The Merciless II (2 page)

I listen for Mom's voice, or the sound of her footsteps. There's nothing.

The doorbell rings, making me jump.

Nerves crawl over my skin like spiders. We never get visitors. I take a step toward the door, thinking of vacant eyes and bloody footprints and tattered skin.

I don't want to answer it, but the doorbell rings again.

“M
iss?” a man calls through the door. It's a deep, unfamiliar voice. I lower my hand to the knob and turn, holding my breath as I pull the door open.

A police officer in a stiff blue uniform stands on our porch, a squad car waiting at the curb. His partner sits in the passenger seat. She holds a walkie-talkie in one hand, barking orders that I can't hear.

Calling for backup,
I think, and fear shoots up my spine.

“Are you Sofia Flores?” the officer asks. I nod, resisting the urge to slam the door in his face and turn the dead bolt. The last time the cops were here was the night we found Grace's body.

I listened for sirens for weeks afterward, certain Brooklyn would tell them the truth about the train accident. But the cops never found Brooklyn, and my secret remains safe. The manhunt for her continues.

I watched the rust-colored bloodstains on our driveway fade under the sun and rain until, finally, Mom scrubbed them away with a bucket of bleach and a thick, wiry brush.

That's it,
I remember thinking.
It's over
.

“Miss?” The cop narrows his eyes. Rain drips from his uniform, leaving puddles on the porch. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say. I brace myself for the silver flash of handcuffs, for the officer to jerk my arms behind my back and tell me I have the right to remain silent. “What's wrong?”

“I'm afraid your mother, Nina Flores, was in a car accident.”

The words fall flat. It takes me a long time to process what he's saying. “I . . . I don't understand.”

“Sofia, your mother died in the ambulance on her way to the hospital. I'm so sorry.”

I stare at the officer's mouth. His lips are chapped, and there's a tiny gap between his two front teeth. He's still speaking, but I can't hear him. The entire world has gone still. I tighten my fingers around the doorknob and
focus all my attention on the way my skin feels against the brass. The sweat gathering between my fingers.

“Miss?” The officer's voice jars me back to the present. “Is there someone else here you'd like me to speak to?”

I shake my head. “I just spoke to my mother on the phone. She's fine.”

Something passes through the officer's eyes.
Pity
. I curl my hand into a fist and bang it against the door. The wood rattles.

“I'm sorry—”

“You've made a mistake!” I shout. But the anger dies as soon as the words leave my mouth. I feel weak. Empty.

“Is your father home?” the officer asks.

“He died,” I say in a hollow voice. “When I was little.”

“What about an aunt or an uncle?” I shake my head, and the officer lifts his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We're going to need CPS here right away,” he says.

CPS
—Child Protective Services.

“Roger that, over,” comes crackling over the radio.

“That's okay. I'm okay, thank you.” I close the door before he can say another word. I can still see his shadow through the cloudy glass panes on either side of the door. He stands on our porch for a moment; then I hear the sound of his shoes on the stairs, walking away. He'll be back. Along with a bunch of strangers who'll decide what to do with me.

I press my hand flat against the wall, steadying myself.
Your mother died in the ambulance on her way to the hospital.
I shake my head. It's not real. I just talked to her. We're going to eat Chinese food and watch
The Wizard of Oz
.

I grab my cell phone and I dial Mom's number. The silly Cheerios photo pops onto my screen. Something in my gut twists.

Mistake,
I tell myself.
This is all a mistake
. Mom's fine. I lift the phone to my ear and hold my breath, waiting for her to pick up.

The phone rings. And rings. A hollow space opens inside my chest. It feels as if someone has tunneled through my internal organs, leaving a hole straight through the middle of my body. Mom always answers my calls, even when she's on duty.

I let my mind travel to the dark place.
Your mother died
. My hands start to tremble.
Car accident
.

