Free The Merciless by Danielle Vega Page A

“Come on,” she says.
    â€œThe kitchen’s this way.”
    I follow her down a white-carpeted hallway and into a huge kitchen with stainless steel appliances and cabinets made of deep, dark wood. Gray tile covers the floors, and the only light comes from the window over the sink, where moonlight filters in through gauzy curtains. Riley motions for me to sit on one of the bar stools at an island in the middle of the room.
    â€œIs something wrong?” She opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of water. I see just enough of the inside of her fridge to notice most of the shelves are bare. I clear my throat. I spent the entire walk trying to come up with something to say, but every time words formed in my head I was hit by a sudden, overwhelming feeling of guilt—like I’d been the one making out with Josh instead of Brooklyn.
    Riley puts the pitcher on the counter, considering me. In the dim light her blue eyes look gray.
    â€œSweetie, what is it?” Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. I look down at my sneakers, unable to meet her eyes. If I’d found Brooklyn as soon as I got to the party instead of rolling around on the ground with Charlie, none of this would have happened.
    â€œI . . .” I shift on my bar stool. Footsteps sound in the other room, cutting me off. Riley’s head jerks up as a woman wearing a silky white robe comes into the kitchen. Her glass is empty except for a few ice cubes.
    â€œHi, girls,” she says with a weak smile. She must be Riley’s mother—Mrs. Howard—but she looks nothing like the person from the photographs in the hall. Her hair falls above her shoulders; it looks like a trendy cut that’s grown out. Her face is strange, too—there’s something about her features that don’t match up with where I expect them to be. Her cheeks have a hollow look, like they’re going to cave in.
    She crosses the kitchen, the ice in her glass clinking. She pulls a bottle of something clear out of the freezer, and when she bends over, her robe gapes open and I have to avert my eyes to keep from seeing her bare chest.
    â€œYou girls having fun?” Mrs. Howard asks.
    â€œA blast,” Riley deadpans. “Come on, Sofia. We’ll have more privacy in my room.”
    â€œNice to meet you,” I mutter, then follow Riley upstairs, wondering if her father is behind one of the heavy doors lining the hallway. The thickly carpeted floor quiets our footsteps.
    Riley pushes open a door at the end of the hallway, revealing a bedroom larger than the master suite at my house. Old-fashioned floral wallpaper covers the walls, and heavy velvet curtains hang over the windows. It’s so dark I have to squint to see the edges of the furniture. An ornate wooden cross hangs above her door.
    â€œMake yourself at home.” Riley crosses the room to turn on a light and settles herself in the faded pink armchair in front of a vintage vanity table. Glass bottles of makeup cover the table, along with half-burned candles and lacy fabric that looks like a scarf. Alexis’s and Grace’s pictures crowd the mirror, leaving only a tiny circle in the center uncovered. I stop in front of the vanity, smoothing a dog-eared snapshot. If I weren’t here for such an awful reason, I’d make Riley tell me the story behind every photograph. I’d take pictures of the two of us on my phone, hoping I’d make it to the mirror, too.
    To the left of the mirror stands an old porcelain doll with a cracked face and brown curls like Riley’s. The doll’s cloudy glass eyes follow me as I perch on the edge of Riley’s bed.
    I open my mouth and try to speak, but I can’t say the words out loud. Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
    â€œSof?” Riley leans forward, putting a hand on my knee. “What is it?” Something passes over her eyes, and she leans away, her back ruler-straight. She speaks in a whisper,