Broken Grace (16 page)

“I don’t know.”

Vicki looked wary, like she’d made an important connection. “Someone keyed your car once. You said you didn’t know who would have done it, but I didn’t believe you.”

“You think it was Michael?”

“I had no idea, but it seemed like you did.” She hesitated. “Have the cops mentioned Wesley to you?”

“Wesley, your husband?”

Vicki’s eyes drifted to the window. “Yeah, he’s freaking out.”

“Why?”

“He’s the one who found Mike. He was so upset. But he’s a little worried they might be looking at him.”

“Why?”

“They got in an argument at that bar they go to after work. He’s afraid someone might have overheard and misunderstood. He’s just a hothead.”

“What was it about?”

Vicki waved a hand. “It was something stupid. Mike owed him some money, that’s all.”

“How much?”

“Nothing big. Like, a hundred bucks. Not so much that you’d kill someone, if that’s what you’re thinking, but enough to piss you off. He was just being a guy. But now with what happened, obviously, we’re both a little freaked out.” She began cracking her knuckles.

Grace smiled broadly as she reached out toward Vicki’s hand. “I remember that.”

“What?” Vicki asked.

“Cracking your knuckles. Whenever we had a test,” she said, her grin growing as she envisioned young girls in a classroom.

Vicki put her hands on Grace’s. “Like I said, we’ve been friends forever.”

“That’s right.” Grace laughed, feeling a momentary calm and joy in the pleasure of reliving a sliver of a memory with an old friend.

The sound of a little girl suddenly poured out of the baby monitor, filling the space:
“Mama, up, up.”

“Oh shit, Sammy’s up from her nap.”

Grace stood. “I’ll go. Thanks for talking to me.”

Vicki pulled her in for another hug. “I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry about Mike; I’m sorry you don’t remember anything. It’ll come back. And call me. I’m here for you, anything you need.”

It was that phrase again, ringing around in her brain. Menacing.
I’m here for you
.

Grace shook her head, trying to banish the threat from her mind. She pulled out her phone. “How can I reach you?”

Vicki took it from her and went through the contacts. “Why aren’t I in here?” Before Grace could respond, she said, “Jesus, no one’s in here. What the hell?” She created a new contact for herself and gave it back to Grace. “Here, call me anytime.”

Grace sat in the truck contemplating the conversation. Michael was ten years older. It sounded wrong, almost criminal. No wonder her parents hadn’t approved. But maybe it was about trying to get away from them. Maybe she was desperate to be loved. Maybe her parents were bad. But it sounded so odd, like a line in a story that didn’t fit. The two visions she’d had of them were harmless, peaceful, even joyful. Then again, maybe those were the only memories she could handle.

SEVENTEEN

G
RACE SAT IN THE TRUCK OUTSIDE
of Vicki’s house, looking at the street, the houses. This had been her neighborhood. She’d sent a text to Vicki about popping over after a run, the police had said. And Lisa said she was a runner. She rested her hands and chin on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She felt the cold air in her lungs, the steady rhythm of her feet hitting the pavement, the peacefulness of those early mornings, of the quacking ducks in the distance, the occasional deer in the woods. It was real. It wasn’t wishful thinking. She remembered running.

Her cell rang, pulling her from the trance. It was Officer Bishop asking her to come in again.

Lisa’s outburst after their last trip to the station echoed in her ears:
Don’t volunteer to help them
. But maybe they had a new lead, or maybe going would show that she was cooperating. And Officer Hackett was on her side. She told Bishop she’d be there shortly. Lisa would want to go with her, but she was so paranoid and hostile toward the police, and Grace felt about ten years old when she was by her side. She would handle this herself.

She pulled out of Vicki’s drive and, once on Red Arrow Highway, remembered the route Lisa had taken to get to the station. It felt like an improvement.

She listened to the tape on the way over. It was Grace’s next session, and Dr. Newell began by asking if the Xanax was working—if she was sleeping better. Grace said that it was helping. She said she felt like a new woman. She could hear the lightness in her own voice.

Dr. Newell asked if she’d noticed any negative side effects. “You could say that. My boyfriend seems to like them too.” The doctor was not amused and threatened to discontinue the prescription if Grace was sharing them. Grace quickly apologized—she hadn’t given him any or suggested he take them; that was the problem, she said. Michael seemed too interested in getting high all the time. It was part of why she wondered if she could stay with him. She had told him about seeing the doctor and about her relief at getting the pills, and then noticed several missing by the end of the week. The doctor made Grace promise to hide them if necessary—or she’d end the prescription.

