Broken Grace (4 page)

She found some socks in the dresser and wandered to the bathroom. She stood at the pedestal sink, bathed in the bright light bouncing off the white-tiled walls, staring at her mirrored image: the freckles, the mole near her chin, the teeth, the bite of her jaw. She had good teeth, very straight. Had she worn braces? She made several faces at herself—serious, goofy, tongue out, tongue in . . . could she flip her tongue? It was like playing with a new toy—this face, this body. She opened the medicine cabinet and examined the shaving cream, disposable razors, deodorant, toothpaste, floss—like a detective looking for clues. She pulled the cap off the Mennen deodorant and whiffed. Masculine, familiar. Did Lisa use this? Did she? Did Michael? A small makeshift table sat next to the sink, piled high with makeup, brushes, a hair dryer, and jewelry. She searched for a glass or cup—her cotton mouth had returned—but despite evidence of every possible item one might cram into a bathroom, found none.

She peeked into Lisa’s room. Paint rollers and open paint cans sat atop newspapers lining the floor along the walls, now half-covered in a vivid turquoise that practically glowed in the dark. A pile of ripped wallpaper sat in a heap on the floor, and Lisa lay curled into a ball on the mattress like a baby.

Grace made her way down the creaking stairs to the kitchen for water. The house was quiet and dark. She stood in the center of the room and considered the space. It felt familiar. She shut her eyes and heard cabinets closing, a woman’s voice calling her down to breakfast. Her muscles relaxed. She opened her eyes. There, in front of the sink—a tall woman, maybe forty, with wild, long, wavy dark hair, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and a paint-covered apron, looking out the window toward the backyard, smiling. Mom. It was only a glimpse and then it was gone.

Perhaps everyone was right. Being here would bring it all back. She got some water and took another Ambien from the bottle by the sink. She sat at the table, enjoying the nanosecond of what must have been a memory before a loud clacking sound started up.

She walked into the hall, the noise growing louder. It was coming from below. Under the stairs, she saw a door, held shut by a hook-and-eye latch. She lifted the hook and the door opened, as if she’d given freedom to a force behind it. The air was cold and damp. The noise grew louder. It had to be the furnace. Lisa had said Mom and Dad’s stuff was in the basement.

The switch on the wall failed to turn on a light. Still, she gripped the railing and descended the creaking wood treads, the total darkness of the basement engulfing her. She stepped onto the cold concrete floor and nearly shrieked when something touched her face. But it was just a string. Pulling it bathed the room in the dim light of a bare bulb above her head.

The furnace in the corner rumbled and then clacked to a halt. The room fell silent, but the space was calling out to her, almost begging for investigation—old pieces of furniture, boxes, piles of clothing still on hangers, framed artwork, laundry baskets and milk crates filled to the brim—all of it holding potential clues to her life. She walked over to a large roll of carpet, taped together, and, pulling back a corner, revealed a hint of white shag. She fingered the fibers and smiled. It was hers. She’d rolled around on that rug as a child in her bedroom.

Next to the rug was a white-painted table covered in butterflies. This was hers too. Her fingers traced the texture of the paint, the delicate brushstrokes on the wings. Her mom had painted this. Grace moved around the table, examining all four sides, the butterflies, flowers, detailed trees and grass. On the back, in marker, were smiley faces, at least a dozen, drawn with a child’s hand. Had she done that? Among the smiles were two circles, linked together, each containing one letter:
G
and
M
. Grace and Michael? But it was a child’s work. Could that be
M
for Mom?

She sat on the floor and sifted through nearby boxes. A picture frame held a photo of a woman and a child, sitting on a blanket in the grass, staring intently at each other. The little girl—probably Lisa—maybe four years old, with short, wispy hair, held the woman’s face in her hands. The woman was a younger version of the mother she had remembered in the kitchen. She touched the glass, as if she could reach through it and touch the woman’s hair. An ache welled up, an overwhelming sense of loss, of needing her mother, even if she couldn’t remember her. What had happened to her? To both of their parents? She needed to ask Lisa more tomorrow.

Farther down in the box was another picture, this one of a little girl swinging under that giant tree in the front yard. The girl leaned back, her mouth open in joy, her long, wavy dark hair falling behind her, little bare feet high in the air. The hair was the same as Grace’s. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the breeze, the massive branch creaking against the pull of the ropes, the birds. It almost felt real, but was it wishful thinking? Was it her?

Something began to howl outside. She walked to the window above the washing machine. She couldn’t see anything, but the howling continued. First one, then more. Coyotes.