A cruel voice echoes through my head.
And why was she in the car, Sofia?
it asks, sounding eerily like Brooklyn. I swallow, tasting something sour at the back of my throat. Mom was only driving because I begged her to come home early. Because I couldn't stand to be here alone.

The phone slips from my fingers, but I don't hear it hit the floor. The sound of static erupts in my ears.

This is my fault.
And now I'm alone—an orphan.

I don't remember walking across the living room and climbing the stairs, but when I look up, I'm standing in front of Grandmother's room. Deep red light spills into the hall. It's the color of the wine they serve during communion. The color of blood. Rosary beads click against the table.

“
Abuela
?” I push the door all the way open. Grandmother is sitting upright in her narrow hospital bed, sliding the rosary beads through skeletally thin fingers. Several years ago, she had a stroke that left half her body paralyzed. She lost control of the muscles in her cheeks, making her face look like something melted. Skin drips from her face like candle wax, and one side of her mouth curves in a perpetual frown. I see her scalp through her wispy white hair.

I step inside the room, shifting around the cardboard boxes of Grandmother's things. Mom and I always said we'd unpack them, but we never found the time to do more than put away her clothes and lean a few of her pictures against the walls. Her favorite framed needlepoint sits on the table beside her bed.

A peaceful heart leads to a healthy body
, it reads.
Jealousy is like a cancer in the bones
. Proverbs 14:30.

The pain hits all at once, like a blow to the chest.

Mom and I are never going to unpack the rest of Grandmother's room. She's never going to pick up my
calls or eat Cheerios or watch that scene in
The Wizard of Oz
that she loves, the one where Dorothy falls asleep in the field of red poppies. She's gone. Forever. Because of me.

My legs crumple beneath me, and I sink to the floor, banging my hip against Grandmother's bedside table on my way down. The needlepoint falls over, sliding back behind the table. I'm shaking all over. I can't breathe. I cup my hands around my mouth and inhale, but my exhale explodes into a choked sob. I cover my face with my hands and cry.

I wish I could go back in time and tell her not to get in that car. I don't need Chinese food and movies. I'm not scared anymore. I can be brave, just like her.

Grandmother stares straight ahead, clutching the rosary to her chest. Her brittle nails curl over the tips of her fingers, all yellowed and cracked. I stare at them for a long time. Painful sobs rattle through me.

“
Abuela
,” I manage to spit out. I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, but they refuse to stop pouring down my face. “Mom is . . . she's . . .”

Grandmother's neck muscles aren't strong enough to hold her head straight anymore, and it bobbles, slightly, as she turns. She looks at me with milky, unseeing eyes and I realize she understands. She's outlived her only daughter.

I crawl across the floor and rest my head against her mattress. Rain crashes against the window, pounding so hard that I worry the glass will shatter. I think of all the empty houses sprawled around us. Street after street of vacant rooms and overgrown lawns and muddy driveways. I'm suddenly aware that I'm about to get my wish—we can't stay in this house now that Mom isn't coming back. I'll finally get to leave this stupid town. Not that it matters anymore.

Grandmother touches my head. Her hand is nearly weightless, and her skin feels almost exactly like crumpled paper. She pats, absently, as if she's not entirely sure what she's doing.

The heavy grip on my heart loosens, just a little. I close my eyes and rest my head against her leg.

The muscles in Grandmother's hand tighten. She digs her long, cracked fingernails into my skin. Pain shoots through my neck and I jerk away, horrified.

“
Diablo!
” Grandmother says in a thin, raspy voice. She lifts a curved finger that looks like a claw and points at me.

“Don't,” I whisper. “Please,
Abuela
.”

“
Diablo!
” she says again. I slink away from her and sink back against the wall, shaking with sobs.

T
wo days later, I'm standing in a graveyard, staring at the flag-draped casket that holds my mother's decaying body.

A steely-gray sky stretches above me, heavy with storm clouds. The temperature has dropped below fifty degrees for the first time since I moved to Mississippi, and cool wind cuts through my dress. I shiver, clutching a bundle of poppies to my chest. A handful of petals flutter from their stems and scatter in the wind. The man who handled the flower arrangements said they're not good for bouquets, but they are—no, they
were
—my mother's favorite flowers, so I insisted
he cut me a dozen. Half the petals have already blown away.

