Broken Grace (26 page)

“You told them I tortured you and Mary.”

“You did.”

Lisa shook her head. “They were just games, Grace. But—”

“You killed them.”

“I had to.”

The words wrapped around Grace like a blanket, the admission she’d only dreamed of. Finally, it was over. She willed her head to rise so she could look at her sister.

“Woulda killed you too if you’d been home. None of this would have happened, Grace. Don’t you see that? Michael would still be alive if you’d just died like you were supposed to right here with Mom and Dad. I wouldn’t have had to spend the last two weeks as your fucking nursemaid—”

Grace cut her off. “What are you going to do now?”

“Well, I thought the police would have seen by now that it had to be you, but it’s obvious they’re getting off track, focusing on the money, so we need to end this. There’s enough pointing your way that no one will be surprised when you off yourself.”

Grace shook her head. “I’m not going to kill myself,” she whispered, her body draining of all energy.

“You’ve been killing yourself all week. Taking dangerous combinations of drugs. Drinking that coffee. And then you couldn’t take it anymore, so you took too many prescriptions. Fuck, these drugs can even cause suicidal thoughts. I should know. But then, so can being charged with murder and being tortured by the knowledge that you’ve killed someone. It’s perfect.”

Grace pushed away the wineglass.

“Shouldn’t have had that wine, Gracie. Certainly not with those pills.” Lisa laughed. “Hell, I thought you were already dead. You shouldn’t have made it through last night. I was ready to come home and find you dead in bed. That’s why I got my celebratory meal here. I was sure that soup would have finished you off.” She waved her finger, scolding. “Someone obviously didn’t take all her meds yesterday. But no matter. This should do it.”

Grace tried to stand, pushing her palms firmly against the table, trying to raise her body, but it had suddenly tripled in weight. When she finally stood, her legs gave out and she slid to the floor, knocking the wineglass onto the tile.

Lisa bent over her, almost whispering into her ear. “Can’t move, can you? That’s the plan. You’re so stupid, Grace. You’re all stupid people.”

She tried to move but her muscles betrayed her. She tried to talk, but she couldn’t. She was paralyzed. She screamed as loud as she could, but nothing came out. It was simply a memory of that sound, of terror.

“Say good night, Gracie.”

She lay helpless as Lisa dragged her to the door.

TWENTY-NINE

B
ISHOP WAS ON HIS CELL AS
THEY SPED
along the road toward the Abbott house. Hackett could barely breathe. He could think of nothing but Grace’s face, her beautiful eyes, the way she turned away when he made her smile, embarrassed by his attention and flattery. And that kiss. She’d chosen someone else, but it didn’t make him want her less. And now, he just wanted to see her again, get her out of that house, away from Lisa, and find Tucker.

Bishop ended his call. “Kewanee found the footage of Cahill at the blackjack table when he won the ten K. A man of Tucker’s description was sitting at a nearby table. There was an uproar of applause when it happened. The waitress came by and took that photo we saw on Facebook. Everyone around them knew exactly what had happened.”

“So the waitress is in the clear. Is that enough to get Tucker?”

“Probably not. But he found parking lot footage of Cahill leaving the casino around noon, Friday. And behind him, getting on a Honda 2002 motorcycle, was our skinny, bleach-blond, tattooed Tucker.”

“And there’s no chance Tucker won some money too?”

Bishop shook his head. “From the time of Cahill’s win to their departure in the lot, there’s no footage of Tucker going to cash in. He didn’t win anything.”

“So Tucker planned to rob Cahill. He knew who Cahill was . . . and Lisa is playing a twisted game.”

“Yeah,” Bishop added. “We’ve got an APB out on the motorcycle and her car.”

It was now after five and the landscape began to disappear into the void of darkness. The falling snow, thick and heavy, began to blow in the wind, decreasing visibility. As they turned onto the gravel road, Bishop slowed. He peered down the driveway before turning in. “She’s here. Okay, we have no idea if there are any guns in that house. Don’t let her out of your sight for a second. Let’s ring the doorbell, hope she assumes nothing out of the ordinary, and cuff her. Once we’ve got her cuffed, we’ll look around for Tucker.”

