Come inside, p.1
COME INSIDE, page 1
C O M E
I N S I D E
(A Hannah Mercy Mystery—Book 6)
R y l i e D a r k
Rylie Dark
#1 bestselling author Rylie Dark is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, including the Hailey Rock, Morgan Stark, and Sadie Price series. Rylie’s most recent latest releases are the Hannah Mercy, Sloane Riddle, and Hayden Smart series.
Please visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2025 by Rylie Dark. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SERIES BY RYLIE DARK
HANNAH MERCY
SLOANE RIDDLE
HAYDEN SMART
ARIA BRANDT
CASEY FAITH
BECCA THORN
JESSIE REACH
KELLY CRUZ
MAEVE SHARP
ALEX QUINN
TARA STRONG
HAILEY ROCK
SADIE PRICE
MIA NORTH
CARLY SEE
MORGAN STARK
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The wind came first, a low moan across the flat, white plains of Nebraska. Then came the snow. Not the gentle, festive flakes of Christmas cards, but a hard, horizontal onslaught that erased the world. By midday, Prairie View Elementary was an island in a sea of churning white. The sky was sheet white like a shroud, and the noon light was as weak and gray as a dying man’s last breath.
James Townsend stood under the covered walkway, his breath pluming in the frigid air. At forty-two, he still had the lean build of the runner he used to be, but the lines around his blue eyes were etched deeper now, a roadmap of sleepless nights and quiet worries. He was the school administrator, a title that sounded grander than the reality of budgets, bus schedules, and fielding calls from unhappy parents.
Children, bundled in layers of bright nylon, bobble hats, and gloves, streamed past him, their excited shouts swallowed by the wind’s howl. They were a river of color flowing out of the brick building and onto the waiting yellow school buses.
“They’re going to have my hide for this,” a voice said beside him.
He turned. Kate Morrison, a third-grade teacher, huddled into her thick parka, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. Her brown hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, had escaped in wisps that the wind teased and whipped around her face. She was as beautiful as she’d always been.
“Better to have your hide than to have seventy-two kids spending the night in the gymnasium,” James said. “Can you imagine the sugar-fueled chaos?”
Kate managed a laugh. “You’re right. But you know what Brenda Peterson is like. She’ll complain that her schedule has been inconvenienced.”
“Brenda Peterson’s schedule is always inconvenienced,” James said. “It’s her default state. I’m looking forward to her no longer being head of the parents association.”
He watched the last of the children clamber onto the bus, a small boy in a bright orange hat turning to wave. James waved back. The bus doors hissed shut, and with a low rumble, the vehicle began to inch its way out of the parking lot, its headlights cutting a weak path through the blizzard.
That’s when he saw the blue sedan, its wheels spinning uselessly in a growing drift of snow. He recognized the car. It belonged to the Millers, parents of a kindergartner.
“Looks like someone’s stuck,” he said.
“Always one,” Kate sighed, pulling her scarf tighter.
James buttoned his coat. “I’ll give them a hand.”
He jogged out into the parking lot, the wind hitting him with physical force. Snow bit at his exposed skin. He reached the driver’s side window and tapped on the glass. Mrs. Miller rolled it down, her face a mask of frantic apology.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Townsend! It just won’t catch!”
“No problem,” James shouted over the wind. “Put it in first. I’ll push from the back.”
He moved to the rear of the car, planting his feet and leaning his shoulder into the cold metal. “Okay, give it some gas! Easy, now!”
The engine whined, the wheels spun, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a lurch, the tires found a patch of asphalt. The car shot forward. James, caught off balance, lost his footing and went down, landing squarely in the snowdrift the car had just vacated.
A peal of laughter cut through the wind. He looked up to see Kate standing at the edge of the parking lot, a gloved hand covering her mouth. The blue sedan tooted its horn in thanks and disappeared into the white curtain of the storm.
James pushed himself up, brushing snow from his coat. He felt the cold seep through the knees of his trousers.
“I see your sense of humor hasn’t changed much,” he said, walking back towards her, a grin on his face despite the cold.
“You looked like a turtle on its back,” she laughed.
“A very helpful turtle,” he corrected.
They stood for a moment, the wind howling around them. The school behind them was now silent, the last bus gone. It felt strange, this sudden emptiness.
“Well,” James said, breaking the silence. “Since we’ve been granted an unexpected snow day… would you want to grab a coffee? Assuming anything is still open.”
Kate’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of genuine regret. “Oh, James, I can’t. With the school closing early, David will be expecting me home.”
