Broken Grace (13 page)

Dr. Newell nodded and took more notes. “I had not heard any of that before.”

“But then again, apparently, so was I.”

Dr. Newell stopped writing and looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“My boss at work seems to know me intimately. He wanted me to know that he didn’t kill Michael and he wants me to lean on him. The thought made me sick.”

“And your boss”—she paused, reviewing pages in her notebook—“is that Dave?”

“I mentioned him?”

“Yes.”

“I’m starting to wonder if this memory loss is a way to avoid dealing with who I am and what I’ve done.”

Dr. Newell closed the notebook, removed her glasses, and smiled at Grace. “I know that we didn’t have a lot of time together, but I’m pretty good at getting a sense of my patients, of knowing who’s unstable. I think you were—you are—a young woman trying to figure out what to do with her life. I never got the sense you would be capable of violence.”

She wondered if she’d ever shared her history of punching walls and slashing tires. “Do you know about my childhood?”

The doctor replaced her glasses and opened her notebook. “How do you mean?”

Grace pulled up her shirtsleeve and offered her forearm as evidence. “I guess my dad did this to me.”

Dr. Newell glanced at the scars for a moment without expression. “You had not shared that before,” she said while taking more notes.

Grace shifted in her chair. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. “I thought you’d have some answers. I can’t sleep. I seem to wake up because of disturbing images or sounds. Last night I dreamed I was standing over my dead parents.”

The doctor looked up. “So you remember them?”

“I’ve had a couple of visions. But last night I learned they were murdered. I dreamed I was in the room, standing over their bed. My mother’s eyes opened suddenly with this horrified expression. There was blood everywhere. There was blood on me.” She felt physically sick, recalling the image, and wiped the tears falling down her cheeks. “What does that mean? Lisa said I wasn’t there. Some drug addict went away for the crime, but I don’t know . . .”

“You’ve had that dream before. You often had trouble sleeping because you knew how they died and often pictured it. That’s pretty normal. When horrible things happen to those we love, it’s common to vividly work through how it might have happened, what it was like for those loved ones. It might not mean anything. As far as your parents, you never said anything negative about them.”

Grace rubbed her eyes, desperate to open the doors of her mind.

“Grace, stopping the antianxiety meds cold turkey causes insomnia—so it’s no wonder you’re having trouble. You were an insomniac when you came to me. That’s why I gave you the prescription. And apparently it was helping. The last couple of visits, you had said you were sleeping soundly.”

“So I never talked about my parents being abusive?”

Dr. Newell shook her head. “Therapy is a slow process. We were getting to know each other. It seemed that your feelings about your parents were complicated.”

“Why don’t I remember anything? Is this all because of that damn accident?”

Dr. Newell sat back, dropping her pen onto her pad. “I don’t know. This kind of amnesia rarely happens from car accidents or head injuries. Memory loss can happen, but usually that involves what’s called retrograde amnesia or transient global amnesia. In those cases, you remember who you are and you recognize people you know well, but you forget the events leading up to and surrounding the time of the injury. You seem to be blocking a lot more than that. This type of amnesia—psychogenic or dissociative amnesia—is more often caused by emotional shock or trauma.”

“Well, Michael’s death apparently occurred around the time of the car accident. Do you think that means I was there?”

“It could mean a lot of things.”

“It could mean I killed him.”

“It could also mean you saw who killed him.”

“And how long will it be before I remember?”

Dr. Newell’s mouth opened, then closed, before she finally said, “There are a lot of unknowns. This kind of memory loss can last hours or years. We haven’t been together that long, so I can’t fill in your gaps too much. But I have two suggestions.” She checked her watch. “Unfortunately, my next appointment is starting momentarily, but I want to see you again as soon as possible. I’ve got Friday afternoon entirely open.”

“Okay.” Two more days. She just needed to get through two more days.

“And I want to give you this.” She walked to the desk and pulled a cassette tape from her drawer. “I always record my therapy sessions with this old tape recorder so I can take notes later if necessary. Perhaps in this situation it would be helpful if you heard the tape.”

“Yes, please!” Grace rose from the couch for the tape, wincing from the sudden pain in her ribs.

“Okay. Just be careful with this. I’ve never offered tapes to a patient before.”

“Why?”

“Well, just remember that I’m bound by doctor/patient confidentiality. But that’s for your benefit. It’s your privilege and, legally speaking, you can lose that privilege if you share the contents of these tapes. It would be like allowing a third party to be in the room, in which case the privilege is gone.”

