Broken Grace (27 page)

THIRTY-ONE

G
RACE OPENED HER EYES AND STARED
up at the white ceiling tiles, those tiny holes that had held no answers a week earlier. In seven days, it had all come back: memories, images, and a reality she wanted desperately to forget. The sun was rising, the blinds casting a shadow across her hospital bed like the bars of a cage. She was trapped by images she could no longer block out. She closed and reopened her eyes, clutching to the fantasy that this might all be a terrible nightmare. But everything remained—the sterile walls, the snow-covered roof outside her window, the truth.

A soft knock at the door distracted her. Detective Bishop and Officer Hackett—
Justin
—entered, smiling tentatively, and approached the foot of her bed.

Bishop spoke up first. “It’s good to see you, Grace.”

Justin stepped closer. “You doin’ okay?”

She remembered the gunshots echoing through the trees last night. “Is she . . . ?”

He glanced at Bishop before responding. “She’s alive. Barely. I had to shoot, Grace. I’m sorry; she was trying to escape.”

“I . . .” She struggled to find the right words. Justin stepped closer, but she couldn’t look at him. “She tried to kill me,” she whispered.

“We know, Grace. We know everything.”

She closed her eyes as tears coursed down her cheeks. Did he?

“Lisa and Tucker killed Michael,” Bishop said. “We can place her at his house.”

“Cahill won ten grand at the casino on Friday,” Justin said, as if he hadn’t already shared that information days before. “Tucker was after the money. We found it last night, buried in a box in the woods behind Lisa’s house.”

“We found Tucker buried too,” Bishop said. “He’d been stabbed.”

Oh God.
She turned to the window, not wanting to hear any more. She squeezed her eyes shut but couldn’t close her ears.

Justin walked around the bed, pulled a chair in front of the window, and sat by her side. “They must have fought after it happened. Maybe she panicked. It’s hard to know what she was thinking.”

“Like I’ve told Hackett, sometimes we don’t get every answer, but we get the ones that matter,” Bishop said. “Do you remember anything, Grace?”

She looked into his eyes, unable to get out the words. She nodded slowly.

“Were you there?”

She nodded.

“What happened?” Bishop asked.

“I came in and found them. She saw me and I ran out of the house.”

Justin leaned forward. “Were you out running?”

She nodded, allowing his words to guide her.

He smiled. “I knew it. I knew you didn’t do it, Grace.”

That smile. She’d been unable to forget it for days after they’d kissed. His face now was just as she remembered, intense and earnest. A wave of relief washed over her.

She looked at Bishop. “She killed our parents. She admitted it to me last night. I guess she figured I wouldn’t live to tell.”

“Did you always suspect her?” he asked.

The idea of this conversation made her want to summon a deep breath, as if going there required more strength, but when she tried, she felt a sharp pain in her chest and struggled to prop herself up. Justin jumped up and helped arrange another pillow behind her back.

“Thanks,” she said. He’d shored up her strength so many times already. She kept her gaze on the bed. “When they caught someone and said Lisa had an alibi, I figured even she couldn’t do that. But then about a year ago, I was at the house to pick up a check, and I overheard her and Tucker laughing about the man who was in prison. I don’t even remember exactly what was said, but it seemed like Tucker knew who he was.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police?” Bishop asked.

“Michael thought it was a bad idea. Lisa was always one step ahead of me. I had no proof and I didn’t need to give her another reason to go after me. We both knew she was dangerous. She’s been torturing me for as long as I can remember.”

“Like with those naked photos,” Justin said.

She turned to him, relieved. He had figured out a lot. “Right.”

“Well, we know he’d been drugged. If that makes any of this better. He didn’t really sleep with Lisa. Or at least he didn’t know he did.”

“She’s a monster,” Grace whispered.

“She’s not going to get away with it this time,” Justin said.

“If she makes it,” Bishop added.

Lisa dead. It would really be the end. The end of her twisted, psychotic games. She looked up at Bishop. He’d finally softened. His stance was relaxed, or maybe it was exhausted, those dark circles less menacing now that his silent suspicions were gone. She took in Justin’s day-old stubble, the fatigue in his eyes, and became overwhelmed by guilt.

“I gotta say,” Bishop said, as if reading her thoughts, “things weren’t looking too good for you for a while there. But my partner here knew to keep pushing. He didn’t believe that it could have been you.”

Justin sat back in his chair, smiling. She reached out toward him, and he leaned forward and took her hand in his. She looked at their hands together. He was the reason she was alive, and free. “I remember you,” she said.

He let out a sigh and chuckled. “I’m so glad, Grace. I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten that kiss, and I didn’t know what I’d do if you never remembered it—or me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t show up that night.”