A military chaplain stands at the head of my mother's casket, white robes draped around his shoulders. His face is made up of hard lines and deep wrinkles, the collar of his jacket digging into his leathery neck.

“A reading from First Peter,” he recites, starting down at a thick leather Bible. “‘Dear friends, do not be surprised at the painful trial you are suffering . . .'”

I try to listen, but the wind snatches his voice before it reaches my ears. It's a small funeral, only a half-dozen soldiers from my mother's unit crowd around the coffin. Next to me Jodi Sorrenson, Mom's commanding officer, dabs her nose with a crumpled tissue.

“Your mother would have thought this was beautiful,” she whispers, sniffling. A fat tear rolls down her cheek, but I don't have it in me to comfort her.

“I'm sure she would have,” I say instead. Mom didn't provide specific instructions for the funeral, so Jodi did her best to guess at her wishes. The truth is, I know Mom would have hated all of this. She despised Bible quotes and graveyards. She wouldn't have wanted the military spending money and making a fuss over her. She called funerals “morbid spectacles” and always told me that, when she died, she wanted to be buried in the cheapest casket I could find and for people to donate to charity instead of buying flowers.

“Or donate my body to science,” she added. “Then at least my death could help people.”

She wanted everything to be quick and easy. Efficient—like she was.

I clutch the poppies in my hand. The bouquet was the one thing I chose myself. Another bright-red petal dances off into the wind. I watch the flowers scatter, and fight against the sob building in my throat. Now it's just a bundle of ugly stems.

The chaplain raises his hands. This is my signal. I'm supposed to be the first person to lay flowers on my mother's coffin. The soldiers turn to look at me, waiting, but I don't move. My feet feel as if they've frozen to the dead brown grass. Jodi nudges me with her elbow.

“Go on,” she whispers.

I stare at my ruined bouquet. The stalks are skinny green things. They don't even have leaves. Tears prick my eyes but I blink, refusing to let them fall. I wanted to surround my mother with red poppies. Then, when she was underground with her tacky, overpriced coffin, she'd have at least one thing she loved to make her feel less alone.

I can't give her these ugly stems.

Jodi steps forward, placing a white rose on my mother's coffin. The others follow. Some leave flowers, others just bow their heads and move on. I stay rooted
in place as the few guests pay their respects. The honor guards meticulously fold the flag draped over my mother's casket, and present it to me. I barely hear the words they say as I take the stiff fabric in my hands. Jodi glances at me when the guests start to leave, but I refuse to meet her eyes. She nods and pats me on the shoulder.

“I'll wait by the car,” she says. “Take as much time as you need.”

I listen to her heels crunch against the dead grass. When I'm sure she's gone, I step forward and sink to the ground next to my mother's coffin, the flag nestled on my lap. I lean my head against the shiny wood, a tear crawling down my cheek. I don't have the strength to wipe it away.

“Maybe this is just a dream,” I say. I trace the whirls of wood with my finger. “Like in
The Wizard of Oz
. Maybe we just have to click our heels.”

Mom used to joke that Dorothy's trick of clicking her heels together and saying, “There's no place like home,” wouldn't have worked for us. We've had so many homes that the shoes wouldn't know where to send us. I always giggled with her when she said that but, secretly, I didn't agree. Home doesn't have to be a place. It can be a person. I'd always known where my home was. Until now.

“There's no place like home,” I whisper. I wipe the
tears from my cheeks, and set the flower stems on the ground next to the coffin. The wind blows, spreading red petals over the dead grass. I shiver and wrap my arms around my chest, watching the petals dance across the crumbling stone angels and moss-covered tombstones. Almost like droplets of blood.

Almost like someone's trying to warn me.