“Okay.” Grace put the tape in her purse and sat back down.

“I’m sorry my technology is so outdated. Do you have an old tape machine you can listen to?”

“There’s a tape deck in my truck.”

“Good. Bring this back on Friday and we’ll talk. Maybe hearing yourself will help unlock some memories. Also, I think we should try some relaxation techniques. How do you feel about that?”

“Like hypnosis?”

The doctor smiled. “I don’t like to use that word because it suggests I’m somehow in control of the process, but I think in the proper relaxed state, you might be able to tap in to more memories.”

“I want to remember. I keep having these feelings at the house. When we first pulled up, it was familiar. I felt fine and I’ve had moments of recalling random things—laughter, playing—but I get near the woods and it’s like I’m a little kid, scared of monsters. When I went to the basement, I heard a little girl’s scream. It was so real that I turned around. It was like I was having a panic attack. And then it happened again—at least I thought it happened again, but Lisa made me wonder if it was just a nightmare. I was drowning in the tub, like someone was holding me under. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re back, Grace.” Dr. Newell stood and walked her to the door. “We’re going to work through this together and figure it out, okay?”

Grace nodded, feeling a tiny thread of hope.

“How about Friday at one o’clock?”

“I’ve got nothing else to do.”

“Great. So come back Friday with a list of your medications. Until then, get plenty of rest. If you’re having memory fragments, you may even unlock this on your own.”

Grace stopped before Dr. Newell could open the door. “What if I did something?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Dr. Newell put an arm around her. “Remember, everything that happens in here is protected by doctor/patient privilege. In fact, I could lose my license if I shared what you tell me.”

After leaving the doctor’s office, Grace climbed into the truck, turned on the engine, and examined the cassette tape. Three hours of history right here. She said a little prayer for answers before inserting the tape into the deck.

FOURTEEN

A
T FIRST, THERE WAS NOTHING BUT
SILENCE.
She feared the old tape deck was eating the tape, but then Dr. Newell’s voice said: “November fifth, Grace Abbott,” before she heard the doctor walk to the door and welcome Grace into the office. Dr. Newell advised Grace of the recording, then asked what had prompted her to make the appointment. Hearing her own voice on the tape, Grace leaned in, closed her eyes, and tried to wrap her head around the fact that this was her life.

She was telling the doctor she’d been suffering from insomnia for the last six months. She explained that she had worked on changing her diet and limiting caffeine, but it had no effect. She thought maybe the doctor could prescribe something.

“Is there something that’s happened in the last six months?”

“Well, I’m stressed a lot.”

Dr. Newell pressed for more, and Grace listened as she shared concerns about her current situation, Michael, and her future. She’d started college classes at Southwestern Michigan College, the Niles campus. But it was a struggle. She had difficulty balancing classes and restaurant shifts, and she and Michael were never on the same schedule. “He’s annoyed by it all,” she’d said. She was starting to wonder
if maybe her interest in college was the beginning of the end for them. “And I’m annoyed by him a lot these days.” He always wanted her to be available when he was in the mood to hang out, but he was always getting high or playing poker, sometimes late into the night, and he would wake her even when she had a big test coming up. She’d even applied to live in the on-campus housing next semester, though she hadn’t yet heard if she’d gotten it, and she wasn’t sure she could go through with it or how Michael would take the news.

Dr. Newell asked her how long they’d been living together. Three years, she said. The doctor remarked that it was a long time, particularly since Grace was so young. “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s like my only family.”

“So thinking about leaving him must be difficult.”

“Yeah.”

Grace rested her head on the steering wheel near the speaker, not wanting to miss a word, a sound, an inflection. But her cell phone rang. She hit the stop button on the tape deck and answered.

“Is this Grace Abbott?” a man asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Donald over at Harbor Country Jewelers. Your ring is ready.”

“My ring?”

“Your engagement ring, ma’am. I know it took me a little longer than I said it would, but it’s done and looks beautiful.”

What?
“Would you remind me where you’re located and I’ll get right over there.”

“Of course. We’re on Whittaker, just west of Merchant.”

“I’ll be right there.” Grace looked up the jeweler’s address on her phone. It was only a block down the road.