“It’s okay. I guess it really wasn’t over between you two.”

Her eyes watered and she shook her head. That wasn’t it at all. “I wanted to come,” she began, her voice wobbling. The details were now vivid in her mind. “It was just so complicated,” she murmured, while inside, she relived that evening in full detail.

She’d come home prepared for a confrontation, her speech about growing apart rehearsed on a loop in her head. But when she’d walked in, Michael was there, ring in hand, tearful, down on one knee, talking about how long he’d loved her, how being with her had saved him. He must have seen the doubt on her face, because he’d collapsed onto the floor, practically begging her not to leave him. Making promises about cleaning up his act. “I’m not going to be like my father,” he said again and again. “I’ll be better.”

Grace had joined him on the carpet. “Why are you talking about your father?” They’d agreed years ago never to mention his name. It was too painful for both of them.

“He’s dead,” Michael said, tears streaming down his face. “I got a call a few hours ago. He hung himself.”

“Oh my God,” Grace said, instinctively wrapping her arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

He grabbed her by the arms then, forcing her to look at his face. “That’s not why I’m proposing, Grace. I swear. I bought the ring on Saturday. Please marry me.”

Every excuse, every justification for leaving, melted away. She couldn’t hurt him. He’d taken care of her for as long as she could remember, even as a child. So she’d said yes, despite her doubts. That kiss with Justin, that dream of starting something new, of moving on, was no more than a fantasy. Michael was hers and she couldn’t walk away.

Justin put his other hand over hers, pulling her out of the trance. “It’s okay,” he said. “I understand, and I’m really sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She smiled.

“Okay, then,” Bishop said with a grin, “I’ll be outside.”

“Wait,” Grace said. “What happens now?”

Bishop’s expression turned solemn. “If Lisa survives, she’ll go away for a long time.”

She wanted to believe it, but she didn’t. When she tried to sit up, her breath caught in her chest, and she winced.

Justin dropped her hand and gently braced her shoulder to stop her from the effort. “Your lung collapsed again last night. We almost lost you. You’re very weak.”

As she looked down at the tube still attached to her chest, her face grew hot. The tears came again. She wondered if they’d ever stop.

“What is it?”

She could barely get out the words. “I wish I didn’t remember. I don’t want to remember.”

Justin took her hand again and held it with both of his. “It’ll get easier. You rest. I’m just going to be outside. I’ve got some calls to make, but I’m not going anywhere.”

THIRTY-TWO

H
ACKETT SAT IN ONE OF THE
chairs lined up across from Grace’s room, listening to a voice-mail message from his mother reminding him that Christmas was now four days away and he still hadn’t let her know if he was coming home. She pleaded again for his return, even joked that his brother Joe was willing to take another punch if that’s what was needed. Hackett smiled. Finally, he felt ready to see them. He looked at the hospital room door, sure that Grace had something to do with it. Olivia hadn’t been right for him. He had always known that, or at least he should have known. Maybe everything did happen for a reason.

Bishop came out of the elevator, coffee in hand, just as he was deleting the voice mail. Bishop took the seat next to him and slapped his leg. “Glad it worked out for you, rookie.”

“I’m sorry about all the lies. I really fucked up.”

“I’m not arguing with you there.”

“I might be in love with her. I don’t know what I would have done if this had gone the other way.”

“Well, luckily, we got our killer, and just in time for Christmas. So I guess I’ll let this one slide. We’ll call it a rookie mistake. I’m not about to ruin your career for it.” Bishop held out his hand and Hackett shook it before Bishop stood to go. “I’m gonna call the prosecutor and head home. But I’ll leave you the paperwork.”

Hackett smiled. “Of course. I’ll get over there later. I just want to be sure she’s okay. She seems pretty shaken.” The truth was that Grace finally remembered him, and he wasn’t ready to let her go again so soon. “Hey, boss, you mind if I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“When we were arguing about the case and you asked me if I was referring to that Detroit case, what were you talking about?”

“Ah.” Bishop sat back down. “Remember I told you about that case where we thought we had the killer but we kept looking for more, and in the meantime the perp killed again?”

“Yeah.”

“It was my fault. The killer was a young girl, and I just didn’t think she could do it. I ignored what was right in front of me. I’ve never forgotten that, obviously. I learned a lot from that case.”

“Sure. And I guess you thought I might be doing the same thing with Grace?”

“And I thought if you’d heard about that case, you might think I was going after Grace just because of it.” Bishop stood. “Well, I’ve gotta go. My family needs me at home, and this case certainly makes me appreciate family right now.”