The mention of her husband’s name sent a familiar pang through his chest. They’d been high school sweethearts, a lifetime ago. He had been the one to end it, convinced that there was a bigger world waiting for him beyond their small town. He’d found that world, and it had chewed him up and left him with nothing but a failed marriage and a quiet job back where he started. Kate had stayed. She had married David, a good, steady man who ran the local hardware store. She had built a life.
“Right. Of course,” James said, trying to keep his voice light. “Another time, then.”
“Another time,” she agreed, though they both knew it was an empty promise. She gave him a small wave and hurried to her own car, starting it with a reassuring roar.
James watched her drive away, another vehicle swallowed by the storm. He stood alone in the empty parking lot, the silence pressing in. He was about to head for his own car when he noticed it. A single light, glowing yellow in a window on the ground floor, back in the maintenance wing.
He frowned. Old Gus, the janitor, should have left with everyone else. James glanced up at the school. It loomed over him, its brick facade dark against the churning gray sky. It looked… wrong. Ominous. The blizzard was getting worse, the snow coming down in a blinding sheet. But he was a stickler for things. He couldn’t just leave a light on and let it eat up electricity overnight. The school budget was already tight enough.
With a sigh, he turned and trudged back towards the building, the wind pushing against him as if trying to keep him out.
The side door was unlocked. He stepped inside, into the eerie quiet of the empty school. The familiar smell of floor wax, chalk dust, and children’s lunch meals was gone, replaced by a cold, lifeless. The only sound was the muffled howl of the wind outside and the hum of the emergency lights in the corridor.
He walked through the building, his footsteps echoing on the linoleum. He passed darkened classrooms, the chairs stacked on desks, the walls covered in bright, cheerful artwork that now seemed forlorn in the gloom. He reached the maintenance wing. The light was on in the janitor’s office, the door slightly ajar.
“Gus?” he called out. His voice sounded too loud in the silence. “You in here?”
No answer. He pushed the door open. The small, cluttered office was empty. A half-finished crossword puzzle sat on the desk next to a cold cup of coffee. He switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness. Then, he stood for a moment, listening. James had the distinct, unsettling feeling that he was not
A door slammed shut somewhere down the hall.
It caused James to jump, his heart leaping into his throat. He spun around, peering into the long, shadowy corridor. “Hello?”
Walking quickly down the hall, his hand instinctively reached for the heavy ring of keys on his belt.
“I’m locking up!” he called out, his voice sharper now. “If someone is in here, you need to come out now, or you’ll be trapped for the night! And it’ll get real cold!”
Silence. The only reply was the relentless moan of the wind. He reached the end of the corridor, a junction that led to the older wing of the school. Checking each door, he found them all locked.
He turned to head back and saw it. A classroom door, halfway down the hall, was open. He knew for a fact it had been closed when he walked past a minute ago. A cold knot formed in his stomach.
Approaching the door cautiously, he pushed it open wider. The room was dark, the weak afternoon light barely penetrating the snow-caked windows. This was one of the old classrooms, no longer in regular use. It still had a genuine slate chalkboard, a relic from a bygone era.
And someone had been using it.
He stepped inside, his eyes drawn to the board. In the center, drawn with white chalk, was a crude but recognizable sketch of Prairie View Elementary. It was surrounded by a chaotic swirl of lines depicting the blizzard. And at the bottom of the drawing, lying in the snow in front of the school, was a stick figure of a man.
His eyes were two simple, brutal crosses.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
James spun around and let out a gasp. A figure stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. He couldn’t make out a face, just a large, imposing shape.
Before he could speak, before he could even process the threat, the figure lunged forward. Something hard and heavy swung through the air.
Pain exploded across the side of James’ head. A bright, searing flash of white, then darkness pricked with stars. He staggered back, his knees buckling, a warm, wet sensation spreading through his hair. Raising his hand to his head, his fingers came away slick with blood.
He looked up, trying to focus on the attacker, but his vision was swimming. Blood oozed into his eyes, turning the world into a red, blurry nightmare. He could see the shape of a man, tall and broad, but the features were lost in the haze of pain.
James opened his mouth, a single, desperate word escaping his lips, a plea whispered into the dusty, silent classroom.
“Please.”
The figure raised its arm again. The object, whatever it was, came down with a final, sickening force. James felt a sensation he couldn’t comprehend, a wet, crushing impact that seemed to implode his skull. He fell, the world tilting sideways, the floor rushing up to meet him.
