The Merciless II Read Online Free PDF Page A

olive-green military duffels and an oversized rolling suitcase covered in burgundy flowers. I packed the rest into cardboard boxes and sent them to our storage unit just outside Hope Springs. I’m giving the house one last walk-through when I spot my grandmother’s needlepoint leaning against the wall in her now-empty room. Jealousy is like a cancer, it reads. Jodi and the others must not have seen it when they packed the rest of her things. I kneel on the floor and pick it up. The frame is smooth in my hands, the painted wood starting to chip. I think of my mom saying those words during our last phone call, and my chest twists.
    I slide the picture into my suitcase. It fits perfectly in the front pocket.
    A silver minivan pulls up as I’m lugging my bags to the side of the road. The words ST. MARY’S PREP stare out from the side door. A woman with a shaggy brown bob rolls down her window and sticks out her head.
    â€œSofia Flores, I hope?” she calls.
    â€œThat’s me,” I say, struggling to drag my bags across the muddy yard.
    â€œLet me help you.” The woman starts to open her door, but I pull my duffel over my shoulder, and shake my head. First rule of being the new girl—never show weakness.
    â€œNah. I got ’em.”
    The woman hops out of the van anyway. The top of her head barely clears my chin, but she tugs my over-stuffed duffel off my shoulder and hauls it to the back of the van. She unlatches the rear door with one hand and tosses the bag inside.
    â€œI’m Sister Lauren,” she says, reaching for my suitcase.
    â€œSister?” I glance down at her navy-blue St. Mary’s sweatshirt and white sneakers. “You’re a nun?”
    She tosses her hair out of her eyes and shoots me a smile that wrinkles her nose. “Surprised?”
    I shake my head—then cringe, wondering if God will smite me for lying to a nun. Sister Lauren just laughs.
    â€œIt’s the clothes,” she explains. “Usually, when people think of nuns, they think of the penguin suit and funny hat.”
    â€œYou don’t wear that?”
    â€œOnly during class and Mass.” Sister Lauren brushes her hair behind one ear, a strand of chunky brown beads dangling from her wrist. She catches me looking at them and thrusts her arm forward.
    â€œThey’re prayer beads. From Uganda,” she explains. “I was a missionary there for a few years after divinity school.”
    â€œThey’re beautiful.” I push the beads around her wrist, admiring the way the sunlight gleams against the wood.
    â€œThe women who made them were so inspiring. If you’re interested in missionary work, let me know. We have some outstanding volunteer programs at St. Mary’s.”
    I’ve never considered missionary work before, but I try to picture it. Flying to some faraway place with all my possessions packed away in a single suitcase. Helping out at an orphanage or school. I smile at the thought. It’s the kind of thing that would have made my mother proud.
    â€œI’ll definitely think about it.”
    Sister Lauren loads my last duffel into the back of the van and slams the door closed. Her eyes flick tothe house behind me. “Is there anyone you want to say good-bye to before we head out?”
    I look over my shoulder at the last place I ever lived with my mother. The windows are dark and a FOR RENT sign stands in the yard, swaying in the wind.
    I square my shoulders and take a deep breath.
    â€œNope,” I say, blinking a tear away. “It’s just me.”
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    The minivan crawls through the streets toward West 72, the only highway that leads out of Friend. We’re traveling at ten miles below the speed limit and stopping at every light. At this rate, it’s going to take three hours to get to Hope Springs. Pastel-colored houses and depressing strip malls creep past my window, then slowly give way to