Hackett nodded. “Me too. And I’m sorry about your mother-in-law. Will you text me when the service is? I’d like to come.”

“Sure thing, kid. Now get some rest, and get that paperwork done.”

“Got it.” Hackett grinned, watching him walk away, grateful to have been on this case, grateful to have Bishop for his partner.

He dialed his mother’s house. Her tone reminded him that it had been entirely too long since they’d spoken. She avoided going right into the Christmas question and instead inquired about his new job.

“I’ll be there, Mom,” he said when she finally asked, for the hundredth time, whether he was coming home for Christmas. He pulled the phone away from her responding shriek and laughed.

She told him when they were planning the meal on Christmas Eve and who was coming. Dinner would include all the siblings, his brother Joe, Olivia, Joe’s ex-wife, the ex’s new guy, and about twenty kids. It was utterly dysfunctional, but he’d missed them—all of them. She asked if he’d stay for the night. They would all be heading to his older brother Tommy’s house in the late morning for a brunch, and all the kids would bring their new toys. He thought of Donny, of not being with him on Christmas morning, and it still stung, but he figured this was the next best thing. Alice had been right—at least Donny was still family. They’d always be connected.

“And if you want to bring anyone, sweetie, of course that would be great,” she added, ever hopeful that he’d move on and be happy.

He looked at Grace’s door. The thought of her on his arm put butterflies in his stomach. She didn’t have a family. Maybe she’d want a place to go for Christmas. “We’ll see,” he said.

After they hung up, he let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes, thinking of that kiss, her hand in his, her smile. The circumstances were terrible, but at least she was now free. He pictured sitting across from Olivia and Joe at the dinner table, and all the secrets they’d kept and the pain they’d caused. But with Grace by his side, he knew he would be okay. She was different. Secrets would never tear them apart.

THIRTY-THREE

G
RACE’S GAZE REMAINED FIXED ON
the closed door after Justin and Bishop left. She still couldn’t contain her tears as the full implication of everything that had happened sank in. She couldn’t believe it was over, that Lisa would go to prison, finally paying for everything she’d done.

The sun was rising, those shadows from the window blinds had moved, and she could feel that freedom was coming, like the toxic cloud hanging over her might soon be gone. She looked back out the window at the smoke rising from a chimney into the blue sky, scattering into the abyss. She willed her memories to do the same and closed her eyes. But she couldn’t forget; every detail of her life, of that night and that morning, was forever burned into her brain.

There was a faint knock, and the door opened. A doctor came in and sat on the arm of a nearby chair. She was obviously not here for an examination.

“Hi, Grace. How are you feeling?”

The doctor’s face had bad news written all over it. Grace answered quietly, “Okay,” waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’ve been treating your sister.” And there it was. “I understand from the police officer outside that she’s the reason you’re in here right now. And I’m sure your feelings toward her are pretty complicated. But she’s lost a lot of blood. We operated, but there’s extensive damage, and the next few hours are critical.”

Grace turned toward the window. She felt like a monster, wishing her dead, but she couldn’t hope for anything else.

“She’s asking for you,” the doctor said. “I certainly understand if you don’t want to see her, but you might not get another chance, so I felt compelled to tell you.”

Grace didn’t respond, instead reliving the moment when Lisa saw her that dreadful morning, and the fear that had gripped her as she ran out of the house. The doctor stood up to go. “Well, think about it. I’ll be glad to take you to see her if you decide—”

“Okay,” Grace said. There was no one else left. She had to do it. It would be the last time she’d ever see her, no matter what happened next.

When the doctor wheeled Grace into the hall, Hackett rose from his chair. “Would you like me to come with you?”

She shook her head and he sat back down. “I’ll be right here.”

They rolled down the hall in silence and took an elevator to the floor above. When they entered Lisa’s room, the doctor pushed the wheelchair close to the bed. Lisa was hooked up to various machines, and a plastic oxygen mask covered her face. Her eyes were closed. One of the machines beeped softly, consistently, confirming that, for now, she was alive.

“Can she hear me?” Grace asked the doctor.

She nodded. “Lisa,” she said, leaning down toward her. “Your sister is here. Just as you asked.”

Lisa opened her eyes and, with effort, turned her head toward Grace.

“I’ll leave you two for a few minutes. Just push this button,” the doctor said, indicating a red button near the bed, “and a nurse will help you back to your room.”

Grace nodded, trying to maintain eye contact with Lisa, to stare down this monster, this woman who’d pretended all week to love her, to care about her, but she couldn’t do it. She didn’t feel triumphant. There were no winners.

Lisa slowly raised her arm toward her face and pulled at the elastic band holding the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. Grace watched her struggle, unable, maybe unwilling, to help.

