‘What about him?’
‘Our father? He’s dead, too. Overdosed. The same year you escaped Eden, ironically enough.’
‘Good. I hated him. He made Mama cry, every time he drove away.’
‘You remember him?’ Somehow that surprised her.
‘Vaguely. I was three the last time he came sniffing after Mama. You were born nine months later.’ He tilted his head, studying her. Still calm. ‘If this isn’t about money and everyone is dead, what are you so afraid to tell me?’
Here we go. ‘Not everyone’s dead. We have siblings. Half siblings, to be technically accurate. His parents hired PIs to track down all the grandchildren. We were the only two they didn’t find.’
He blinked at her, his eyes hardening before he carefully schooled his features into an expression that was far too calm. ‘I . . . see. Are any of these half siblings legitimate? To be technically accurate,’ he added coldly.
She winced. He was mad. He has every right to be. ‘Yes. Two are legal heirs, another four are like us.’
‘You’ve met them all.’ A statement, not a question. And still unnervingly calm.
‘Yes. They’re all . . . close. They have family dinners. Reunions. Holidays. They’re nice people. All of them live in or around New Orleans. And they’ve welcomed me.’
His calm expression was morphing into one of betrayal, and it was like a knife in her gut. Because she deserved it. She deserved every ounce of resentment and rage he could muster.
‘How long have you been welcomed by them?’ he asked, the question barely audible.
‘I didn’t meet them right away. I was afraid to. I wasn’t in a great place emotionally when I first arrived in New Orleans.’
‘But you settled there. Near them.’
‘Yes. I used the money from Grandma’s will to go to college. Met Farrah. Met her family. Started therapy. I eventually got a car and found John’s house. That was after my first year at Tulane.’
‘John.’
‘He’s the oldest. He’s thirty-five and is the glue, I guess. He and his wife do all the organizing, but everyone hosts at different times. Adele is the youngest. She’s twenty-three. All together there are seven nieces and five nephews.’
‘You met them seven years ago?’ Gideon asked, stricken.
She flinched. ‘No, not then. For a year I drove to John’s house and sat outside, watching them come and go. All the holidays and parties. I watched them living their lives, trying to get the courage to talk to them.’
‘And then?’ Gideon asked gruffly.
She studied his face, but she couldn’t tell if he was feeling anger, regret, or what else. He’d wiped his expression clean. But she knew he was feeling something, because his jaw was so tight, it was a wonder he hadn’t cracked a few teeth.
‘And then, after about a year and a half of what I thought was stealth, John came out to the car and asked if I wanted to come in. Turns out they’d all been watching me while I watched them, almost from the beginning.’
Gideon was silent for a long, long moment. ‘So you have relationships with our siblings, is that what you’re saying?’
It was almost a relief. Almost. Because Gideon hadn’t asked the truly hard question yet. Why didn’t you tell me? She still didn’t have a good answer. ‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t tell me.’ Another statement, not a question. Of course it wasn’t a question. Because she hadn’t told him.
‘No, I didn’t.’ She drew a breath and hoped this would end okay. ‘They asked me to tell you, to reach out to you.’ She exhaled and it hurt. ‘To tell you that they wanted to meet you. To know you.’
‘To have a relationship with me,’ Gideon said, his voice gone deep and gravelly.
Mercy fought the urge to shiver. She wasn’t afraid of Gideon. Not physically. But she was afraid of what he’d say.
Because she wanted him to keep loving her. It was a hard thing to admit after so many years of pent-up rage. Wrongly placed rage.
Why hadn’t her mother told her earlier why Gideon had fled? Why hadn’t she told Mercy privately where he’d really gone?
Because I might have corrected one of the Eden leaders when they continued repeating the vicious lie. She’d been an impulsive child, quick to speak her mind.
Ephraim Burton had changed that. Now she was ultra careful to the point of obsession.
And none of this was Gideon’s fault.
‘You kept them to yourself,’ he said, accusation now clear as a bell.
‘Yes,’ she said, forcing herself to meet his hard gaze. ‘I kept them to myself.’
‘Because you hated me.’
She nodded once, because that was also true. ‘When I got out of Eden and saw you so happy and healthy and living your life as if Mama hadn’t sacrificed for you . . .’ As if I hadn’t sacrificed for you, she left unsaid, because it felt petty and wrong. Because it was petty and wrong. ‘I hated you. You had a life and I was this wraith, just . . . existing. So I hated you. And once I found the others, I kept them to myself.’
‘For six years.’
She swallowed hard. ‘Yes. For six years. I’m sorry, Gideon.’
He smiled, but it was devoid of any warmth. ‘For which thing, Mercy?’
‘For all of it. For hating you. For pushing you away all this time. For keeping you from knowing our brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews. They really want to know you.’
Gideon’s stare became a glare before he looked away. ‘Which two are legit?’
‘John and Angela. I’m closest to John. I think most of us are.’
‘And their last name?’
Because neither she nor Gideon had known their father’s name. Mama had clearly known, but she’d never mentioned it. ‘Benz. Our father was John Benz Sr.’
Gideon’s gaze jerked to meet hers, his eyes wide. ‘Mama named you Mercedes when our father’s name was Benz?’
Mercy could only nod, hoping her brother was seeing the humor in that and not the treachery of her betrayal.
He looked away again, his gaze fixed on Karl’s desk. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Who?’
‘John.’ A muscle in his cheek bulged as he ground his teeth. ‘John and Angela and the others. If they asked you to tell me about them for six fucking years and you obviously didn’t, what did you tell them about me? About why I wasn’t meeting them?’