• • •

Jodi drives me home after the service. She offers to come in but Wanda Garrity, my social worker, is supposed to be waiting for me, so I tell her she doesn't have to. I climb out of the car and head to the house. Jodi waves and then her car disappears down the street, taillights flashing red. I lift my hand, a second too late.

Jodi gave me her phone number and told me to call if I needed anything. The stiff paper presses through the pocket of my coat, the corners digging through the fabric.

The house feels different. I notice it as soon as I step through the front door. The air hangs heavier on my shoulders. It seems to vibrate.

“Wanda?” I call out, but no one responds. She must be running late.

I close the door behind me, and the walls inch closer. This is exactly where I was standing when I found out my mother was dead. I close my eyes and that moment replays on a loop, like a nightmare that won't end.

Wanda showed up about an hour after the police left. I was still in Grandmother's room, shaking and sobbing, when she found me. She told me to pack a bag, and she took me to a group home for the night. I'm not eighteen yet, so the state won't let me stay in the house alone.

No one knows what to do with me, but everyone seems to agree that I can't live here. Wanda offered to call family, but Mom didn't have any siblings or close friends. She and my dad never married, and besides, he died when I was little. Our only other family lives in Mexico, and they couldn't even afford plane tickets up for the funeral. They wouldn't be able to take me in.

“Wanda?” I shout again. My voice bounces off the walls, echoing back to me. Wanda told me she'd meet me here after the funeral so I could pack the rest of my things and we could “discuss my options.” None of it sounded good.

A few key words repeat in my mind:
Foster care. Group Home. Adoption.

I hurry up to my room. Jodi arranged for my grandmother to be sent to a nursing home, so there's no one else here. It's the first time I've been alone in days.

I pull a suitcase out of my closet and place it on my bed. Then I open the top drawer of my dresser and remove underwear and socks and my neatly folded T-shirts. The rest of the house has already been packed up, my mom's
things either in storage or sold off. Jodi and her friends swept through here and, before I knew it, everything was gone. At least they let me do my room myself. The house is supposed to be rented again after I leave, but I can't imagine anyone wanting to live here. Our story was all over the news. Everyone in Friend knows about the “murder house.”

I focus on the stitching unraveling from the hems of my favorite jeans, and the way my Converse sneakers fit perfectly into the shoe pouch in my suitcase. I've packed my things to move dozens of times before. The motions are methodical and familiar. I can almost pretend Mom is downstairs in the kitchen, covering dishes in Bubble Wrap and humming along with the radio. I start to hum but my voice sounds shaky, so I stop.

That's when I hear it. Whispering.

The hair rises on my arms. I stop folding, a flannel shirt still clutched in my hands. I drop the shirt and turn toward the sound. The window above my desk is open. The screen broke over the summer, leaving a space just large enough to climb through.

A chill curls around my spine. I stare at the window, trying to remember the last time I undid the latch and pushed it open. Wind makes the curtains dance. The whispering drones on.

I swallow. I'm being stupid. Someone probably left
their TV on, or started playing music. But no—nobody lives in this neighborhood anymore. The entire block is empty.

I take a step toward the window and the sound grows louder. It sounds like cicadas.

“Brooklyn?” I whisper. I picture her crouched on the roof just below my window, her hair spiked, smudged black liner circling her bloodshot eyes. She smiles, and dozens of black bugs scurry over her teeth and cling to her lips and cheeks, wings twitching.

I'm coming for you
 . . .

I slide a biology textbook off my desk. It's heavy, the faded cover slick beneath my fingers. I take one step toward the window, cringing as the floorboard creaks beneath my feet.

The whispering drills into my brain. I can't quite make out the words, but it sounds like someone saying my name.

Sofia. Sofia
.

I take another step toward the open window and, this time, the floorboards stay silent. I lift the biology textbook over my head.

Sofia
 . . .

I take a deep breath, and then leap toward the window, heart hammering. I search the roof frantically, my muscles tightening, preparing to swing.

The roof is empty.