As she stood there, a feeling of déjà vu rushed through her. She tried to understand the strange sensation gathering inside. There was nothing odd about what she was looking at: an old washing machine, a slightly newer-looking dryer beside it, a large cast-iron basin full of dirty laundry, and, above it, an old metal chute. A churning filled her belly, like nausea, but then rushed through her system like a locomotive. She tightened her grip on the machine, weakened by the sensation, terrified of a feeling she couldn’t identify. And then it came like an alarm: a long, terrified scream.

Grace whipped her head around so quickly that she winced. There was no one else in the basement. But she heard it again, the sound of terror and panic. It was a child. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get that noise out of her head. It faded to a whimper and she took a breath and let her head fall back. She opened her eyes, staring at that chute. The voice was gone, but her stomach twisted in knots. She thought she might get sick. Was it panic? Memory? She rushed back upstairs and latched the door shut.

As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she instinctively stopped at the midway point. Why had she known that spindle would be loose? She stood for a moment, eyes closed, gripping the railing tightly with both hands, slowly moving her foot toward the spindles, mimicking a kick, and she heard it: the heavy weight of thick-soled boots pounding up the stairs, stomping each tread, smashing the spindles like thunderclaps. The force buckled her strength. She fell back against the wall, sitting hard on the stair. It felt as if her mind were a damaged circuit board and she’d been messing with the wires, trying to connect pathways but causing only sparks and shocks and damage.

She returned to her bed and lay there with her eyes closed for what felt like years, wishing for sleep that wouldn’t come, trying to think good thoughts—but what came instead were questions, one after the other. She played with them, sorting and reordering as though faced with a crossword puzzle, unsure which answers were needed most, which might give clues to answer other questions, what she might learn from this house. Finally, with exhaustion came sleep.

FIVE

I
T WAS NINE FORTY-FIVE WHEN
G
RACE
GOT UP.
Lisa’s door was shut, but she could hear the muffled sounds of music, of Lisa singing along inside. Grace opened the door and the full blast of the song filled the entire second floor. Lisa was bouncing around, flicking paint at the walls. Specks covered the floor and ceiling. When Lisa turned to work on the area toward the door, she jumped.

“Damn, you scared me,” she said. “Good morning! What do you think of my masterpiece?” The four walls were all bright turquoise now, but Lisa’s large brush was covered in black paint. Splatters of black covered random bits of the walls. Bright-eyed and covered with paint flecks herself, she smiled with pride at her creation.

Grace had no words for the chaos. It felt a little like a nightclub without the black lights.

“How’d you sleep?” Lisa asked before launching another splatter at one of the walls.

Grace envied her energy; Lisa seemed the embodiment of her polar opposite. “I don’t know. I was up a lot. I wandered around a bit.”

“Really? I didn’t hear that. I’ve been up for ages. I’m good to go on, like, five hours.”

Had she wandered, or was that a dream? “I’m a little foggy.”

“Remember anything?” Lisa asked without stopping.

“I remember coming here yesterday.”

Lisa turned to her and almost chuckled. “Do you remember the police coming here?”

“Police,” Grace repeated, scanning her brain for the details.

Lisa stopped and came over, her tone softening. “Do you remember what they told us about Michael?”

Grace struggled to reach through the fog.

“Your ex-boyfriend?”

There were pieces there, she could see them, and yet . . .

“He’s dead,” Lisa said, like it was old news.

“Right.” Grace nodded, relieved. “Right, yes, that’s right. You made soup.”

“That’s right.” Lisa smiled at her oddly, then turned back to her work.

“Please.” Grace reached out and grabbed her arm, feeling a rush of panic. “Help me.”

Lisa looked at her arm, turning red under Grace’s grip. “Let go,” she said, her voice clipped.

Grace withdrew immediately and watched Lisa’s pinched expression shift back to the concerned look she’d worn at the hospital. “Of course I’ll help you, Grace.”

“I’m sorry. I need to know who I was. I need a history.”

Lisa pulled her in for a hug, but it felt like a stage direction that made them both uncomfortable. She patted Grace’s back softly. “It’s okay. Go get some coffee and cereal. I bought your favorite. I need to clean up the brushes. I’ll be right there.” She guided Grace to the doorway and nudged her in the right direction.

Grace cautiously took the stairs down to the kitchen and let the aroma of roasting coffee beans guide her. After pouring herself a cup, she walked to the upper cabinet to the right of the stove for the cereal. She looked around the room then. “Right there,” she murmured before walking directly to another cabinet for a bowl. She knew where everything would be, as if her body were on autopilot.

The coffee, hot and strong, felt good going down, and she sat at the table, looking out the window toward the woods. Every branch was covered in snow, creating a canopy of fluff atop the massive trunks. Lisa’s footsteps creaked on the floor above her; furniture scratched along the wood planks. She covered her ears; it was too loud, like nails on a chalkboard.