“We didn’t think anyone would be home,” Lisa whispered, barely audible. “His car wasn’t there. You always run in the morning. We just wanted the money. We didn’t—”

Grace cut her off. “I told the police you killed our parents,” she said bitterly. “They found Tucker and the money you buried. It’s over.”

Lisa’s words came out haltingly, as if each inhale caused more distress. “Tucker wasn’t supposed to die.” Her eyes began to water, as if she actually regretted her violence for once in her life. “It was an accident.”

“Right. An accidental stabbing.”

“He didn’t understand. The second I saw your face, I knew you were going to tell the police that I did it. You’d tell them everything. They’d believe you.”

Grace suddenly didn’t know why she’d come. “You’ll finally pay for what you’ve done,” she whispered.

Lisa’s eyes darkened. “You know I didn’t kill Michael.”

Grace shook her head. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“Why?” Lisa said, the utterance a monumental effort.

Grace looked away. She wanted to be tough, to act unfazed, to be satisfied by this outcome, the one she had wished for in those last moments as she raced away from the house. But she couldn’t. The rage and shock and heartbreak suddenly came rushing back, drowning her in memories. So many memories. Too many.

She’d returned home from work around nine o’clock, exhausted despite the early hour, mostly because she’d spent the evening playing the blushing bride-to-be, trying to feed off the excitement of her coworkers and overcome the looming weight of a decision she might always regret. She’d hoped to spend the evening with Michael, certain that his excitement about their engagement would spark some in her as well.

But when she got home, she found a wad of cash on the kitchen table, bound by a rubber band, with a note:
Let’s take a trip!
She fanned through the money. He was still gambling. Their house was a dump, they couldn’t afford more, school was expensive, and yet here he was, risking paychecks and talking about a trip. She threw the winnings on the counter where empty beer bottles filled the space, and stared out the window into the dark woods, wondering if she could really marry this man. Wondering what that life looked like.

She needed to see Vicki—Vicki, who’d known them both forever, would tell her that it would be okay. She walked to the bedroom while typing a quick text to say she’d pop over in the morning after her run.

The lights and television were on, but Michael was sound asleep. She tried to wake him but he was like a dead man. On the night table next to him, her Xanax bottle sat opened. Only two pills left. He’d gotten into them. Yet again. She stripped out of her clothes and threw on an old T-shirt, heading back into the living room with the remaining Xanax so she could hide them again. And that’s when the horror began.

The mail was on the coffee table, unopened, of course. Michael never paid any bills. She leafed through the stack before coming to the big envelope, addressed to her. Written on the back:
H B G
. She knew immediately that it was from Lisa. Lisa had signed every birthday card the same way—
HBG
, as if the initials of well wishes would do and the act of merely giving a birthday card, a duty forced upon her by their parents when they were young, was enough.

She’d braced herself as she tore open the envelope. Every year since her parents had died, Lisa had done something on Grace’s birthday just to remind her that she was still playing her cruel games. The presents were always criminal, accompanied by just enough clues to make her suspect Lisa but never enough evidence to do anything about it—the keyed car on her seventeenth, the brick through the window on her eighteenth, the slashed tires last year. And now, some torment for her twentieth.

When she pulled out the photos of Michael and another woman naked, the shock of it, the reality, was unbelievable. She looked closer. She recognized the bedroom. Lisa.

Michael had always told Grace to stay away from her—she’d confided in him about everything Lisa had done to her, even her suspicions regarding their parents’ death. It didn’t seem possible he’d sleep with her. But then she saw the date written on the back:
12/1/13
. Her birthday. The night Michael didn’t come home after work like he’d said he would. Instead, he’d been unable to remember anything, so messed up the next morning that she’d taken him to urgent care. There was no proving it, yet again, but Lisa was behind it. She and Tucker were always doing drugs. The evidence was right there—Michael didn’t even look conscious in the photos. And Lisa was capable of doing anything that entered her twisted mind.

Grace had walked into the bedroom with the photos and stashed them in her bedside table. There’d be no waking Michael now. They could talk about it in the morning.

That’s when she noticed the ripped envelope on the floor. It was addressed to Michael, the return address Oaks Correctional. His dad. He must have sent it before he killed himself.

The envelope was empty. She pulled back the sheets. There. In his hand. Maybe that’s why he’d taken the Xanax. Maybe hearing from his father had been too much to bear. He’d refused to speak to him in all those years he’d been in prison, had said it would be too painful.

