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

back into the Prices’ house this morning. Small-town life in America often revolves around church. And I’d be willing to bet, whether Chuckie is religious or not, going to church is part of his routine, if for nothing else than to mingle with potential car buyers.

Should I have left in the predawn hours and hidden in the Winnebago again in anticipation? Maybe, but Jar’s successful trip during the daylight yesterday makes me think we can pull it off again.

I take a shower, get dressed, and head into the living room, where I expect Jar to be up and waiting for me. She’s there all right, sitting at the card table. Or should I say, leaning onto? Her head rests on her arms, which are lying on the table just in front of her computer. The laptop is open, but the screen is dark.

I tiptoe into the kitchen, start up the coffee maker, and set about making some breakfast. We have only one frying pan, so I put the sausages on first and use one of our disposable paper bowls to make the French toast mix. As I do, I watch Jar, sure it won’t be long before the smell of the coffee or the meat will wake her.

It’s not often that I can look at her like this. If I do it when she’s awake, she’d wonder what’s wrong with me. I guess anyone would.

Her hair, the darkest of dark brown, is usually kept in a ponytail or some kind of bun clipped to the back of her head. This morning it’s free, flowing over her shoulders and draping over her upturned ear. When she’s awake, it’s hard for me not to focus on her eyes, as they’re the window into what’s in her mind, so it’s nice to have a moment to take in the rest of her face—the gentle nose that widens a bit at the end, the small but rounded cheeks, and the mouth that can smile as wide as a noontime sunbeam or grimace like a tiger ready to pounce.

I sometimes forget how small she is. There are times, though, when I swear she’s as big as I am. Her drive, her determination, even her physical abilities far outshine what people expect. Which is why I make it a habit of not underestimating her.

I can’t imagine not being around her all the time. If I try, I feel panic building. And if I think about it too much, guilt sets in, and I feel as if I’m betraying Liz. She’s been gone well over sixteen months now, but there are times when it feels like she was alive just yesterday.

She’s as much as told me I need to move on. I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t shown up right now to do the same. Then again, her appearances have…lessened as of late, which I’m guessing is her way of helping me disconnect from our shared past.

I mean, that’s what she’d be doing if she were a real ghost and not just my subconscious playing games.

God, I really need therapy.

Jar moans, low, like a hum, then her eyelids slowly part. For a moment or three, our gazes lock, and I see the hint of a smile on her lips. Then she blinks and quickly sits up, her expression neutral again.

“What time is it?”

“Around six thirty. I’m making French toast and sausage.”

She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes wide, forcing herself to wake up. “That, um, sounds good.”

“I know blow-up mattresses aren’t the most comfortable, but I gotta believe they’re better than sleeping like that.”

“I did not—didn’t mean to sleep here. I was just resting.”

“For how long?”

She looks toward the ceiling, thinking, then says, “Five hours and ten minutes. Maybe eleven.”

Five hours is a lot for her. “Are you feeling all right?”

She frowns at me as she gets out of her chair, then walks to the back of the house without saying a word.

After breakfast, we begin monitoring the bugs at the Prices’ house. Church is indeed on their schedule, but while they’re eating, Chuckie announces he has work to do and will be staying home, torpedoing Jar’s and my plan.

If this news upsets his wife, she keeps it to herself and only says, “Okay.”

When breakfast is done, he locks himself in his office while the others clean up and get ready to leave. The first thing Chuckie does is retrieve the phone from the filing cabinet and turn it back on.

After it powers up, it vibrates softly, indicating it has received a message. Chuckie reads the screen, types in a reply, hits SEND, and turns off the phone again. He then sits at his desk and wakes up the computer.

For the next twenty minutes, he looks at reports from his dealerships, adding notes here and there, basically doing what he told his wife he needed to do.

While this is going on, the boys come down the stairs, dressed in shirts and ties and slacks and nice shoes. Evan has Sawyer take a seat in the living room and says, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

Evan enters the downstairs hallway and sneaks down toward his father’s office. When he reaches the door, he leans in close, listening.

In the office, his dad continues to look at spreadsheets, unaware his son is so close.

I don’t know what Evan is hoping to hear, but I doubt it’s the clack of Chuckie’s keyboard.

I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s taking quite a chance. If his father suddenly opens the door and finds him there, Chuckie would be furious.

What finally gets Evan moving is not his father catching him eavesdropping, but his mother saying, “Okay, time to go,” as she heads down the stairs.

Instead of returning to the living room, Evan slips into the guest bathroom, quietly shuts the door, and flushes the toilet. He then exits and walks into the living room as if he was up to nothing unusual at all.

This kid has some seriously