“Let’s get your luggage,” Farrah said. “Then the rental car. We’ll find somewhere to eat and let you pull yourself together before we see your brother.”

Mercy had to swallow back the bile that rose to burn her from the inside out every time she thought about her brother. Gideon. How she’d hated him, for so many years.

How wrong she’d been. God, I am a horrible person. He was going to hate her, and if he didn’t, he should. Him and his best friend, Rafe.

She’d done both of them wrong. A wave of dizziness had her sucking in air as she realized too late that she’d been holding her breath. And that she’d stopped walking in the middle of the terminal, forcing disgruntled travelers to go around her. I’m rude, too. “God,” she gasped as little black dots flickered all around her. This was such utter bullshit, but she couldn’t seem to make it all stop.

“You’re all right.” Farrah’s hand was on her back, rubbing small circles as they stood there. Farrah ignored the frowns on the faces of the travelers, focusing only on Mercy. “That’s my girl. It’s a panic attack. You know what to do. Breathing’s good. In and out.”

Mercy blinked hard and readjusted the strap cutting into her shoulder. The cat carrier was heavy, but that was good because the biting pain was helping to center her. Not that she’d admit that to anyone ever again. The last time she’d admitted that pain helped her focus, she’d ended up in the psychiatric ward on a seventy-two-hour hold. That had . . . sucked. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

Farrah smiled, bright as sunshine. Her best friend had the very best smile. Just seeing it made Mercy want to smile back. It was Farrah’s superpower. “Of course you’re okay,” she said, giving her back a final pat. “Let’s get moving, so we can get something to eat.”

Mercy told her feet to move. One step at a time. Thankfully her feet listened and she and Farrah were headed toward baggage claim. “We have to get the cats settled first. I’ll find a pet store to get litter boxes. And food.” Hearing the word “food,” Rory yowled pitifully from his carrier, and Mercy patted the side. “Hush, beast. You’ll survive a little longer.”

Farrah made a derisive noise. “I think your cats could miss a meal or two, Merce. Or ten.” She lifted the cat carrier she held in one clenched fist. “Jack-Jack weighs sixty-two pounds.”

Mercy laughed, the sound foreign but welcome. Farrah could always make her laugh. “Not quite sixty-two pounds.” Her Ragdoll kitties tipped the scales at nineteen pounds each. “Besides, the vet said they’re both healthy. Not fat, just sturdy.”

Farrah’s brows lifted. “Sturdy. I like that. I think I’ll start using that word for myself.”

Mercy frowned. “Stop that. You’re curvy and gorgeous. I wish I had your curves.” Farrah was soft, her whole demeanor inviting hugs, and the bright, bold colors she wore glowed like jewels against her dark skin. Today’s outfit was bright yellow and had heads turning with smiles and appreciation.