Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3), Brett Battles [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

office a little after one p.m. The moment we walk inside, he jumps up from his desk, beaming from ear to ear. That’s right. He’s not wearing a mask. Of course, until this moment, he’s been the only one in the office so he can be excused for that.

“Matthew, Kara, so glad to see you!”

Jar and I stop a few steps inside the door, but he’s coming right at us and thrusting out a hand to shake ours.

I hold up my palms. “Whoa, Mr. Hansen. Good to see you, too, but, um—”

Jar cuts to the chase with, “Mask.”

Hansen takes another step, then stops and laughs. “Right, right, right. It’s good to get into that habit, isn’t it?”

He retreats to his desk, grabs a blue disposable paper mask, and straps it across his face. When he comes back, he brings with him a thin stack of papers and a pen.

“How are you two doing this morning?” he asks. “Any effects from the fire?”

“We’re fine,” I say.

“That was very brave of you.”

“It really wasn’t that big of a deal.”

He chuckles. “That’s not what I heard. I talked to Curtis a few minutes ago, and the story he told me is a little more exciting.”

“Curtis?” I ask. I really don’t want to continue this line of discussion, but I have no idea who he’s talking about.

“Curtis Mygatt. He owns the Sentinel. Says he met you at the fire last night.”

I force a smile and say, “I have your check for you.”

By two p.m., all our Walmart packages are inside the duplex, which means technically we’re moved in. Hansen has done us the favor of transferring the utilities into our names and has used his clout to waive any deposits.

“The least I can do for what you’ve done,” he said when he told us.

One of the main rules in the world of secrets is to always keep a low profile. The rule also applies to the practice of my hobby. And yet here we are, having already broken it within a few hours of arriving in Mercy.

Really stellar work there, Nate. Outstanding.

“What’s wrong?” Jar says.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“You groaned.”

I thought I restricted my discontent to inside my head. No sense in lying about it, though. “Just thinking about the news article.”

“It is unfortunate, but in a few days most people will forget.”

Most people, perhaps, but I doubt Hansen will be one of them. And certainly Harlan Gale and Carla Wright won’t forget. Nor, I suspect, will the sheriff’s department.

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

The doorbell rings.

Jar and I exchange a look before we head for the entrance. It’s probably one of our new neighbors, coming to say hi. Maybe even our building mates.

When I pull the door open, I almost laugh from a combination of absurdity and panic. Standing on the other side of the threshold is Curtis Mygatt—owner, publisher, and no doubt lead reporter of the Mercy Sentinel. He’s either obtained our address from the cops or his friend (and our landlord) Mr. Hansen.

He smiles and says, “Mr. Dane, Miss Chen, good to see you again.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Mygatt,” I say. “What can we do for you?”

“I wanted to welcome you to your new home.”

“Uh, thank you.”

“You’re in a great location here. Close to a lot of shops, nice neighborhood. I’m sure you’re going to be very happy.”

“I’m sure we are.”

He continues smiling at us, and I have the distinct feeling he’s expecting us to invite him inside. That is not going to happen. I say, “We appreciate you stopping by,” and take a step back to shut the door.

Mygatt says, “I was also hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

“About what?”

“Last night. Mercy.” He smiles again. “You two.”

Do I want to shut the door in his face and sneak out a back window? You bet I do. Thank God for those acting classes, though. I contort my features into a look of disinterest and say, “I’m not sure there’s much to say.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Look, I just have a few questions you might be able to help me with, that’s all. Nothing big.”

We might as well get this over with. “Go ahead and ask. We’ll answer as best we can.”

“It may take a few minutes. May I come in?”

“We literally just got the key for this place thirty minutes ago. We’re nowhere close to ready for guests yet.”

“Of course, of course. I should have thought of that.” He flashes that smile again. “Tell you what. How about I buy you a cup of coffee, then? I bet you could use a break.”

I do some quick calculus, weighing whether telling him we don’t have time today and avoid him at all costs after that would be smarter than taking him up on his offer and getting it over with. It’s a close call, but better a solved problem that’s behind you than an active one still looming in the future. “That would be very kind. Thank you. We’ll need to clean up first. Can we meet you somewhere?”

“Of course. How about we go to The Smiling Eyes? It’s a coffee shop over on Central, about five blocks from here.”

“Sounds perfect.”

The Smiling Eyes is on a corner, at the end of a row of businesses that include a flower shop, a mini-mart, and an antiques store. Tables are set up on the sidewalks outside the coffee shop, along both the main street and the side street. A makeshift counter has been placed in the doorway to keep anyone from going inside. The owner of the coffee shop seems to be taking the pandemic more seriously than most of the other places in town. I appreciate that.

Mygatt waves to us from one of the tables along the side road as we walk up. “I told them to expect you. Just give Greta my name.”

Greta turns out to be the woman at the counter. She’s probably around my age and looks to be part Hispanic. She’s