hair as she squinted at her phone and read through the six texts she’d sent Emily last night and early this morning while she’d been going through the grimoires. No response. Em hadn’t answered her even once. “She’s not okay. No damn way. I’m texting her right now. Again.”
“Hey, Mag?”
Mercy looked up from her phone. “Huh?”
“Remember that we all grieve differently. Be there for her, but don’t be surprised if this changes her. Mom’s death has changed us.”
“You’re right. I’ll remember. Thanks. And good luck today.”
Hunter smiled. “You, too. Later gator.”
Mercy’s response was automatic. “After ’while crocodile!” Then she returned her attention to her phone, texting:
EM! SORRY. I JUST GOT UP. U OK? CALL ME!
While she waited for a response Mercy brushed her teeth, piled her hair up in a loose knot, and took a quick shower before putting on her most comfy Free People boho dress. It was the color of moss with blue flowers embroidered down the bodice of it and an adorable high-low ruffle that made it sexy and cute in the front, but long enough in the back not to cause stress whenever she had to bend over.
Her phone rang as she was sliding her feet into her favorite moccasin slippers.
“Em!”
Emily’s voice was muffled, like she had a cold that had completely clogged her nose. “I can only talk for a sec.”
“It is awful?” Mercy asked.
There was a long pause—so long that Mercy frantically wondered if she’d asked the wrong question—when Em’s shrouded voice finally replied. “Mag, his eyes are gone.”
Mercy’s stomach rolled in rebellion. “Your dad? His eyes?”
“Yes,” Emily whispered. “The sheriff told Mom.”
“Oh, Freya!” Mercy’s legs stopped working and she sat hard on the end of her bed as bits and pieces of the sheriff’s creepy words about Mr. Thompson, the dead guy he’d found by the olive tree, lifted from her memory:… dead man … with no eyes … Ripped right out of his head …
“It’s so terrible I don’t want to think about it, but I can’t stop thinking about it,” said Emily.
“Is that how he died?”
“No. He—he was strangled and then the murderer took his eyes. Mag, I just—” Emily’s words ran out as she sobbed.
“Come over, Em. Just get in your car and come over here right now.”
Emily took several deep breaths before she answered, and when she did she sounded broken. “I can’t. Mom’s not okay.” She paused and then added in a whisper, “They let her see him. I wouldn’t—couldn’t. But I should have. I shouldn’t have let her go in there by herself.”
“They shouldn’t have let her see him! Bloody hell, Em! What’s wrong with the sheriff?”
There was a sharp sound in the background and Emily spoke quickly. “Gotta go. I think Mom just dropped another cup. She’s, uh, medicated. Heavily. I’ll text you later.”
Before Mercy could say anything else the phone disconnected. Mercy finished putting on her slippers and slowly went downstairs. She hadn’t imagined Abigail’s music. Hunter must have flipped on the Pandora station. Mercy was glad. She stood in the kitchen and let the beautiful lyrics of “Shores of Avalon” soothe her shattered nerves as she brewed another pot of her mom’s special dark roast coffee. Mercy didn’t love coffee like Abigail had, but she did like the way it smelled—and if she added enough coconut milk and sugar it didn’t taste too bad. But, more importantly, it was part of her usual morning ritual, and even though it was past noon Mercy craved whatever might help her feel normal, if only for a little while.
She put two slices of thick sourdough bread in the toaster and got Abigail’s homemade strawberry jam from the pantry. As she slathered sticky-sweet goo on the warm bread her thoughts spun. Horrible things are happening in Goodeville and it all started the night Mom was killed. What if the sick trees have something to do with it?
Mercy sat at the table in the breakfast nook, which Xena had piled high with old grimoires the night before. She moved them out of the way and texted Em again:
CALL ME WHEN U CAN! I’M HERE. LOVE U!
Then Mercy stared out the back window as her coffee went cold as she faced the thoughts she’d pushed aside the night before.
What if Hunter’s choice to swear into the service of a god instead of a goddess is causing the trees to be sick? All of it—every bad thing—started that terrible night. The night Hunter officially claimed Tyr as her god. It was