His stomach soured. This wasn’t a stunt to her. “Of course.” Merrick took his own seat and smoothed his expression.
Fake, practiced, concealing his shame.
“Your server will be right with you.” The hostess pivoted and took her leave.
He’d been to Gary Danko a handful of times but never with Nikki. This was nice. For a minute, he forced himself to forget why he was here and focus on the company. The atmosphere. The high-dollar food they’d be consuming at zero cost to him.
Cost in dollars, anyway.
Beneath the table, Nikki slid her bare foot up his calf.
Be cool. Be cool. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat for the third time, and pretended not to notice. “You like risotto?”
She laughed and folded her hands so they concealed a portion of her face. Her doe eyes were the prettiest shade of copper. A man could get lost in those eyes.
As he all too often did.
“Risotto is so cliché,” Nikki said.
Amused, Merrick leaned forward. “What would you propose?” He almost offered to take her for pizza, though he couldn’t imagine Nikki eating with her hands.
But then she mentioned something about “endives” and “cardamom” and “foie gras” and his hope withered with his appetite. For a second he considered they might have something in common after all.
However, nothing surprised him. “Order whatever you wish,” he said and placed his napkin in his lap.
Dad would be so proud. Merrick scowled. He could almost hear the nod of his father’s approval beneath the yawn-fest background music.
Dinner was a blur of pretentious foods Merrick hated he knew how to pronounce and too-small portions with some fancy glaze and soufflés and champagne. (No such thing as underage when you had his name.) Merrick’s favorite spot at Fisherman’s Wharf distracted his thoughts—a place the opposite of Gary Danko. His father would have had a stroke if Merrick had taken the elegant Nikole Owens to get a cheap pretzel and Coke, then invited her to walk Pier 39 barefoot.
Maybe he should have done that after all.
Their usual lip-lock consumed the drive home. Merrick had been so engrossed in Nikki, at first he didn’t notice the blue and red flashing lights outside his house.
But then he did notice, and everything else faded with the aftertaste of champagne on his tongue.
He didn’t feel Nikki squeeze his hand or hear her whisper “I love you” in his ear for the first time as he stumbled out of the car.
He didn’t react to his mom’s hysterical cries.
He didn’t cringe at his father’s emotionless expression.
The only thing Merrick saw was Amaya, pale and unmoving on a stretcher, her ginger locks matted to her temples and forehead.
Amaya, too small to fill the stretcher with her frame.
“Son, stay with your mother.” His father placed a hand on his shoulder. “You two can ride down to UCSF Benioff Children’s when she calms down.”
Merrick jerked from his touch. Stumbled.
“Have you been drinking?” Hiroshi asked.
Merrick didn’t answer. Instead, he staggered toward the stretcher. “Wait.” He held up one hand as rain began to fall.
The paramedics halted, allowing him to see his sister before she was taken.
He uttered a single question through his teeth. The only question that mattered. “What did he do to her?”
The older paramedic returned the question with a furrowed brow.
His father had finally cracked. Finally stopped using his words to make Merrick’s sister feel worthless. Now he’d shown his true colors.
Black-eye blue. Bruise purple. Blood red.
Merrick’s taut arms and fists shook, his veins close to bursting. He would kill his father for this. He could report him at last. The cops couldn’t do much for verbal and emotional abuse. But this? Amaya wasn’t even eleven yet. They couldn’t stop him from reporting it. Merrick was eighteen. Between him and Mom, his sister would be taken care of. Could this be the final straw that convinced her to leave his father for good?
He hoped so.
“What. Did. He. Do?” Merrick asked again. Cuts covered her arms. Some old. Some new. How long had this been happening? What kind of sick person would—
The paramedic shook his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.” A pause. Then, “This was a suicide attempt. If not for your father, your sister would have died.”
Merrick’s jaw went slack. He examined Amaya more closely. The cuts . . . Most of them were . . . old. Scabbed and scarring. There were some fresh ones too, but nothing that appeared deadly.
He glanced at her right arm. A tight bandage covered a wide space between elbow and wrist. The bandage was soaked with blood and rain.
Suicide? Amaya? The girl who still wore pigtails and slept with a stuffed dog?
This didn’t make sense.
He squeezed her freezing hand once, twice, three times. Then he backed away.
They lifted his unconscious sister into the ambulance and his father followed, stepping inside without glancing in his direction once.
Merrick’s mother wailed again.
The doors slammed.
He wanted to scream. To pound on those doors until his fists bled. But he didn’t. He had to be calm, collected. If this was their chance to get away from his father, Merrick would have to remain cool.
He gazed up at his mother where she waited on the porch steps. She watched the ambulance as it raced away, sirens fading in the distance. She was no longer crying, just staring. Staring and unmoving. A marble statue, sunken to the bottom of the sea.
He took her hand and led her inside. She didn’t say a word as he handed her a towel from the hall closet.
“Get changed, Mom. Maya needs us.”
She nodded, looking right through him, and headed upstairs. Once she was out of view, Merrick paused, then did a quarter turn. From the family room, their lit Christmas tree stared back at him, the symbol of hope and light mocking him where he stood. The holiday was over, with New Year’s mere hours away. But there would be no more celebration. No chorus of “Auld Lang Syne” or cheers when the ball finally dropped.
He walked to the tree and yanked the cord from the wall. Hard. Then he bolted back outside to let Harold know they’d be needing his services a little later than normal.
“Is Maya okay?” Nikki asked.
“She will be,” Merrick said, pushing control into his voice.
Inside was a different story, though.
Inside raged a squall.
Inside, he was undone.
Who knew a person could drown without ever stepping foot off land?
Seven
Coral
Parties happened often in the winter palace.
Jellyfish-jar lanterns swung from thick ropes salvaged from sunken ships. Mirrored tabletops reflected the moonlight that shone down through the open rafters, and lavish foods richer than royalty filled every belly. The water smelled of tropical perfumes, imported from warmer waters. The music bore the colors of laughter while the tapestries sang of masked sorrows.
This was King Jonah’s favorite game of pretend. Music. Dancing. Delicate foods too pretty to eat. Anything and everything he could use to distract them all from what awaited beneath the surface.
Their people were cursed.
And everyone was talking about it.
One might think after so long they’d grow tired of the same old gossip. But merfolk were nothing without their pristine memories and unrelenting reminders. They were a people divided.