Broken Grace (28 page)

Lisa took a few breaths in the mask before moving it from her mouth again. “You’re no different than I am.”

Grace shook her head and wiped at her face. It wasn’t true. Grace hadn’t planned any of it. And sitting on the tile floor, covered in Michael’s blood, she’d begun to shake, almost convulsively, processing what she’d done, but then what he’d done, that someone had already gone to prison for his crimes, and now she would too. Her mind began to speed up, like something outside of herself was taking charge. She needed to shower and get rid of the evidence; she needed to go for a run; she needed to go see Vicki, to be surprised when she came home to find him dead.

She took off the nightshirt she’d slept in, now covered in blood. After dressing in running gear, she took the letter from Michael’s father out back and dropped it into the well, watching the paper slowly cascade into the black hole. She drove down Red Arrow in a daze, woozy from pills, beer, and blood, her only thought being to get rid of the evidence, to put many miles between it and her crime.

The roads were empty. Darkness surrounded her. Tossing the items into the woods seemed like a mistake, too easily found. But as she neared New Buffalo, she saw those apartments off to the left—Bellaire—and those four big dumpsters at the edge of the lot, sitting in the darkness, just beyond the spotlights of the parking lot. She envisioned trash trucks picking up those giant bins, crushing their contents before dumping them in a landfill, never to be found. She switched off her headlights and turned into the lot. It was full of cars, but there was no one in sight when she threw the items into a bin and ran back to the car.

But just as she put her hand on the ignition, she heard voices, laughter, beer cans being kicked across the parking lot. She slid down on the seat. Several people began walking out of the building, a party breaking up. She watched them stumble to their cars, and then she slowly turned back onto Red Arrow, hit the gas, and took off.

The sky began to lighten as she returned to the house, like time was moving faster. Soon everything would come to light. She grabbed the stack of mail, along with the empty envelopes, threw them into the trash, and headed for the front door to take her run.

But the back door creaked open. Grace froze. She heard a footstep on the squeaky wood floor and ducked behind the island in the kitchen. And then more footsteps. Someone was inside.

“Check in the bedroom.” She knew that voice. Lisa.

And then Tucker’s: “Where do you think he’d put it?” His footsteps moved down the hall.

“There!” Lisa said, her steps coming closer. She grabbed the wad of money from the counter. She was only a few feet away. If she turned toward the front door, she’d see Grace. Grace held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, silently begging them to get out, praying for the chance to get away.

“What the fuck!” Tucker shouted from the bedroom. Lisa jogged back toward his voice. Grace’s heart pounded against her chest, and she jumped up and grabbed the handle on the front door. The bolt was latched and just as she unlocked it—

“Grace!”

She slowly turned back.

“What the fuck did you do?” Lisa was slurring, drunk, stumbling toward her from the other side of the room.

She scanned the space frantically, terrified of Lisa’s rage, of what could happen now. It wasn’t me, Grace thought.
It wasn’t me.
She backed up against the doorknob, twisted the handle as Lisa came at her, and ran out the front door.

Her hands shook as she tried to put the key in the ignition. She looked back at the house, threw the gear in reverse, and backed out of the drive, the tires spitting up gravel. Shifting into drive, she slammed her foot on the accelerator and flew down the road.

Lisa stole his money. “Lisa was there. She did it. Lisa did it,” she began repeating under her breath. Lisa killed him. That’s what she’d tell the police. She’d come in from her run and found her there. Lisa had sent those pictures. She was a killer. “I could never do that,” she pleaded, crying, “I loved him,” the desperation, the heartbreak driving her on. Lisa had killed their parents and allowed someone else to pay for their deaths; Michael had killed Mary, allowing his father to pay for her death; so now she would make Lisa pay for Michael’s death. It was the only thing she could think of, until the universe stepped in and threw her into a tree.

“I’m not like you,” Grace said, her voice raised now as she wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks. “I didn’t plan it. But Michael killed Mary. He stole my sister, my childhood.” She could barely breathe; the air seemed filled with poison. But it didn’t matter. There was nothing more to say. She would never speak of this again. Ever.

