The Rules of Survival (Mercer #1)

RoS Chapter Six

I remembered buying it about four years ago at a garage sale down the road. The couple who sold it to me said their kids had moved out, and the frog mug was one of many things they'd left behind as junk. It cost me fifty cents and was one of Tanner's most prized possessions. Or, it had been. Now it was broken, just like everything else in this God awful place.

Teresa barreled in through the back door, stopping less than a foot in front of me. Trembling with fury, she pointed a bony finger at me and barked out orders.

"You will leave this house and replace the items you took from me. I don't care how you do it, but you will not come back empty handed. I have put up with your shit for too long now, and I've had enough. If you want to continue living here you will abide by my rules. Rule Fucking One is that you never, ever, steal from me. Understood?"

I raised my eyebrows at her and snorted. A hundred replies raced through my mind, but I really couldn't be bothered opening my mouth. I was just too damn tired and it felt like it would take more energy than I had to tell her what I thought of her rules and where she could shove them.

"You better be off to do what I said," Teresa called after me as I shouldered my way past her to snag my jacket.

Without turning around I threw over my shoulder, "Actually, I'm leaving to get food for the children you've been neglecting. Unlike you, they can't survive on alcohol. And every time their tummies rumble I want to kill you for being selfish enough to let them go hungry."

Leaving her with that last truthful statement, I pulled the rickety back door open and took the steps three at a time. The site that greeted me was jaw-dropping. Teresa had thrown one of the trash cans against the wooden fence surrounding our property. The can lay off to the side, buckled and bereft of its contents. Anything made of glass had been shattered, the moonlight overhead causing the shards to glitter, almost like small piles of freshly fallen snow lay on the grass instead of dangerous shrapnel I'd have to pick up at some point.

The only thing left untouched was a rag hanging on the stair railing. Either it'd escaped her notice, or she'd decided throwing a flimsy piece of material wouldn't sate her rage.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," I breathed, reaching over to pluck the rag off the railing; a rag that happened to me Mycha's jacket.

Apart from the usual wear and tear it was perfectly fine. In fact, it looked rather clean and smelled like expensive fabric softener. It was a scent I'd come to know extremely well over the years, and my eyes narrowed as I connected the dots. I'd left Mycha's jacket at the cemetery, along with a very pissed off Justice. In his state of anger, he'd not only removed the CBK items from Kalen's grave, he'd then taken my brother's jacket home to wash before returning it.

But why? Was he doing it out of guilt? Did he think a few good gestures would erase the fact my brother – my best friend, God dammit, was no longer here? Or was he playing mind games with me? Too weary to try and understand the way Justice Montoya's mind worked, I put the jacket back where I found it and steeled myself for a night of making cash the fast and easy way.

The subway was packed, an added bonus for two reasons. One, I was able to sneak in without a card by trailing a distracted heavyset woman. And two, when one decided that pick pocketing was their best bet at putting food on the table, a large crowd was the safest way to go.

People were under the mistaken impression that somebody just needed quick hands and shifty eyes to be a good thief. Both things helped, but they weren't the be all and end all of the trade. Kalen taught me a long time ago that being a good pickpocket was more about assessing your surroundings and the people you were stealing from than assessing your own abilities in the field.