Prologue: Bobby

Bobby Mercer stomped up the porch steps and pulled open the screen door with a jerk. Angel!" he yelled. He almost let the door slam shut behind him, but instinct, in the form of his ma's voice, kicked in. "Bobby don't you slam that door!" - he could hear the words like she was standing right there at the top of the stairs looking down at him, frowning and smiling in the same expression, as if she was completely exasperated with him and really glad he was home all at the same time. He stuck his hand out and caught the swinging door at the last minute, letting it snick gently shut. "Angel! Sophie!" he shouted up the empty stair case. "Loco Ono!" That last would usually get a screech of protest from his brother's crazy-ass woman, but the house was quiet.

Bobby huffed, his breath showing in the cold air, and walked towards the kitchen in search of beer. And maybe food. but definitely beer. God he needed a fucking drink. Or a joint. Or both. Problem was, since Angel joined up he'd also cleaned up-the military was picky about its drug tests- so it wasn't like Bobby could raid his brother's stash. And Jerry, mister responsibility I've got a wife and two fucking adorable little girls (well, Bobby adored them), he'd never had a stash worth raiding in the first place. So the joint was out, unless he wanted to go digging through Jacky's room, which he just…didn't. And the beer-he glanced at the label-the beer was some weak-ass non alcoholic low carb crap. What. The. Fuck. Sophie must be on a diet again. Who the fuck let her buy the beer? Bobby glanced sourly back through the kitchen into the living room, aware of but refusing to acknowledge the preternatural silence in the house. And that's when he saw the note.

It was Angel's scrawl, on a piece of paper that had obviously been taped to the mirror by the door, but had fallen down under the side table so Bobby hadn't seen it when he'd come in. Frowning, he stalked over to pick it up.

Bobby-

We're with Sophie's sister.

555.436.9366

Call.

The last word was underlined, twice.

Bobby sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face before glancing up and catching sight of his reflection in the mirror. He saw the weight of the last six months in the tense shoulders, the downturned mouth. And he saw the grief that never seemed to leave his bleak, angry eyes. Bobby couldn't look at his own face in a mirror without seeing the face of his little brother, his Jacky, blood filling his mouth as he cried for his big brother to help him. And the face of his Ma, looking so worried and sad. God he hated thinking about that look on Ma's face. Bobby Mercer wasn't anybody's idea of a perfect son but he'd do anything for his Ma and when she was unhappy, well nothing was right with the world.

His Ma sad and worried. His Jacky scared and hurt. Sometimes Bobby wanted to poke his own eyes out to get the images of their faces out of his head. But somehow, he didn't think it would be that easy. Getting blind drunk was another option. He looked down at the fake beer in his hand. Well, apparently not tonight. He grunted, smoothing out Angel's note with chilled fingers, and picked up the phone on the table to make the damn call. The cold made his breath fog over his reflection in the mirror. He could have turned on the heat, but outside it was the middle of fucking July, in the middle of the hottest fucking summer on record in the Motor City.