She leaned forward and pressed the call button. Suddenly, Lisa started wheezing.

No, not wheezing. It was like a chuckle.

Lisa lifted the oxygen mask to her mouth and took a painfully slow gasp that seemed to rattle in her chest. She looked at Grace, those dark eyes bigger now, their deep pools sparkling in the way that had terrified Grace when she was a child. “You’re wrong,” she whispered.

A nurse appeared before Grace could ask her what she meant. “Ready to leave?” she asked cheerfully, then frowned. She stepped to the bedside and replaced the oxygen mask on Lisa’s face. “You should rest,” she said.

“Wrong about what?” Grace blurted. She didn’t care if the nurse overheard. What did Lisa mean? Wrong about Michael? But Lisa had closed her eyes, and her only response was the rattle-gasp, rattle-gasp of her breathing.

The nurse wheeled Grace into the hallway.
You’re wrong.
The accusation bounced around her brain, looking for meaning. She wiped compulsively at her face with the fronts and backs of her palms, unable to soak up the damage. She couldn’t be wrong. Michael’s father had seen him. He’d seen him with the body. Even near death, Lisa was just playing her twisted games, trying to torment her one last time.

But what if there had been more to it? If Lisa had been involved, or if there had been an accident? What if Michael hadn’t killed Mary? What would that make Grace?

Behind the closed door, the beeping of Lisa’s heart-rate monitor continued faintly, regularly, then became one long, continuous note. Everyone knew what it meant. The nurse raced back, abandoning Grace in the hall. Other staff rushed in behind her. She listened to the frantic energy of the medical team until the sound stopped, the energy of the room drained, and several nurses and a doctor slowly exited, defeated. One of them put a hand on Grace’s shoulder, as if there could be some consolation in having had the chance to say good-bye.

A different nurse wheeled her back to her room. She was speaking, but Grace only heard muffled sounds. The only clear noise that continued to ring out in her head was the blast of the gun and her own scream. She stared at the sterile white floor, but her mind was focused on Michael, surrounded by blood. When the elevator doors opened, Justin rose from his chair and smiled.

He followed them into the room and waited while the nurse helped Grace into the bed and left. He sat on the edge of the mattress. “You okay?”

She didn’t know what to say. Everyone was gone. Lisa. Michael. His father. Tucker. She was free from her old life, but she’d never be free from the memory of that day, of what she’d done, or the torment of Lisa’s last words. “She’s dead,” Grace whispered.

He let out a deep breath. “I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

She needed the truth. But she would never get it. And here was the one man who had utter faith in her, in her innocence. She could never tell him. How could he forgive her if he knew what she’d done? How could anyone? She’d have to live with it. Lock it away in some part of her mind. Her memories bound forever by secrets, lies, and uncertainty.

He reached out for her and she put her hands in his.

She didn’t deserve to hold on, but she didn’t want to let go. She couldn’t let go.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For fueling my drive and commitment to write this book, I thank the readers of
The Green Line
, who reached out to me through social media or wrote online reviews, expressing support, interest, and kind words.

In addition, I am indebted to numerous people whose support, love, or assistance made it possible to write this story . . .

First, to Jim, thanks for enduring, with good humor, a wife who occasionally forgot about dinner during the last year and sometimes zoned out during conversations, living instead in her make-believe world. I’m the luckiest woman, with the best husband, whose love and humor make my dreams come true. To Caroline and Jimmy, thanks for your excitement and interest in my stories—even when you aren’t allowed to read them—and to my dear friends, near and far, your enthusiasm and kindness lift me up. Endless thanks also go to my mother, sister, husband, and father for their willingness to be confidantes, cheerleaders, critics, readers, and therapists all at once.

To Cynthia Quam, Julia Buckley, Martha Whitehead, Peter and Carolyn Ferry, thank you for your time, energy, and feedback on the manuscript in its various stages. You made such a difference.

