Mercy Thompson 01-05 - THE MERCY THOMPSON COLLECTION

lot and parked in front of the office.
    I was so jittery that I had trouble opening the door of the car, and even when I was out, I was shaking like a junkie.
    â€œWhat’s the code?” he asked, standing in front of the door.
    â€œOne, one, two, zero,” I told him through the chattering of my teeth. “It’s my birthday.”
    The little light on the top switched from red to green: something in me relaxed and my jitters settled down.
    He took my keys and opened the door, then locked it behind us. He looked through the office for a while, even pulling the step ladder over so he could get up high on the parts shelves. After a few minutes he started pulling things off the shelves and dumping them on the floor. A thermostat housing hit the cement floor and cracked. I would have to remember to reorder it, I thought. Maybe Gabriel could go through the parts and see what we could salvage. If I had to repay Zee, I couldn’t afford to lose too much inventory.
    â€œMercy!” Suddenly Tim’s face replaced the thermostat housing in my view. He looked angry, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with the housing.
    He hit me, so it must have been my fault that he was angry. He obviously wasn’t used to fighting. Even with his borrowed strength, he only managed to knock me back a couple of steps. It hurt to breathe afterward; I recognized the feeling. One of my ribs was cracked or broken.
    â€œWhat?” he asked.
    I cleared my throat and told him again, “You need to get your thumb out of your fist before you hit someone or you’ll break it.”
    He swore and stormed out of the office and out to the car. When he came back, he had the goblet.
    â€œDrink,” he said. “Drink it all.”
    I did and the jitters got worse.
    â€œI want you to focus,” he said. “Where is the walking stick?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be in here,” I told him solemnly. “It only stays places where I live. Like the Rabbit or my bed.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt will be in the garage.” I let him into the heart of home.
    The bay nearest the office was empty, but so was the other bay—which worried me until I remembered that the Karmann Ghia I’d been restoring was out getting more work done. Upholstery.
    â€œI’m glad to hear it,” he said dryly. “Whoever Carmine is. Now where’s the walking stick?”
    It was lying across the top of my second biggest tool chest as if I’d set it down casually when I got some other tool. Clever stick. It hadn’t been there when we walked into the garage, but I doubt Tim had noticed.
    Tim picked it up and ran his hands over it. “Gotcha,” he said.
    Not for long. I must not have said it out loud—or else maybe he didn’t hear me. I was babbling again, so maybe it just had bled in with the rest of the words that were leaving my mouth. I took a breath and tried to direct what I said.
    â€œWas it worth killing O’Donnell for?” I asked him. A dumb question but maybe it could keep my thoughts focused. He’d told me that, that I needed to focus.
    As soon as the thought occurred to me, my head quit feeling so muzzy.
    He caressed the stick. “I’d have killed O’Donnell for pleasure,” he said. “Like I did my father. The walking stick, the cup, they were gravy.” He laughed a little. “Very nice gravy.”
    He leaned it against the tool chest and then turned to me.
    â€œI think this is the perfect place,” he said.
    He might have been handsome, but the expression on his face wasn’t.
    â€œSo it was all a game,” he said. “All the talk of King Arthur and the flirting. Was that guy even your boyfriend?”
    He was talking about Samuel. “No,” I said.
    It was the truth. But I could have said it in a way that wouldn’t make him angry. Why did I want my love angry with me?
    Because I liked it when he was angry. But the picture that ran through my head was Adam, punching the bathroom door frame. So angry. Magnificent. And I knew to the bottom of my soul that he’d never turn that great strength against anyone he loved.
    â€œSo you were just using the doctor to shake up the situation, huh? And you invaded”—he liked the sound of that, so he said it again—“ invaded my home. What did you think? Poor geek, he never gets any. What a loser. He’ll be grateful for a few crumbs,