Free In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) by A.W. Hartoin Page A

was Steel Vipers Baseball and Immaculate Heart Varsity Baseball. The back window only had one thing on it, a memorial sticker.  

    Rest in Peace
    Beloved  
    Q
    March 3, 1987  

    1987. That was a long time to mourn. To be fair, my high school boyfriend had disappeared nearly ten years ago and was presumed dead. Sometimes it felt like yesterday so who was I to judge. I once wanted to put a memorial sticker on my truck, but Dad threatened my life.  
    “Good morning, ladies,” said the guard. “You’re the Watts bridal party?”  
    We said we were, but he required two forms of ID before he ran a metal detector over us.  
    “You’re clear to go in, ladies. Have a wonderful time at the castle,” he said.  
    “What about our luggage?” asked Sorcha.  
    “We’ll bring it to your rooms after we’ve x-rayed it.”  
    “You’re x-raying our luggage? Why? We’re a bridal party,” said Bridget.  
    He nodded and smiled pleasantly. “It’s just a precaution. Security is our top concern here at the castle.”  
    “And why is that?” I asked.  
    “As I said, it’s just a precaution.”  
    The security should’ve made me feel safe. Instead, I felt like a prisoner. The Girls and I had an easier time getting into Israel.  
    “Leslie is waiting for you,” said the guard and he got out a piece of equipment made for sniffing bomb-making materials.
    I stared at him until a warm voice said, “Ladies, may I introduce myself. I’m Leslie, one of the owners of the castle.”  
    I turned to find a man around fifty standing under the pavilion. He had long silver hair feathered back from his face in a way that didn’t seem outdated at all, wire-rimmed glasses, and an outfit that made me want to date him despite the fact that he was the same age as my father. The man could rock a vest. He wore a white crisp shirt under a tailored pin-striped vest. The fitted jeans didn’t hurt either.  
    “Oh,” chirped Jilly and a fierce blush crept up her neck. Sorcha tossed her hair and Bridget just stared. I stared too, but I recovered quicker.  
    Sorcha whispered to me, “He looks like he should be on the cover of Forbes .”
    “Or Rolling Stone ,” I said.  
    Leslie smiled, showing even white teeth so perfect they had to be caps. “Morty.”  
    “Leslie.”  
      There was a grunting behind me and I spun around. Uncle Morty heaved himself out of the limo. Crumbs rained down on the pristine pavement.  
    Bridget yanked on my arm. “Mercy, please.”  
    “Um…right. Uncle Morty,” I said in a wheedling tone that I wasn’t going for but couldn’t control. “What are you doing out of the limo? You said you were staying in there and not coming out.”  
    “I changed my mind.” He wasn’t looking at us but at the facade. Oh no. The creative wheels were turning. It was nearly impossible to stop him once his brain latched on.  
    “But I bought you burritos,” I said.  
    “They sucked.”  
    “I’ll buy you more burritos. Better burritos.”  
    Uncle Morty scratched his belly, exposing the hairy expanse and I could feel the panic in Bridget. Uncle Morty and his…stuff was not good in an isolated castle for four days or ever, if I’m being honest. Morty was an acquired taste and my cousins had not acquired him yet.  
    I peeled Bridget’s hand off my arm and threw my hands up. “Darn. It’s too bad you didn’t pack anything. You don’t have any of your stuff. Your dragon models, your swords, your helmets. And clothes. You don’t have clothes. Clothes are essential to the writing process.”  
    “No, they ain’t,” he said. “I’ll just wear this.”  
    “For four days?” asked Jilly. Her mouth hung open wide enough for me to see her dental work.  
    “That ain’t nothing. When I’m on a writing streak, I’ve been known to wear the same shit for two weeks.”  
    “Oh my god,” said Sorcha.  
    “Oh my god is right. My damn book ain’t working and this place is already getting my