“You think he’s been hiding out here all week?”

“It’s possible. Just tread lightly.”

“Got it.”

They rolled up the driveway toward the house and parked behind Lisa’s car.

Lisa came flying out the front door, waving frantically, tears streaming down her face.

Bishop turned off the engine and gave Hackett a furrowed-brow look. There was no time to confer. They got out of the car.

“Detective! Thank God you’re here!”

“What’s going on, Miss Abbott?” Bishop said.

“It’s Grace.” She was sobbing hysterically. “She’s gone! I don’t know what to do!” She ran back toward the house. Bishop jogged after her and Hackett followed, scanning the landscape for a motorcycle. He kept his hand on his holster as he followed them inside, checking the living room as they passed.

When Lisa reached the kitchen, she took a giant swig of wine and then refilled the glass.

Bishop didn’t reach for the cuffs. “What do you mean, she’s gone?” he said.

Lisa wiped her tears, smearing the mess of thick black eyeliner across her face. Mascara streamed down both cheeks. “She said she remembered. She freaked out. I think she may have taken something.” Lisa sniffled and grabbed a cigarette from the drawer, lit it with trembling hands, and inhaled deeply.

It was a lie. It had to be. Hackett looked at Bishop, who glanced his way before responding. Their strategy was obviously changing. “What did she take?”

“I don’t know. She’s on a lot of meds. She didn’t seem like herself.” She looked at Hackett then. “I knew something was off. She threw the wineglass on the floor.”

Everyone’s attention moved to the shattered glass. Grace was in trouble. But if they cuffed Lisa now, what would happen to her? Could Tucker have her somewhere? If they took Lisa in, would he panic and kill her?

Bishop must have wondered the same thing. He played along. “Tell us exactly what happened.”

“I took her to see a lawyer yesterday. She insisted.”

Hackett held his stance, fighting the urge to shake the truth out of her. “Did she say why?” he asked.

“I think she must have remembered something.” She lowered her eyes. “She’d gone back to their house that Saturday morning; she’d said she was going to get her clothes.” Lisa shook her head. “I should have told you before. I was trying to protect her. I didn’t want to believe she could have killed Michael. So I took her to a lawyer. But I wasn’t allowed in the meeting. Afterward, she was really upset. She cried the whole way home. Last night she wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t tell me what was going on. I told her to rest. But tonight I got home from work and she was pacing all over the house. She said she remembered killing Michael. She said she couldn’t go to prison, and then she ran out of here.”

Bishop shot a wary glance toward the dining room, then stepped toward her. “Your car is here. The truck is here. Did she go on foot?”

“I guess. Yes. She ran toward the road.”

“How long ago?” Hackett barked.

“Twenty minutes, maybe. Did you see anyone walking on the road? Oh, it’s dark, who knows. You need to go look for her! Go find her before something happens.”

Hackett went to the back door, where coats hung on several hooks. The one Grace had worn to the station was hanging by the others. “She didn’t wear her coat?”

“No,” Lisa said. “She didn’t take the purse either. She was upset. She wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t going shopping!” Her anger began to trump the tears. She stomped into the living room. “Why are you still here? Go find her!”

“We want to find her,” Bishop said, following. “We just want to look around, okay?” He nodded at Hackett.

“I told you, she’s run off. You need to go.” She tossed her cigarette into the fireplace.

Hackett drew his gun and threw open the pocket doors off the hall. The boxes prevented a full view, so he stepped carefully to check behind them. He then took the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor and pushed each door open with one hand, gun ready in the other. He moved through each bedroom, checking under the beds, in the closets, throwing back the shower curtain in the bathroom, each time fearing that he’d find Grace, bloodied and dead—the same fear he’d felt walking into Cahill’s house that Monday.