The storefront window display glowed, the light bouncing off jewels, a large
S
ALE
sign attempting to entice passersby. Grace opened the
door, triggering an elegant chime. Pink satin damask drapes covered the walls, and antique glass cases exhibited row after row of jewelry. An older gentleman in suit and tie, a perfect match for the tired elegance of the space, entered from the velvet-curtained back room. Wisps of gray hair rested atop his smooth but spotted head, reading glasses perched low on his nose. “Well, that was fast,” he said with a smile.

“You remember me?” Grace asked.

“Sure. It was just about twelve days ago, right? I don’t get much traffic this time of year.”

She walked over to the counter. “I’m sorry, this is a pretty strange situation. I was in a bad accident and I’m having trouble with my memory. I don’t remember being here.”

“My dear, how terrible. Well, I’m glad to see you’re okay. Maybe this will help.” The man bent down and brought out an engagement ring from the case, offering it to her.

Grace stared at the ring while the man described it. “One-point-five carats, two baguettes, fourteen-karat-gold setting.”

“Nice,” she said. She’d never seen it before.

“Here.” He gently took her hand and slipped the ring on her finger. A perfect fit.

“When did I bring this to you?” she asked.

“Let’s see,” he said, retrieving the receipt from his drawer. “Friday, December sixth. It was in the afternoon. When were you in the accident?”

“Saturday. The next day.”

“Oh, how terrible. A car accident?”

“Yeah.” Grace was still focused on the receipt. “And I filled this out?”

“You did, ma’am.”

She looked at her name, her phone number, her address. An address she didn’t know.

“Was the ring bought here?”

“Of course. The gentleman had been in a week earlier.”

“Michael?”

“Well, I don’t actually recall his name, but you would know,” he joked.
“He’d been a little nervous, said it had to be perfect. He didn’t seem
certain that you’d say yes. But obviously, you did.” The man grinned.

“Could I see that receipt—for his purchase?”

His forehead creased. “I’m sorry, miss, that’s a bit unorthodox. I’m not accustomed to sharing receipts. I’m sure most men don’t want their brides to know exactly what they spent on the ring. Could be too much, too little . . . wouldn’t want to get him in trouble. You understand.”

“Right. I know this is weird. But . . . he’s dead.”

“Oh my Lord.” He put his hand on her now-ringed hand and squeezed. “I’m so sorry.”

She pulled away. People needed to stop touching her. “Thanks. But, like I said, I’m just trying to piece it all together.”

“Of course. Wait here.” He went into the back room and returned a couple of minutes later. “Here. The ring was bought by Michael Cahill, Saturday, November thirtieth. One-point-five carats, thirty-eight hundred dollars.”

Grace stared at Michael’s receipt, then at her own. The address was the same. So on the Friday before his murder, she was having her engagement ring resized. She’d said yes.

Hackett was grabbing more coffee when Bishop walked in. “Oh shit,” he said under his breath. “Hi. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Don’t look so surprised. It wasn’t exactly a party.” Bishop poured a mug of coffee and Hackett followed him back to their desks. “We got up there before eleven. We were out by noon. I took the kids to lunch before sending them back to school.”

“How’d it go?” He immediately regretted the question. How could it go?

“I don’t know. But Sandy might be right. She’s really weak, and none of us were even sure what to do. But Sandy swears she can hear us all. The kids were scared, especially Paige, but it was good. I mean, they were glad to have been included. She was a good woman,” he added, his voice trailing off, like his mother-in-law was already gone.

Hackett kept glancing at the door, wondering if this was a good time to change topics, but Bishop did it for him. “Enough of that. What’d I miss?”

He wasn’t sure where to begin. Certainly not with the fact that he’d forgotten to call the bartender from The Rack, or that he’d intentionally put off calling the cell company about those records.

The station door opened and Dave Jacks stood there, holding it for Sheri Preston, who breezed past him, barked at the clerk, then marched toward them in her tiny miniskirt and four-inch heels, while Jacks followed meekly behind.

“What’s this?” Bishop said, setting his mug on his desk.

Hackett cringed, then straightened his back. “I called them.”

“What?”

“I did some research on that drug in Jacks’s apartment. This might be something. There’s no legitimate reason to have those pills, and their effects feel eerily connected to this case. I figured that because Jacks and Preston are each other’s alibis, and she met the description of the woman who met Cahill at The Rack, I should talk to them again.” Before Bishop could respond, he added, “I was just following my gut, like you said.”

Bishop smirked at him like a young pledge. “All right. Well, let’s do this.”