The last thing he saw, through a crimson veil, was the chalkboard. The crudely drawn school, the swirling blizzard, and the little chalk man lying in the snow, his own crossed-out eyes staring back into the gathering dark
CHAPTER ONE
The notes from the old acoustic guitar were intricate, a cascade of jazz chords that spoke of smoky clubs and late-night improvisations. Hannah sat in the armchair, watching her father’s hands. They were what she always noticed first. Once, they had moved over the fret board with a liquid grace, each finger knowing its destination before the thought was even formed. Now, there was a slight tremor, a hesitation that was almost imperceptible to a stranger, but to Hannah, it was a chasm.
Marcus Mercy, his long gray hair tied back, his brow furrowed in concentration, coaxed the melody from the strings. Then came the mistake. A fumbled chord, a discordant buzz. He stopped, his hand falling from the neck of the guitar. A long, weary sigh escaped him, and he carefully placed the instrument back on its stand. The silence that filled the small, tidy room of the memory care facility felt heavier than the music had.
“I can’t get it,” he said, his voice a low rumble of frustration. He looked at his own hand, the one that betrayed him, and flexed his fingers. “Just won’t do what I tell it to.”
It broke Hannah’s heart. She saw him not as the man sitting before her, his sixty-five years etched on his face, but as the vibrant musician who could hold a crowd captive with a single baseline.
He turned his deep blue eyes on her. “I still don’t like it here.”
“It’s only three days a week, Dad,” Hannah said softly. “Just to give you some extra support.”
“And the other four?”
“The other four, I’m there. And I’ve arranged for a carer to come in on the two days I have to be at the office, and Hank and Jim will pitch in when they can, too.”
Marcus shook his head, looking out the window at the manicured frozen lawn in the morning light. “Feels like I’m a burden.”
Hannah moved from her chair and knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. The skin was worn, the knuckles pronounced.
“You will never be a burden,” she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “The doctors said this could stabilize. Your memory might not get any worse for a long time.”
His gaze drifted to the guitar on its stand. “And my hands? Will I ever be able to play like I used to?”
The question hung in the air, a fragile, desperate thing. She wanted to give him an easy lie, a comforting falsehood, but the truth was a stubborn rock in her throat. She couldn’t rob him of his hope.
“Let’s see how the physio and the cognitive therapy go,” she said, her tone gentle but practical. “Jim is hopeful all of this will help.”
Marcus let out a short, humorless tut. “Doctor Jim McGonigal. Supposed to be my friend. Hoodwinked me into giving up my independence.”
A small smile touched Hannah’s lips. “How did he hoodwink you?”
A mischievous glint appeared in her father’s eyes. “He told me it wasn’t for me. He said it was to help you. So you wouldn’t worry so much.” He shrugged. “That’s my Achilles’ heel, kiddo. You.”
Hannah laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “I wish I’d known that was your weakness years ago. I’d have gotten that horse I wanted when I was ten.”
A sharp knock on the door made them both look up.
“Come in,” Marcus called out.
The door opened and Hank Wilson filled the frame. He was a large man in his early sixties, built like a friendly bear, with a thick beard that was more white than gray. He had a chessboard box tucked under his arm.
He beamed when he saw Hannah. “Hannah-bug!”
She stood up and he enveloped her in a hug that smelled of tobacco and wintergreen. “Hey, Uncle Hank. Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, turning his attention to Marcus. “I’m here for my revenge. You got lucky last week.”
“Still got it,” Marcus said, a spark of his old self returning.
Hank placed the chessboard on the small table between two chairs. Hannah heard a distinct rattle from inside the box.
She raised an eyebrow. “There wouldn’t be any contraband in that box, would there? A little whiskey, some rolling tobacco?”
Hank had the grace to blush slightly. “Of course not. Just chess pieces.”
“Nicotine is supposed to be good for Parkinson’s,” Marcus declared with the authority of a man who had just discovered a miracle cure.
“I’m not even going to argue with that,” Hannah said, shaking her head. She leaned down and kissed her father on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a few days when you come home.”
“You be careful out there,” he said, his hand briefly squeezing hers.
“Always,” she promised. She gave Hank another quick hug and left the room, the sound of their easy banter fading behind her.
She walked out into the corridor, the door clicking softly shut. The hallway was brightly lit and smelled of lemon-scented cleaner. It felt a world away from the warmth of her father’s room. She was halfway to the main exit when a woman in a crisp blue uniform stepped out of an office, holding a clipboard.
“Agent Mercy? A moment?”
Hannah turned. It was Mrs. Albright, the facility manager. She was a woman in her fifties with short, practical hair and an expression that was both kind and no-nonsense.
