Cry Mercy

“Suspense, humor and a great cast. Toni Andrews has written a fabulous tale. I look forward to many more books with this strange, fun, fascinating group of characters, exploring what is real and unreal.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Andrews has a hip and sophisticated voice that manages to be moody, rich and believably paranormal. This is a page-turning start to what promises to be a very intriguing series.”

—BookPage on Beg for Mercy

“This latest Mercy thriller (see Beg For Mercy) is an exhilarating paranormal tale…. Toni Andrews provides a gripping story as readers get inside Mercy’s head due to her firsthand viewpoint.”

—Harriet Klausner in Genre Go Round Reviews, on Angel of Mercy

“Andrews continues her Mercy Hollings series with this strongly plotted effort. Mercy’s colorful first-person viewpoint adds a great deal to the tale.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Angel of Mercy

It’s said that writing a novel is a solitary activity. While it’s true that at some point the writer must slink off to his or her cave and commit words to paper, sometimes the greatest joy in the writing process comes when words are shared with other writers.

I dedicate this book to Corrina Lavitt and Olivia Lawrence, my wonderful critique partners. Their humor, honesty and creativity continue to turn what can be work into play. I might have been able to do it without them but, boy oh boy, am I glad I didn’t have to!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

I’ve always thought I’d die by drowning.

I don’t remember exactly when I started to believe this. I didn’t grow up near the water, and my early swimming experiences were mostly in public pools. My foster-and group-home years had seldom included even this questionable luxury.

But from the first moment I saw the ocean, I knew I would never again live farther from the shore than the sound of crashing waves could travel. Air without the tang of salt and sea feels wrong to me, as if my lungs cannot truly extract what they need to nourish my bloodstream. And I don’t actually fear drowning. I just have this odd certainty that it’s somehow inevitable that, someday, the Pacific Ocean will claim me.

“Hey, Mercy. Penny for your thoughts.” Sukey knelt on the blanket next to me, her red hair made even more brilliant by the reflection of the sun setting over Catalina Island. Salt air had caused her curls to coil into tight springs, and her freckled cheeks were pink from exertion—she’d taken Cupcake for a run along the firmer sand left by the waning tide. The one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound rottweiler flopped on the sand in front of us, tongue lolling. He panted loudly enough to be heard over the waves.

“Just thinking how close the island looks.” Although Catalina Island is only about forty-five nautical miles from the Balboa, California, shore, it’s often invisible, hidden by the ubiquitous coastal haze. Then the prevailing winds change, and you wake up one morning able to make out the details of the cliffs and even see the tiny dot on the shore that is Avalon Harbor. Tonight, it looked like an easy swim.

“Wasn’t a bonfire the best idea?” Sukey nodded over to a few figures standing near a concrete ring that designated where the city of Newport Beach allowed open fires. “I got Grant and Skip to make s’mores. I think there’s still a couple left. Want one?”

I shook my head. “No, thanks.” I turned to face her. “Sukey, before I forget, I need you to rearrange the office schedule next weekend to give me an extra day off. I…I’m going to Tucson.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? You decided to see them?”

Them.

“Yeah. It’s not like I’ll ever be more ready than I am now.” I got to my feet, brushing some of the sand that had crept over the edge of the blanket from my knees. “I don’t know whether a weekday or a weekend is better, so I figure if I go on Saturday and Sunday, and they’re not home, I can try again on Monday before I head back.”

“You haven’t called? Was the phone number I found not working?” Sukey had just finished reading a book on private investigation, and she’d used a skip-tracing exercise to locate the unlisted number of Thomas and Roberta Hollings, the couple who had given me up to the tender mercies of the state of New Jersey. I refused to call them my parents, even mentally.

“I haven’t tried it.”

Sukey nodded. She knew me well enough to understand that my first conversation in over eighteen years with Tom and Bobbie wasn’t going to take place over the telephone.

The Hollings weren’t my birth parents. They had adopted me when I was only weeks old. They may not have been Ozzie and Harriet, but my life had been stable enough until late adolescence, when strange things had started to happen around me.