Without Mercy (Mercy 1)

She didn’t keep them waiting.

Shay emerged from the plane with her attitude firmly in place. Smaller and thinner than he remembered Jules ever being, Shay wore a gray sweatshirt and tight jeans. Her hair, a dull, fake black, was mussed and shaggy, falling over big owlish eyes rimmed in thick, dark pencil. Several braided cords encircled one of her wrists, and she wore flip-flops despite the frigid temperatures. Black nail polish on her toes matched the chipped color on her fingernails.

Trent had the feeling that her I-don’t-give-a-damn, rebellious look actually took a lot of work to achieve.

Hauling her backpack over one shoulder, she eyed the group of authority figures waiting for her, and, if possible, her white complexion paled. Still her mouth was set, pale lips determined. It was obvious she would rather be any other place on earth than here.

Trent didn’t blame her. His own gut clenched as Lynch stepped forward. This was the moment of truth.

“Welcome to Blue Rock Academy, Shaylee,” Lynch said, hand extended.

She didn’t respond, just stared at his outstretched fingers with indifference.

Lynch didn’t miss a beat. “This is Mr. Trent. He’s in charge of the students in your group, or pod, as we call them.”

“Pod?” she repeated, her eyes even rounder. “Really? Like whales? Maybe I’ll get lucky and end up with the orcas.”

Trent ignored the sarcasm. “Hi, Shaylee.” He thought, for just a second, she narrowed her eyes at him. Or maybe he was being paranoid.

Lynch motioned to the woman at his side. “This is Dr. Burdette, the dean of women here. She’ll be your counselor.”

“Welcome to Blue Rock,” Burdette said, and Shaylee rolled her eyes.

While Spurrier unloaded a small suitcase and a bedroll, other introductions were made hastily to Wade Taggert and Jordan Ayres. Whereas Taggert was tall and lean with a perpetually worried expression, Nurse Ayres was a force to be reckoned with. At nearly six feet, she looked as if she could’ve once been a part of the German Decathlon Olympic team. Short blond hair, startling blue eyes, and a muscular frame. Determination fairly radiated from her.

Lynch herded everyone along the dock, toward the cluster of buildings rimming the shore. “Come on inside and we’ll get you registered and settled in.”

“Settled in?” she repeated. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not settling in.”

No one argued. Her reaction was expected. Typical. The staff had heard it hundreds of times.

Shaylee eyed the cedar, stone, and glass buildings that resembled a resort more than the locked-down institution it was. Trent followed her gaze and caught a few students looking through the windows as they tried to get a glimpse of their newest peer.

“You’re in the girls’ dorm,” Burdette said. “But before you’re allowed into your room, you have to go through an evaluation and detox at the clinic.”

“Detox?” Shay repeated, her cool mask cracking. “Why? You think I’m hopped up on something? That I’m using? Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not on drugs! Any drugs! Unless you count the caffeine in Red Bull! What did Edie tell you?” She threw an arm up angrily, fingers grasping the air. “What? That I’m a crack addict? On meth?!”

McAllister

stepped forward and offered the frightened girl a smile. “You’ll be okay,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?” She wasn’t buying it.

“I have an in with the man upstairs,” McAllister joked. “He told me.”

Shay rolled her eyes as McAllister backed off, while Dr. Williams and Nurse Ayres led the way to the clinic at the back of the admin building.

“This way,” Burdette said calmly. She gestured toward the group, giving Shaylee no choice.

Frightened, Shaylee glanced over her shoulder, her gaze chasing after the youth minister, but he was already crossing the campus.

She found Trent staring at her. There was fear in her angry glare and something more—a question. Her forehead puckered and her eyes narrowed as she sized him up.

Trent guessed she wasn’t sure if she knew him or not.

“So you would describe your experience as positive?” Jules asked as she sat on the edge of her cousin’s couch in Analise’s postwar cottage in West Seattle.

“Of course.” Analise wiped her daughter’s face with a warm rag. “Yeah, it was great.”