and flirted and danced. I ignored the rest of the party, my focus on his brown eyes. Soon I saw nothing else. I was happy, a dizzy euphoria ripping through my veins. I didn’t want the night to end.

  Then I was in his car, the front seat reclined, and he was on top of me, fumbling to pull up my skirt. I didn’t care what he did to me. My mind floated in a deep need to simply sleep and allow him to have his way.

  Shouting. Noise. His hands ripped my blouse as he was pulled off me, my skin suddenly exposed to the cold night air. Through sleepy eyes I saw two men fighting. And my lover was losing. I watched as if from a great height, not caring what happened.

  I closed my eyes and drifted away. At one point I was covered and lifted. A kind voice assured me I was safe. Had I been in danger?

  I woke in a strange bed, a strange room. A man awkwardly slept in the easy chair near the door. Not a man. I recognized him as another senior from my school. I’d classified him as a geek, a skinny cross-country runner who got straight As and hung out with other nerds.

  In other words, not worth my time or focus.

  I sat up. It took great effort, and the room spun slightly as I sat on the edge of the bed. The nerd woke and was at my side before I could blink, steadying me in case I tipped off the mattress. I looked into familiar brown eyes, reminiscent of the man I’d danced with the night before. A fresh bruise was forming around one of his eyes, and I saw dried blood in his nose. The memory of a fight flitted through my brain.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  I considered his question, taking inventory of my body. “Exhausted.”

  He nodded. “You were drugged.”

  I jerked up straight, shaking his grip from my arm. “I was not.”

  “You were,” he said grimly. “And he was about to rape you in his car.”

  “I chose to be there.” I was always in control with my men. He couldn’t tell me different.

  “I don’t think you were able to make any intelligent decisions at that point.”

  “You didn’t need to interfere,” I snapped. “I would have been fine.”

  “Do you remember me driving you here last night? Or leading you to this room?”

  “No.” I couldn’t recall any of it, and a flicker of fear lit through me. I studied his bruised eye and noticed a recent cut on his lip.

  “You should be more careful.” His brown gaze was serious. “Why do you fuck around with so many guys? You’re going to end up dead in a ditch and on the news one day when you leave with the wrong one.”

  Anger heated my face and I pushed to my feet, intent on getting out of the room. “Fuck off.”

  I took a step and my knee buckled. In a flash he was at my side again, gentle hands guiding me back to the bed. “You aren’t in any condition to go anywhere.”

  I was vulnerable, not in control. I hated it and grabbed command of the situation. I held his gaze, tipped my head down, and gave the smile of an experienced seductress.

  He drew back, disgust on his face. “Don’t try that shit on me.”

  I was stung.

  “Are you gay?” I tilted my head ever so slightly and licked my lips. “Scared to be with a woman?”

  “You’re not a woman; you’re a senior just like me. And no, I’m not gay. I’m simply not an asshole who takes advantage of girls.” He kept his distance, but his hands were ready to grab me again if I started to fall.

  I tried again, lightly touching his hand. “You are gay. That’s okay. I bet I can turn you. Wanna give it a try?”

  He sighed. “Give it up,” he ordered. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  I was flummoxed. No one turned me down. He had to be gay. No other man had responded with such disdain.

  “Now,” he said. “Talk to me like a regular person. Not a person you’re trying to fuck. I’ve seen you at school, but I don’t know anything about you except that all the girls hate you and the guys drool over you. Do you have any siblings?” His brown eyes were sincere.

  I stared.

  “I know you came to our school in the middle of your sophomore year. Where did you attend before that?”

  “I was homeschooled,” I said in spite of myself.

  His eyes lit up with interest. “Really? What was that like? I’ve often wished I didn’t have to deal with the extra shit that comes with school and just study what I want to learn.”

  I told him. I told him about my crazy mother and our home in the woods. I told him how excited I’d been to attend high school and how it’d crushed me when I was rejected. We talked for the next hour and I slowly relaxed. He brought me juice and a bagel and sat with me until I felt nearly normal. He told me his mother wasn’t home and that he’d only been at the party because a friend had dragged him to it.

  “I guess I owe you for getting me out of there,” I finally admitted. “You were right. Someone must have drugged me. I’ve never felt like this, and I’m lucky you were paying attention.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “My older brother drugged you. He was the asshole I pulled off you.”

  “You fought your brother?”

  “It wasn’t the first time,” he said ruefully. “I doubt it will be the last. Luckily he was wasted last night. He outweighs me by about fifty pounds and usually kicks my butt.”

  He was incredibly thin, but it was the lean build of a runner. His brother’s handsome face flashed in my memory and I saw the resemblance. I didn’t know what to say. My pride was at war with my shock at his actions, and I was in the
unusual position of being beholden to someone else. In other words, I wasn’t in charge, and again I was thrust out of my comfort zone.

  “Thank you.” The words were difficult.

  “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

  An honest aura surrounded him, and I scented fresh trees and grass. His brother might be an asshole, but this man was not.

  “I don’t know your name,” I admitted in embarrassment.

  “Christian.”

  It suited him. Just as my name suited me.

  Eventually I felt strong enough to leave the room. His home was beautiful and reeked of money, and I tiptoed as we walked the polished wood floors, terrified to touch anything. He drove me in a Mercedes back to the party house to get my car. I was embarrassed as I stood by my clunker hatchback, but he was too polite to mention it. He waited to make certain my vehicle would start and then waved good-bye.

  I figured that was the end.

  To my surprise he found me at school the following Monday. Usually I ate lunch alone in a small, quiet alcove with a book in my hand. I jumped as he set his tray on my table. He sat down and drew me into conversation. Christian became my friend. We were two outcasts, the geek and the slut. But we each found something special in the other person.

  I never tried to seduce him again; I wouldn’t do that to my friend. He wasn’t gay, but he was a virgin who believed no girl would give him a second glance. He put his energy into his studies and helped me with my math. I gave him tips on his clothing and pushed for him to gain some weight. Other students gave us odd looks. Together we were an unusual sight. Several guys asked Christian if he’d fucked me and refused to believe his denials, but regarded him with a small degree of admiration. We laughed over his jump in status. I curtailed my prowling at parties, but only by a little bit; I enjoyed it too much. I never accepted another drink and paid more attention to what my senses told me about a man. Together we made a difference in each other’s lives.

  It was a friendship I would treasure forever.