Preston dropped her purse on Hackett’s desk. “Really, Officers, I don’t have time for this. I had nothing to do with Michael Cahill. I barely knew the guy. Met him maybe one time. Do I need a lawyer or something? Because I’m about ready to scream harassment.”

Jacks didn’t speak.

Bishop smiled. “Thanks for coming, Miss Preston, Mr. Jacks. Let’s go back here.”

He turned to Hackett. “Put ’em in one and two.”

Hackett led the suspects into separate interrogation rooms, told them to take a seat, and came back out to Bishop.

“Let’s do Jacks first,” Bishop said. When they entered, Jacks’s coat was off, and he sat back, smiling, looking as stoned as he had during their first meeting. Before they’d even sat, Jacks began his defense. “Guys, I’m happy to help you, but I have no idea what happened to Mike. I didn’t know the guy. Ask anyone.”

Bishop took a seat across the table. “We’re not so sure, Dave. Your alibi for Saturday morning is Sheri Preston. And her alibi is you.”

“So?”

“So, we’re not so sure we should trust the two of you.”

“Why?”

“Well, we had those pills from your place checked. Looks like you had a good supply of scopolamine. A drug Cahill was given in the days before his death.”

Hackett looked at Bishop. Could they really just make stuff up? Bishop didn’t meet his eyes. He obviously had a strategy.

“What? Not from me. They’re relaxation pills. They help me sleep. Maybe he took them—”

Bishop turned to Hackett. He was up.

“There’re a few problems with that theory,” Hackett said. “One, that drug isn’t taken for sleep. Two, what you had was not a brand-name version of the drug but a homemade concoction. And three, if you had a lawful reason for having those drugs, we don’t think you would have called them vitamins. Also, Cahill was seen leaving a bar with a blonde a week before the murder, and the next morning he had no memory of the previous evening and suffered hallucinations—known effects of scopolamine.”

“Sounds to me like he drank too much. What does this have to do with me?”

Bishop leaned in toward Jacks’s face. “We’ve got Miss Preston, who meets the description of the blonde he left with, and you, who had the drugs, and you’re connected—on the morning of the murder, in fact. You want to help us understand why you’d drug Cahill?”

Jacks shook his head. “You’re crazy. I didn’t drug anyone. And I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think Sheri knew the guy either. He never even came to the restaurant. Grace was with the guy for years, and he never came in. Completely uninterested in her friends at work, far as I could see.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this a good bit. Maybe you wanted to break them up,” Bishop said.

“Why would I want to do that?”

“You’re into Grace,” Hackett interjected.

Jacks looked down. “I care about Grace, but not like that.”

Hackett looked at Bishop, who nodded toward the door and smacked his hands against the table. “Well, stick with that story, Dave, and this could take a long time.”

Jacks stood. “Hey, are you arresting me for something?”

“Nope. This is just a friendly conversation. You can leave anytime you want. But I’d advise against it. The more you cooperate, the quicker we can figure this all out.”

The two stood and Jacks sat back in his chair.

Out in the hall, Hackett asked, “What do you think?”

“Let’s talk to Preston for a second. See where this goes.”

When they entered the room, she was pacing. “What the fuck is this about? Do I need a lawyer? I told you, I didn’t even know the guy. I am not involved in whatever you think is going on here.”

Bishop stepped forward. “Here’s the thing, Sheri. A woman of your description was seen with Cahill the Sunday before he died. We think he was drugged that night.”

“You think? What does that even mean? And what does that have to do with me? Or his murder?”

“Well, your alibi for the murder is Jacks, and he seems to have a good supply of a drug that may have been used on Cahill. That connects Jacks to the vic, and maybe you too.”

“I’m telling you, I barely knew the guy. I’m not the one you’re looking for. You don’t even know if he was drugged. This sounds like a lot of fishing.”

“Perhaps you and Dave were trying to break them up?” Bishop said. “Maybe something went wrong?”

Before she could respond, Hackett added, “If Dave has gotten you involved in something, the best thing you can do is share everything you know.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “Listen, I’ll tell you everything I can, and I’m happy to help. I have nothing to hide, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The men joined her at the table.

“What kind of drugs are we talking about?” Preston asked.

“Scopolamine,” Hackett said. “You heard of it?”

“No. What does it do?”

“It makes people completely submissive. It’s known mostly for use in robberies and in sexual assault—like a roofie. Victims have no memory of what happened.”

Her eyes widened as she processed the information. “And Dave had this drug in his apartment?”