She slid the letter from his hand, hoping he wouldn’t wake now, sure that this was an invasion of privacy, but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d never faced Michael’s father—she’d been too young when it happened—but he’d been part of why she’d felt so bonded to Michael, both of them irreparably damaged by the same man. She wandered back to the living room, reading.

Michael’s father apologized for his drinking, for all the abuse. He said Michael was a good kid and hadn’t deserved a dad like him.

But he didn’t apologize for killing Mary. Grace’s heart wrenched. The words—or maybe it was just her vision—turned bloodred on the page.
I’m sure I drove you to it and I just want you to know that I forgive you.
She read that line again.
I forgive you.
What? She kept reading and rereading, closing and reopening her eyes, certain she was confused.

But there was no other possible meaning. Michael—her Michael—had killed Mary? Her knees buckled and she fell onto the sofa, the paper shaking in her hands. His father recalled seeing Michael dump Mary’s body, too drunk to react at the time and uncertain of what he remembered after blacking out. But ten months after his arrest, finally sober, he’d sat in that courtroom listening to the evidence, listening to his son and his wife recount the years of abuse. He wasn’t sure what had happened that day, but he was sure that this was to be his punishment. He’d spent fifteen years in a cell, piecing together his sorry excuse for a life, the choices he’d made, and the fact that he couldn’t even defend himself because of his addictions.
State-imposed therapy
, he called it. When he finally remembered the truth of that day, he vowed to take it to his grave, the least he could do to protect his son.

The words pierced like a knife, twisting through her gut. She’d even looked down at her stomach to see if it was bleeding, if her insides had spilled out. “Why?” she uttered, barely audible. “Why?” she screamed. She ran to the bedroom and shoved Michael, pummeled him, yelling, “Wake up! Wake up!” He didn’t move.

She ran back to the living room, saw the picture of them on the mantel, and threw it across the room, watching the glass shatter as it hit the wall and fell to the floor. “We were five years old,” she screamed into the empty room. “You loved us!”

It was just a whisper then, this voice that interrupted her confusion and shared a thought she’d never imagined. Michael, then fifteen, doing something unspeakable to Mary. She pictured her twin’s face, twisted in fear, crying out for help. What did he do to her? The sobs came harder and she threw her hand over her mouth. She couldn’t even say it.

Their history came at her like a speeding freight train. Michael, always by her side, taking care of her, loving her. He’d played with her for as long as she could remember. She thought of that first time he’d kissed her. She’d been only twelve. He was twenty-two! No wonder her mother was against the relationship. What kind of twenty-five-year-old man sleeps with a fifteen-year-old girl? All her life, he’d played the friend, the protector, the lover, when he’d been the reason she lost Mary. She stopped to wipe her face, grabbed a nearby tissue for her nose, now running and so clogged it had grown difficult to breathe, and stood motionless for a moment. Nothing was real. Their entire history an illusion.

“You sick, twisted fuck!” she shouted, her voice unable to contain her rage. He’d killed Mary; he’d let his father go to prison for her murder. She paced the room until she couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. She stood at the sink, a full beer in one hand, the two remaining Xanax in the other, and forced herself to swallow the pills and drink the bottle in three gulps, wiping frantically as it spilled down her chin.

She walked into the bedroom again, sat on the edge of their bed, and stared at him, repulsed by that face she knew so well—every line, every look, every smile. She didn’t know him at all.

The pills began to kick in, and she collapsed on her side of the bed, her insides still screaming, while her body began to shut down. Her only plan, in those last conscious moments, was to wake up Saturday, break off their engagement, and finally get out from under the web of lies and deceit. She’d get away from Lisa while she was at it. She couldn’t take this life anymore.

But she dreamed about it: Michael touching Mary, scaring her. In the dream, they were up on the hunting platform, and Grace was there, trying to save her, to pull him off of her, to stop it, but Mary fell, her body soaring through the air, the distance to the ground growing, as if she were falling from a cliff, while Grace reached down, screaming her name.

She sat up, shouting. She had to save her sister. And through the tears and the fury, she reached down and pulled Michael’s shotgun from under the bed.

Her hands shook as she stood at the end of the bed and squeezed the trigger. And then the explosion came, like an alarm, blasting into the nightmare. She shrieked at the sight of the spray on the wall behind the bed, the sheer amount of blood that poured out of his body like an open faucet. She dropped the gun and ran to the bathroom, vomiting violently into the tub until her stomach had shriveled into a tiny ball of nerves.

The hospital door opened, pulling Grace back from the memory. A nurse popped her head inside, smiled at Grace, and left, like she hadn’t realized there was a visitor, and Grace looked at Lisa, struggling to breathe, and finally whispered the horrifying truth of why she’d done it. “He killed Mary.”