“Well, beyond that, anything else troubling? Any changes in appetite, anything that you’re concerned about?”

“Only that I might get fat,” Grace said.

The doctor questioned her meaning, and Grace said that a few days earlier, she woke and found the fridge wide open, chips and dip on the counter and the remnants of what looked like melted ice cream in a bowl. Michael had been at an all-night card game and wasn’t even home yet, so she knew it had to have been her, but she didn’t remember eating any of it. “Can that happen?” she’d asked. “Sleepwalking and eating?” The doctor confirmed it was possible and suggested reducing the dose.

Grace turned off the tape as she pulled into the station.

Officer Hackett came to the lobby to get her. As soon as they made eye contact, he smiled, and a portion of her anxiety dissipated. It would be fine.

“You remember anything new, Grace?” Detective Bishop asked as they escorted her to the interrogation room.

Dr. Newell had said not to let anyone listen to the tapes. Could she share what she’d learned? Would she lose all privilege? What if something bad came out? “Nothing of significance. I drove over to the house today.” She sat at the table with Hackett, and Bishop shut the door behind them.

“Really?” Bishop leaned against the door. “Did you go inside?”

She couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed. “No. I didn’t have a key or anything, but I remembered something and wanted to see if it was real.”

“What did you remember?” Hackett asked.

“The inside, the living room. I remembered that Michael loved
Seinfeld
. When I walked around, I felt like I knew the house. I remembered planting flowers in those flower boxes. But like I said, nothing of significance.”

“So things are coming back. That’s encouraging.”

Bishop clapped his hands together, and joined them at the table, like the real discussion was beginning. “Grace, we questioned your boss, Dave Jacks, earlier today.”

“Why?” Her thoughts raced back to their conversation at the beach, to his advice that she not mention him to the police. He’d said it would be better for both of them.

She looked at Hackett. Had she made a mistake this morning, admitting to seeing him? Had he intended to trap her into some sort of admission?

“Did you have a relationship with Dave outside of work?” Bishop asked.

Her heart felt like it was going to leap out of her chest. “I’m told that people from work would go out together after shifts. That’s all I’ve learned.”

“What about Sheri Preston, the hostess?”

“I met her when I went in for my check.”

“She says you were friends.”

“Okay—if she says so.”

“We found a lot of pictures of you in Dave’s apartment,” Bishop said.

Oh God, they knew. They knew she’d slept with him. “Of me?” she said meekly, the words barely getting out. “What—?”

“Michael’s shotgun and a T-shirt covered in his blood were found in the dumpster behind Dave’s apartment,” Hackett said. “And he had a highly dangerous drug in his apartment that’s used among criminals. It affects memory.”

Bishop cleared his throat, glaring at Hackett. He’d obviously said too much.

Grace sat upright and Hackett leaned in, ignoring his partner. “Do you remember taking Michael to the urgent care in Bridgman early Monday morning?”

“I don’t remember anything before the accident. I’ve had flashes here and there, but they seem to be older memories.”

“So you don’t recall if Michael thought he had been drugged a week before the murder?”

“No.” Michael’s abuse of her Xanax came immediately to mind. Was that it? Maybe he’d taken her pills again. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself. This was from the therapist’s tape. Could she share? Would it mean that anything she said to her therapist could be used against her? The questions raced through her mind, and she wondered if her face would give away the panic that was building.

“Do you remember Dave? Do you remember that he has feelings for you?” Hackett asked. Did he want her to remember? Would it help? She didn’t know what to say.

Bishop didn’t wait for a response. “Have you spoken with Dave since the murder?”

What if they knew she’d cheated on Michael with Dave? What if they knew she’d met him at Cherry Beach? How would it look? She fidgeted with her hands, feeling the heat rise to her face. “I—”

“Nice ring,” Bishop interrupted.

Grace looked down at her hand, now the focus of everyone’s attention. “Oh yeah, thanks.”

“I don’t think you were wearing that when you gave us the fingerprints.” He said it nonchalantly, but his words were somehow loaded. “When did you get engaged?”

“I got a call from the jeweler yesterday. He told me I took the ring in for resizing on Friday.” She nervously rolled the ring around her finger.

Bishop turned that intense stare up to full wattage. “You and Michael became engaged two days before the murder. I wish you had shared that with us,” he said, pointing to the ring. “We’d like to think you’re cooperating with our investigation.”

