Page 37 of At Their Mercy: Part I

Honestly, what I really wanted was one of the shrimp cocktails that Macklin was currently preparing over at the house. He’d accepted a huge delivery of food yesterday, including giant shrimp.

I liked giant shrimp.

Right now, I had to settle for some leftover lasagna.

A fake shopping list to explain my impromptu errand was easy. I just had to run out and buy smokes.

Dad had always been predictable. He chose the same roadside motels wherever he went. He ate the same food. His routines never changed. And neither had his truck the past thirty years.

I parked right next to it, putting me directly in front of Room 14. Even numbers on ground level, odd numbers one story up.

I grabbed the food container and forked up another mouthful of lasagna, and I stared at the door to Dad’s room. He was in there, either waiting for Reese’s arrival or for his texted response. I’d only been gone from the house for twenty minutes, so chances were, my brother was still doing laps. He was usually at it for an hour.

Then again, our own pool wasn’t as big as the one at Mclean House, maybe half the size, and he’d mentioned it wasn’t optimal for laps. That was part of the reason he’d started running with the pups in the morning instead of swimming.

Either way, he wasn’t here, and he wasn’t coming.

I swallowed the food and left my truck. I brought the Tupperware container, though. I wasn’t interrupting my first lunch for that motherfucker. Besides, I could multitask.

Multitasking was the easiest when you felt nothing.

Not a damn thing. Yet, anyway. We’d see how Dad reacted to being told to get the fuck out of our lives. If he got angry, I just might snap.

That could be fun.

I went over to the door and gave it three quick raps.

I supposed I could thank Danny for teaching me how to shut off completely. Otherwise, one might be nervous about seeing their shithead father for the first time in over two decades.

Alas…he was an assignment. His emotional manipulation posed a threat to my brother.

I could sense that the anger was lurking real close. It wouldn’t be difficult to unleash it. But for now, I was enjoying my lasagna.

I heard steps on the other side of the door, and it opened shortly after.

You got old.

Fucking hell, he didn’t live right. Was he still smoking two packs a day? And drinking a bottle of bourbon every week?

Reese should stop bitching at me for my six or seven or ten cigarettes. I ate vegetables too, and I worked out when he made me.

“Reese, my boy.” His craggy face lit up with relief, and he opened the door wider. Shitty motel room, shitty dad. “Did you bring the money?”

Nope.

“Wrong son,” I drawled, walking in.

He’d never been able to pull off that mustache.

I had another forkful of lasagna as I turned around to catch his reaction. Blank, was the answer. He stood there and stared at me.

I chewed.

“River?”

I tilted my head. “Do you have any others?”

His expression shuttered, but I caught the unease in his expression. “What’re you doin’ here?”