Her gaze fell to the linoleum-tiled floor, the pattern pulling her in. She fixated on the lines within each square, but the pattern began to move. The shapes shifted. She sensed it wasn’t real, but she lifted her feet to the safety of her chair’s support rail just in case; pushed her fists against her eyes, like she could force out the hallucination; and shifted her gaze to the living room, to the beams of morning light streaming onto the carpet. She looked down. The floor had stopped moving, so she carefully returned her feet to the ground. She drank more coffee, poured milk on her cereal, and tried a few bites, but it was no use. The nausea had returned.

When Lisa joined her in the kitchen, she sat taller despite feeling weak. “Will you tell me about Michael? And our parents? Our childhood?”

Lisa sat across from her, tapping her fingers against the sides of her chair, as if she wasn’t sure how to begin. “Okay. Michael. You’d been with him for a long time, but I can’t say I ever understood why. But then again, I’ve never had the best taste in men either.” She met Grace’s eyes. “And you and I haven’t always been close.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s just because I’m older. I moved out when you were only thirteen, so after that it just wasn’t that kind of typical sibling relationship. But you came to me and wanted to move in, and I was glad to have you.”

“I don’t understand. Why—?”

The phone rang before she could finish the thought. Lisa jumped like a startled cat. It was difficult to guess who was on the line. She was just saying, “Yes . . . okay . . . sure . . . and where are you? All right.”

Grace sat with her head in her hands, pressing hard against her temples. The pounding had started again.

Lisa hung up, came over, and crouched down beside her. “What is it?”

“Another headache.”

She went to the counter where she’d lined up the pill bottles from the hospital. “Here. It’s time for your meds. This will help.”

Grace swallowed the pills and returned to her former position, waiting for an effect.

“That was the police again,” Lisa said. “They’d like us to come in.”

“Why?”

“Well, there
was
a murder. They’re going to have more questions. But don’t worry. I’m sure it’s no big deal. I need to get in the shower though. We’re supposed to be there in an hour.”

Grace needed a shower too, but she wasn’t sure she could stand up that long. Perhaps she’d take a bath later. She carefully climbed the stairs, her gaze intentionally avoiding the shaky spindles. The closet was empty and there were just a few items in the dresser. She pulled out some jeans that had been folded neatly in a drawer.

The drive to the station took thirty minutes. When they arrived, Lisa helped her out of the car before ushering her into the building. Her ribs weren’t too bad, but her equilibrium was gone and she couldn’t walk without her sister’s help. Hackett and Bishop greeted them in the lobby as they entered.

Hackett stepped to Grace’s side to support her. “Are you feeling okay today?”

She rejected his arm and tried to force a smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I just get a little dizzy when I stand up sometimes.”

“This way,” Bishop said, and led them to a private room. It was small and white, much like the hospital room, and entering brought with it the thought of crawling back into that hospital bed and closing her eyes, potentially forever.

Hackett pulled out her chair. “We really appreciate you coming in today. We’ll try not to keep you for too long.” She took the seat and Lisa took the one beside her.

Lisa removed her coat and offered to help Grace with hers, but she refused. Bishop and Hackett sat across the table, and Bishop took the lead again. “Any new memories, Grace?”

“I saw my mother,” she uttered, barely above a whisper.

“What?” Lisa said.

Grace looked at her sister and waited a moment for her vision to clear before speaking again. “Last night in the kitchen, it must have been a memory. I saw her at the sink, wearing an apron.”

Hackett leaned forward. “So you’re starting to remember a few things?”

Grace looked at him; the movement caused more blur, so she closed one eye. But even then, she could see something in his expression and his posture. The way he was still, waiting for a response—he cared. “Maybe. It’s almost like I’m remembering feelings as I walk around the house.”

Bishop cleared his throat. “We’d like to share some information with you. Maybe it’ll help all of us.” He nudged his partner, like Hackett needed reminding of their purpose.

“Great,” Lisa said cheerfully.

“There are some things we’ve learned about Mr. Cahill—Michael—at this point.” Hackett arranged his pad and pen, ready to take notes. A white file box sat on the table next to him. Bishop crossed his arms and rocked back in his chair. “For one, Michael seemed to be a drug user. There was a pretty large bag of marijuana in the bedside table.”

Grace wasn’t sure if that was supposed to mean something, but it didn’t.

“Do either of you know anything about that?”

“Don’t look at me,” Lisa said.

They all stared at Grace, waiting for her response. “No,” she said.

Bishop nodded as if he didn’t believe her, as if he’d interviewed tons of murderers and her responses were typical. She suddenly felt desperate to please this man, to say whatever he wanted to hear and help them solve the case, to get him to smile and stop examining her like a lab rat. But she didn’t know what to say.