He ran back down the stairs and shook his head.

“Check the basement,” Bishop ordered.

“Why are you looking in here?” Lisa’s voice rose. “I told you what happened!”

Bishop held an arm out toward her. “Let’s sit down, Lisa. I think we should talk.”

“If something happens to Grace, I’m going to blame you. You need to go!”

She was stalling, dissembling. Hackett raced down the stairs. The basement was filled with stuff, but there was no sign of anyone. He rushed back to the living room and trained his gun on her. “What did you do to Grace?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything!”

“It was you,” Hackett said, stepping closer to the couch. “In those photos with Cahill. You drugged him. We know it happened upstairs. Same room where your parents were killed.”

She jumped up and paced to the mantel. “You’re crazy!”

“Relax, Lisa,” Bishop said, slowly pulling out his cuffs. “We don’t want to hurt you. I want this to be easy and peaceful.”

“Are you kidding me? What the fuck is going on?” She backed toward the front door. “I just told you, Grace killed Michael! She confessed! I didn’t do anything!”

Bishop seemed to change strategy. He replaced the cuffs and raised his hands. “Calm down. Just help us find Grace and this will go much better.”

They didn’t have time for this. Grace was in danger. “Stop lying,” Hackett growled. “The wallpaper in the naked pictures with Cahill was the same as your parents’ murder scene.”

Her indignation shifted into derision. “That doesn’t mean anything. We fucked. Grace was jealous. Maybe that’s why she killed him.”

Bishop’s stance was deceptively relaxed, his tone casual. “What about Tucker? We know he’s your boyfriend. Where is he, Lisa? Does he have Grace? This will go much better for you if you help us.”

“Tucker?” She looked at Bishop, then Hackett. “We broke up. I haven’t seen him. He’s not here. Look for yourself. I haven’t seen him since Dave’s party.”

Bishop took a step forward. “If Grace turns up dead, it’s not gonna look good for you and Tucker. You can make this better or worse.”

“You’re fucking crazy. I told you. Grace did it. Grace did it. Not me!”

The back screen door slammed against the side of the house, startling all three of them. Tucker? Heart pounding in his chest, Hackett went to the door. There was no one there; the wind must have blown it open. But when he stepped outside, he saw a wheelbarrow and shovel propped up against the side of the house. Small tire tracks extended into the yard, disappearing in the darkness. His stomach flipped at the thought of what Lisa and Tucker might have done, if Grace were already dead.

He raced back inside. “There’s a wheelbarrow. And fresh tracks,” he said to Bishop. “Goddammit, where is Grace?” he said to Lisa as he came at her.

Lisa stepped toward the stack of wood by the fireplace, her lying eyes wide. “I just carried in some firewood.” Before either cop had a chance to react, she grabbed the poker from the hearth.

Bishop pulled his gun. Hackett held the barrel of his pistol pointed at her chest. “Don’t do this,” Bishop said. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

She looked from one to the other. “Then stop accusing me of something I didn’t do. You’re killing Grace. Not me.”

Bishop nodded at him. “Follow the tracks.”

Lisa dropped the poker and ran for the front door. Bishop took a shot but hit the door frame. Hackett ran after her.

She sprinted through the front yard toward the road. He yelled for her to stop, but the darkness swallowed her up. Snowflakes had become a horizontal blur in the wind. He fired his weapon once. Twice. Four times. And then he heard a moan, a body collapsing in the snow.

Bishop came up behind him, his flashlight and weapon drawn, panting. “I’ll call for backup and an ambulance and look for Grace. If Lisa’s okay, cuff her.”

Hackett couldn’t seem to catch his breath as he approached her. What if he’d killed her? What if he’d killed the only person who could tell him where Grace was? He crouched beside her. The snow was starting to turn black around her body. His hands shook as he examined the damage. One shot had hit her leg. A second, her abdomen. She was conscious.