“I am,” she said in a voice that sounded unconvincing even to her.

“When you learn something about the days before the murder and you don’t share it, well, it doesn’t look good.”

Suddenly, she felt like a trapped animal, unsure whom to trust, what to say. Her heartbeat was racing. Heat was rising to her neck; her entire face suddenly felt hot. She stared at the table, unwilling to meet their eyes. What if Dave had drugged her? Vicki had said she’d been mortified about being with Dave and that she hadn’t remembered anything about it. But she couldn’t prove she was drugged. And she’d be admitting to a relationship with their new suspect. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?” she said, her voice small. “My head hurts. I think I’d better get home.”

“Sure,” Officer Hackett said. “Do you want me to drive you?”

He didn’t sound angry like Bishop, but was this the good-cop routine? “No, thanks, I’ll be okay.”

“She’s hiding something,” Bishop said as Grace walked out the door.

“She looks like a deer in headlights to me,” Hackett said. “Don’t you think it would be crazy not to remember your life?”

“I think my head would hurt if I felt the police getting close. Any luck finding that T-shirt in any of Cahill’s Facebook pictures?”

“No.”

Bishop rubbed his eyes before looking down at his case notes. “So Flynn bought the ring back. And soon after, Flynn and Cahill are seen arguing. We need to talk to him again.” Bishop’s phone chimed and he checked a text before grabbing his coat. “I’ve got to go. Do me a favor—call Flynn’s work and find out where he’ll be in the morning.”

Hackett’s desk phone rang as Bishop walked out the front door. It was Miles at the forensics lab. One set of prints on the naked photos was a match for Grace. She’d seen those pictures. Maybe that was why she went to Lisa’s Friday night. And if she was upset enough to break off the engagement, a jury might think she was upset enough to kill him.

It was dark when Grace left the station. She drove home in silence, almost in a daze. A few cars honked as they passed her on the right, and suddenly she noticed lights coming straight at her. She quickly corrected back into her lane and pulled over onto the shoulder. She shouldn’t be driving. She took a careful, deep breath. A twinge of pain in her rib cage remained. Another headache was coming on. She closed her eyes, willing the ache to recoil, but it was no use.

She carefully pulled back onto the road and continued home. The approaching lights began to stretch out into bright streams like laser beams. She blinked hard to correct her vision, but it was no use. She drove slowly, painfully, and finally turned onto the familiar gravel road. When she pulled into the driveway, Lisa’s car was there. She opened the door slowly, careful not to upset the delicate balance in her head, as though her brain was a fragile boat, floating on the water, and if the water didn’t remain still, the waves would start, pounding the boat against the walls of her skull.

She climbed out of the truck, grabbed the tape, and put it in her pocket.

Every step caused pain. As she opened the front door, a pan slammed down onto the kitchen counter, and Lisa flew at her with an intensity that almost brought Grace to her knees.

“Where have you been?” She didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “Who have you been talking to? Where did you go?”

Grace held up her hand and closed her eyes. “Stop. Please. Calm down.” She made her way to the living room couch and sat. Four empty beer bottles were lined up in front of her.

“You’re not supposed to drive. I’m responsible! I’m responsible, okay? I told the doctors I’d see that you took your meds and you rested and you didn’t drive. And look!” She pointed to the pile of pills on the counter. “You didn’t take the fucking meds! You drove a car. What am I supposed to think?”

Grace kept her voice low and lay back. “Jesus, Lisa. Take it down a notch. I was feeling better, okay? The pills make me so groggy. I don’t think I can handle the side effects.”

“But look at you. You’re obviously in pain.” Lisa sat on the arm of the sofa and took a quick, deep breath. “The doctor was very specific. You’re to take the medicine. We’ll see him on Monday, and then you can tell him you want to get off. But I don’t want to be responsible for anything happening to you. Please, take the medicine.”

Grace sat up and looked at Lisa, who was wiping tears from her cheeks. “What’s going on with you?”

“Just take the goddamn pills. You have to take them.”

“I’m okay, Lisa. I get it. You don’t want anything to happen to me.”

Lisa stood. “That’s right.” She wiped at her jeans, the conversation a mess she’d finished cleaning up. She grabbed the empty bottles, headed for the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a glass of water and several pills. She held them out.

Grace took them without a word. This was a fight she couldn’t win, and she felt guilty. It couldn’t be easy dealing with her right now, taking care of a loved one who treated you like a stranger. She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, draping her arm across her face.