I glance across the street and notice a sprinkler jutting up from the lawn, squirting a steady stream of water over the muddy grass. It makes a buzzing sound. Like a whisper. Fear drains from my chest, leaving me deflated.

I lower the book and release a short, unamused laugh. The neighbors had an automatic system installed a few weeks before Mom and I moved here. I
knew
that. They must've forgotten to disable it before they left.

A knock comes from the other side of my bedroom door.

I scream and whirl around so fast that my textbook flies out of my hands. It hits the floor with a thud.

“Sofia?” a woman calls from the hall. The voice isn't Brooklyn's.

“Um, just a second,” I say. I let my breathing steady, and then I cross the room and pull my bedroom door open.

A short, dark-haired woman stands in the hall. She wears a navy-colored suit and low heels. It's just Wanda, my caseworker.

“Is everything okay?” Wanda asks, blinking her insanely long lashes. Her huge doe eyes and downturned mouth always leave her looking depressed.

“Sorry, you scared me,” I say.

“The door was unlocked. Didn't you hear me knocking?”

I shake my head and Wanda gives me a small, polite, smile. “It's nice to see you again, Sofia,” she says. “Do you mind if I come in?”

I move aside and Wanda steps into my bedroom. She sits in the chair next to my desk while I perch at the edge of my bed, nervously tapping my foot.

“I'm sorry to do this today,” she says. “I know you just got back from your mother's funeral.”

I pick at a piece of dry skin next to my thumbnail, suddenly aware of the way my tights make the backs of my knees itch.

“Have you decided where you want to go? I know it's a big decision,” she continues, trying to sound positive.

“Can't I just stay here?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. “I'm graduating next year, and then I'll go away to college . . .”

Wanda shakes her head. “You know we can't allow that. You're still under eighteen.” She pauses. “I've done some digging, and I think I've found a loophole we can work with. In her will, your mother stipulated that you were to be left in your grandmother's care. Your grandmother isn't fit to be your legal guardian but, since she's been officially appointed, the state's at liberty to default to the arrangements she made in her own will.”

“Did my grandmother even have a will?”

“She did. Unfortunately, it's a bit outdated. She wanted her daughter—or legal dependent, in this case—sent to a school run by the Catholic church.”

“Catholic school?” I ask. The words sound strange to me, like I'm talking about someone else's life. I'm an army brat, not a Catholic schoolgirl.

“I went ahead and made some calls to schools in the area. Have you heard of St. Mary's Prep?” Wanda asks.

There's something off in her voice as she asks the question, like what she wants to say is,
Have you heard
what happened
at St. Mary's Prep?

I shake my head. “Should I have?”

Wanda clasps her hands in front of her, considering me with those giant, sad eyes. “It's a Catholic boarding school in Hope Springs, Mississippi,” she explains. “It's a few towns over, but it's the closest one and is very well regarded. There wouldn't usually be any openings, but I was informed that a student left very suddenly last week. You have a spot there, if you'd like it.”

I don't know what to say. Everything is happening so fast.

“I know it's not a perfect solution,” Wanda continues. “But St. Mary's has a scholarship program for students of . . . lesser means. It would cover tuition and board, as long as you kept up your grades and obeyed the
school's morality code. Plus, there's a nursing home less than twenty minutes away by car. I called them this morning and they have space if you'd like to transfer your grandmother.”

I stare at Wanda, unsure how to respond. Catholic school. I picture plaid skirts and stained glass and nuns in long black habits. And it's a
boarding
school, which means I wouldn't get to leave the mean girls behind at the end of the day. I'd have to live with them.

“If you decide to go with St. Mary's, you'd officially be a ward of the school,” Wanda continues. “That means you wouldn't qualify for a more traditional adoption. I understand if you want to try your luck at that. I'm told that the group home in Friend fills up pretty fast, especially with the holidays coming up in just a few weeks. There aren't a lot of beds available, so we'll need to get you moved in as soon as possible, if you want to stay around here.”