Sincere thanks go to Michigan prosecutor Mona Armstrong for answering my incessant inquiries regarding crime-scene investigations, procedures, and practices; William Marx, police chief of the Buchanan Police Department, for answering all my jurisdictional issues and inquiries; and my dear friend Dr. Doris Nussenbaum for answering my inquiries regarding medications, treatments, and general medical mayhem. (Of course, all of these experts answered queries without the benefit of reading the full story, and if any errors have been made regarding these areas, they are solely mine.)

To Anh Schluep for her interest in this manuscript and to the whole team at Thomas & Mercer for shepherding the manuscript through the production process—thank you all. And to my editor Caitlin Alexander, who believed in the story and helped make it better, I am very grateful.

Finally, thanks to the Oak Park Public Library for providing a beautiful and warm refuge where I spent countless hours drinking Diet Coke and working on this book.

Book Club Discussion Questions

1. Retribution is defined as punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved. Do any of the crimes in this story meet that definition?
   
2. Vengeance is the act of doing something to hurt someone because that person did something that hurt you or someone else. Which crimes in this story would be considered acts of vengeance? Do you find any of the crimes justified?
   
3. Is it ever acceptable to commit a crime? For example, a woman who kills her husband after enduring years of abuse? Is it only acceptable if you fear for your own safety? What if the danger has passed?
   
4. At one point in the story, Vicki Flynn says, “We could all kill someone, couldn’t we?” Do you agree with that? Is everyone capable of murder under the right circumstances?
   
5. If someone who commits criminal acts is mentally unstable (i.e., bipolar or schizophrenic), does that make him or her more sympathetic? Do we care if a murderer is mentally incapacitated? Should we? Are all murderers and violent assaulters in some way mentally incapacitated?
   
6. Generally speaking, in order to be convicted of first-degree murder, a defendant must have intended harm with premeditation. If the crime is intentional but essentially spontaneous, the crime is second-degree murder. If there is no intent, i.e., the defendant was incapacitated in some way or the crime is accidental, the crime is voluntary or involuntary manslaughter. Do you think the charge against the actual perpetrator for Michael Cahill’s death would be first-degree murder, second-degree murder, or something else? Why? Do you think the perpetrator in this story deserves legal punishment?
   
7. For someone with a sense of right and wrong, guilt, remorse, etc., can his or her conscience ever be punishment enough? Do you think that the concept of self-preservation is strong enough to prevent a generally righteous person from ever admitting guilt of a heinous act?
   
8. Should we feel sympathy for someone convicted of a crime he or she didn’t commit? Is there sometimes poetic justice in locking away a bad person away, even if the reasoning is flawed?
   
9. At what age should children be held solely accountable for their actions? To what extent does a child’s history (e.g., abuse) mitigate his or her responsibility?
   
10. There are a few examples in this novel of parents enduring extreme sacrifices for their children. How far would you go to protect your children? Would you go to prison?
    
11. Discuss the book’s title,
    Broken Grace
    . Do you think Grace is broken from the accident or something else? Did your interpretation of the title evolve from beginning to end? Do you think she’s “fixed” after regaining her memories?
    
12. The novel leaves something unanswered, something Grace will never know, regarding the death of her sister. What do you think happened? Does your answer affect your feelings about Grace?
    
13. How much of our memory can be trusted? Can we ever remember what happened in childhood with certainty, or does the filter of a single perspective inherently prejudice our memories? How reliable are your own memories of what happened two weeks ago, two years ago, two decades ago? Have you ever been certain that a childhood memory was absolutely true, only to have someone else who was present insist things happened differently? Have you ever had a memory that you grew less certain—or more certain—about over time? What changed?
    

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

E.C. Diskin grew up in the suburbs of Washington, DC, and Chicago. Though she spent several years as an attorney in Chicago, she’s now a full-time writer and mother of two. Diskin and her family live in Illinois with a cool old boxer and a sweet baby cavapoo.

www.facebook.com/ECDiskin

@ecdiskin

www.ecdiskin.com