Home. New Orleans truly had become home. People loved her there. People respected her there. People didn’t pity her there. Or they hadn’t until six weeks ago. There was something about having your face spread all over the front page of newspapers all over the country that kind of put a person in the public eye. When the picture was under a headline that read RESCUED FROM A SERIAL KILLER, the public eyes were filled with speculation and horror and a physical distance that Mercy rationally knew was a fear of saying the wrong thing. But it was still distance.

But she’d still been okay. Until that damn CNN interview five days ago. One of the other two survivors had talked at length about her experience, making sure to mention all the victims so that no one forgot their names. As if I could. Of course the woman being interviewed had mentioned Mercy and of course Mercy had tortured herself by watching it.

The content hadn’t been awful. It had been respectfully delivered, but seeing her own face on the TV screen, how pale she’d been, how absolutely terrified . . . Mercy hadn’t slept that night or any of the nights thereafter. It was like having a house dropped on her head. Everything changed.

And every one of her coworkers had seen the broadcast. Every single one. They didn’t have to tell her so. Mercy had seen the truth on their faces and it had rattled her to her core.

It made her feel like a stranger in the first place that had ever truly felt like home. But New Orleans was home thanks to Farrah, and that her friend was sticking close by her side was better than any gift Mercy had ever received. If Mercy did run back to New Orleans, Farrah would never blame her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Farrah nudged her shoulder into Mercy’s. “One step at a time, girl. You know the drill.”

Yes, Mercy knew the drill. One whole day at a time had been too terrifying to contemplate, back when she’d first met Farrah, back when she’d been eighteen and trying so hard to make a life for herself. She’d managed a step at a time. A breath at a time. She still needed the mantra to keep her sanity, especially at night when the memories encroached like prowling wolves scenting helpless prey.

Or on flights back to Sacramento. Mercy preferred the wolves, quite honestly. This city, this state, they were frequent stars in her nightmares.

“I know. One step at a time.” Mercy made herself smile. “You showed me. You and Mama Ro.”

Farrah Romero’s mama was priceless, a woman with a warm smile who took no shit from anyone. Mercy wished her own mother had been more like Mama Ro, the wish shaming her more than words could say.

Mercy’s mother had been brave in her own way, sacrificing her life—quite literally—there at the end. Those were the worst nightmares of all.