He jogged to the car and grabbed the first-aid supplies and a blanket from the trunk, jogged back, and wrapped the wounds as best as he could. He covered her in the blanket. “Don’t do this, Lisa,” he begged. “Help me save her.”

Lisa’s eyes, black as the night, stared, unfocused. “She deserves to die.”

“Hackett!” It was Bishop yelling from somewhere behind the house. “Hurry!”

THIRTY

H
ACKETT RAN TOWARD THE WOOD LINE
with his flashlight. “Get a shovel!” Bishop yelled.

He veered toward the shed along the wood’s edge, broke the glass, and opened the door into the dark space. Nausea upended his stomach. He didn’t know if he could stand to see it. Grace, buried in the frozen ground. Cold. He’d failed her.

He flashed the beam at the walls. There in the back—a shovel. He pushed aside the bags of fertilizer and stepped toward a tarp draped over a large pile of something in the corner. He stomach dipped again, fearing the worst. He couldn’t breathe as he grabbed at the material and threw it back.

But it was just machine parts. He shined the light on them: two tires, a massive handlebar, a license plate. And then he saw the emblem. Honda. Tucker was here. He’d probably killed Grace. Rage filled him. He grabbed the shovel and ran out of the shed. “Where are you?” he shouted. “Flash your light for me!”

“I’m about ten feet deep in the woods, north side. Hurry . . .”

Hackett ran toward the voice. He found Bishop on his knees, using his hands to shovel snow and dirt.

“Oh shit.” Even in the dim light, he could see the dirt mixed in with the snow in one large area. It stood out against the fresh snowfall surrounding them.

The ground was frozen, but this patch was freshly moved. He began digging with the shovel, lifting mounds at a time. A siren wailed in the distance, and a moment later, a red strobe swirled in the night sky on the other side of the house. The paramedics would see Lisa right away.

After about six digs, the shovel hit something. He gently pushed the blade down again. It was wood. “Here!” he said, shoveling the area around the sound more rapidly. Bishop knelt beside him. He unearthed what looked like a wooden box about six inches beneath the surface. But the box was small. Too small. Bishop continued to clear away the dirt and pull the box from the ground while Hackett jumped up, grabbed his shovel, and continued digging where Bishop had left off.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, clouding his vision, but he thought he saw something, maybe string, against the black dirt. He dropped the shovel, fell to his knees, and leaned in to see what was in front of him, nearly invisible in the dark. It was a few strands of hair. “Here!”

And that was when he knew—they were too late. Bishop joined him and they both grabbed at the dirt with their bare hands. “No, no,” he said, over and over.

Bishop’s radio crackled. He sat back on his haunches and answered. “We’re in the back. Suspect out front, she’s been shot. We’ve found something. Bring whatever lights you have.”

Hackett heard footsteps running toward the woods; flashlight beams bounced in the trees. “Over here!” yelled Bishop.

Hackett ignored them. His hands had slowed, and he carefully, reverently brushed the dirt away from the body. His Grace. She’d been through so much; she didn’t deserve to be bruised anymore.

Bishop flashed his light on the area, and as he skimmed the dirt off the exposed hair, he realized that it wasn’t brown. It was bright blond. Faster now, he swiped the icy dirt from the face, exposing a nose, lips, and eyes. It wasn’t Grace. It wasn’t Grace. Tears flooded his eyes.

He looked up at Bishop, who’d resumed digging around the torso. He lifted an arm from the makeshift grave. It was covered in tattoos.

“I guess this is Tucker,” Bishop said.

“Over here!” yelled one of the men from about thirty feet away.

Hackett leaped to his feet and ran toward their voices.

Several officers were huddled around the firewood stacked at the wood’s edge. One of them left the group and ran back toward the house. Hackett brushed past them, rushing around to the back of the stack.

It was Grace, slumped over, facedown on the ground, like she’d been propped up against the wood but had collapsed. Her eyes were closed, her body covered in an inch of fresh powder. He pulled her against him, willing her to feel his warmth. Then he leaned into her chest, praying for sound.