“We’re also wondering if Michael may have been a gambler.”

Grace looked toward Hackett, pleading for some relief. Lisa piped in. “Why do you say that?”

“His bank records indicate that he never used a credit card. His credit score is pretty low, so we’re guessing he’s had some money troubles in the past.”

“What does that have to do with gambling?”

“Well, nothing directly. But he had pretty regular withdrawals of cash after he’d deposit a paycheck, and every few weeks he took out pretty large sums of money. Every once in a while there were large cash deposits.”

“I don’t see the connection,” Grace chimed in without making eye contact with anyone. It was easier to keep her head still, so her eyes remained on the table in front of her.

Hackett spoke this time. “Honestly, Grace, we’re just keeping the options and ideas flowing at this point. Someone with poor credit is bad with money, someone who gambles is bad with money, someone who takes out large sums of money might gamble.”

Lisa snorted. “Is that all you’ve got? I mean, it’s been a week since you found him. What about a murder weapon? Prints? What about DNA? Was anything taken?”

Bishop rocked forward, bringing all four legs of his chair back to the floor as he responded. “We’re processing plenty of evidence, Miss Abbott. There’s an entire investigative task force assigned to the case, and the state forensics lab is examining several items. Just because it’s a small town doesn’t mean we don’t know what we’re doing. But it’s going to take a little time, particularly to get DNA evidence.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Bishop cracked a smile. “It’s okay. Everyone seems to think that the lab can get back to us in an hour.”

“Like on
CSI
,” she said with a grin.

“Right, but you just have to be patient. There’s one lab for the whole state.”

“Then, by all means, please continue,” Lisa said. “I just thought you’d have some real leads to share with us.”

Bishop rolled his eyes at Hackett before continuing. “Well, I can tell you a few things we do know. For one, his car wasn’t stolen. At first, that was a possibility because it wasn’t at the scene, but it turns out he’d dropped it off for an oil change on Friday afternoon.”

Everyone glanced over at Grace, trying to gauge any kind of response. She shrugged. “Okay.”

“And,” Bishop continued, “we hope that you or Grace might be able to shed light on some of this stuff.” He nodded toward Hackett, who reached into the box beside him and pulled out some envelopes.

“This might be a little awkward,” he said to Grace.

She waited for him to say more, irritated that with every sentence, she felt their stares, waiting for the reaction she didn’t have.

Hackett pushed a clear evidence bag across the table. Inside was a large blown-up picture of Michael and an attractive blonde woman, smiling for the camera.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Hackett asked.

“No,” said Grace. “Do you?” she asked Lisa.

“No.” Lisa shook her head. “Where’d it come from?”

“The girl posted it on Facebook on the Friday before the murder. Michael was tagged in the picture and she’d written, ‘Congratulations!’”

Grace glanced at him. The information was meaningless.

“Either of you know what she might have been congratulating him for?”

“No,” she said, and Lisa echoed her.

“Okay, how about this?” Hackett pushed another evidence bag across the table. Grace picked it up and examined the prescription bottle of pills inside: Xanax, prescribed to Grace Abbott by Dr. Bethany Newell.

“These are mine?”

“It appears that way.”

“What does that have to do with Michael?” she asked.

“Well, given the drugs found at the scene, we had the lab rush a toxicology screen. Those pills were in his system at the time of his death,” Bishop said.

Lisa sat forward, her arm stretching in front of Grace like a shield. “What does that have to do with anything? It’s not like this could be about drugs, right? I mean, you said he was shot.”

“That’s all true, Miss Abbott; we’re not sure what it means yet,” Hackett said. “There’s something else though. We found these.” He pulled several more evidence bags from the box. Each contained an eight-by-ten picture of two naked people in bed together.

“What’s this?” asked Grace.

“These are not familiar to you either?” Bishop asked, incredulous.

She wanted to scream. It was like beating her head against the wall. Why didn’t he get it? She massaged her temples before resting her forehead in her hands. “Nothing’s familiar to me.”

“Well, we can say for sure that the man is Michael,” Bishop said.

Lisa examined the photos. “It’s not Grace, obviously.” The naked woman on top had her back to the camera; the only thing visible was her long, platinum-blonde hair.

“Yeah, the hair is definitely not Grace’s,” Hackett agreed. “And this doesn’t look to be taken in Cahill’s house, so we’re assuming this is another woman. And see here, there’s a date on the back. December first.”

“What do you make of it?” Lisa asked.

“Don’t know yet,” Bishop said. Grace twisted some of her dark hair around her finger, inspecting its color, wondering if this was a good thing.