Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) by Brett Battles (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

both friendly and clearly in charge, which makes me think maybe she’s the owner.

Once our drinks are ready, we join Mygatt.

“I know it’s a busy day for you so I appreciate you giving me some of your time,” he says as we sit.

“Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Mygatt,” Jar says.

“Yes, thank you,” I say.

“No need for any of that mister stuff. You can call me Curtis.”

Jar and I both take sips from our cups.

“How long have you two been in town?” He asks this as if it’s small talk, but I have no doubt it’s one of the questions on his list.

I’d like to tell him we’ve been here a while, but it’s a question he probably already knows the answer to from the cop last night, or our landlord.

“A day,” I say.

“You mean to say yesterday was your first day here?” He is a mediocre actor at best, the surprise in his voice achingly forced.

I nod.

“Wow. That’s quite the welcome. But don’t you worry. Most days around here are a lot quieter than that.”

“I hope so.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what brings you to Mercy?”

I do mind, but again, he won’t be the first we’ve told. I give him the web designer story.

“So, what you’re saying is, you’re giving us a test drive.”

“You could say it that way.”

“I hope you don’t let last night weigh too heavily in your final decision. Mercy’s a great place. A lot of good people. Good values, you know? Family. Community.” He glances at Jar. “We even have a few Asian restaurants in town. I’m sure you’ll like them.”

Nothing like a little casual racism over coffee.

Jar’s time in the States has been limited, and from her non-reaction, I’m guessing her being called out as “different” has gone unnoticed.

But it pisses me off, and I have to rein myself in when I speak to keep my ire from showing. “You said you had some questions?”

I know he’s already started asking them, but I’m pretending I don’t realize that.

He leans forward. “I’d love to hear about last night from your perspective. Starting from when you spotted the fire.”

I shrug. “Not much to tell. Kara saw it first and we went to find out if there was anything we could do.”

“What were you doing out there in the first place?”

“Just driving around. Getting a feel for the area.”

He nods. “And when you got to the house?”

“The woman, um…”

“Carla Wright.”

“Yeah, Ms. Wright told us her brother had gone inside.”

“Missus,” he says, as if that should have been obvious. “Did she say why?”

“He wanted to make sure the house was unoccupied,” Jar says, speaking for the first time since we sat down.

“Did he see someone?”

“You’d have to ask him,” I say.

Mygatt nods again. “So that’s when you decided to go inside?”

“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?” I ask. “Make sure that you don’t forget something or misquote us?”

If he catches my dig at the lack of accuracy in this morning’s article, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he taps the table next to where his phone is sitting. “Recording everything. Easier that way. When I used to take notes by hand, conversations wouldn’t flow as easily.” He pauses briefly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

I most certainly do mind, but what I say is, “I guess not. But you really should tell people before you record them.”

“You’re right. It’s just that some people get a little uptight about it.” He brushes it away with another one of his smiles. “You were going to tell me about deciding to go into the house?”

“We couldn’t just leave him in there.”

“Carla said something about a blanket?”

As I start to tell him about the blanket and the water, Jar pulls out her phone, acting as if she’s just received a text, and starts tapping on the screen. I’m pretty sure there is no text.

Mygatt asks me about the rescue and I describe that, too. By the time I finish, Jar has returned her phone to her pocket and is focusing on the conversation again.

Mygatt asks a few additional questions, trying to tease more details out of me, but I don’t give him anything worthwhile.

“You’re very modest,” he finally says.

“I don’t know about that.”

“See, there it is again. It’s a good quality. Means you’re a good person, Matthew. Not that there was any question about that.”

Saying thank you would be weird, so I keep my mouth shut.

“Where do you two call home?” he asks. “I mean before coming here.”

“California. The Bay Area.”

“San Francisco?”

“Not too far from there.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is. It’s just expensive.”

“That’s why you’re looking for someplace new?”

“One of the reasons.”

He continues to ask about our lives for a few more minutes, and I continue to give him vague answers. When he runs out of questions, he picks up his phone and says, “May I take a picture of the two of you?”

“Why?” I ask.

“I’d like to do a profile piece on you guys,” he says as if he’s giving us a gift. “You’re new to town and you’re heroes. People are going to want to know about you.”

Holy crap. No, no, no, no, no.

“Wow, that’s very nice of you,” I say. “But we’d rather you didn’t.”

He looks confused, like he can’t conceive why we wouldn’t want the attention.

“We’d like to get to know Mercy on our own terms,” I explain. “If you publish an article about us, like you said—people will know who we are. That’s not going to make it easy for us to settle in.”

I can see my words starting to take effect.

“If you really want to do a story about us, maybe it could wait a few weeks,” I say. “Give us the chance to see if we like it here first.” There’s still some wavering in his eyes, so I add, “If you do that, you’ll be able to include our decision on whether we stay or not.”

Now he’s starting to tip in our direction. “‘Fire Heroes to Permanent Residents,’” he says, trying on a headline. “I’ll