Broken Grace (3 page)

Bishop nodded. “Miss Abbott, can you tell us exactly when this accident occurred?”

Grace turned to Lisa for help. “It was a week ago yesterday,” Lisa said. “What would that be? December seventh. Saturday morning.”

“And where was she going?”

“I don’t know,” Lisa said.

Everyone looked at Grace. She just shrugged.

Lisa kept patting her knee. “She took a pretty big blow to the head. She cracked her ribs and punctured a lung, but she’s okay. She’s going to be fine.” That last bit seemed to be for Grace’s benefit. She vaguely remembered Dr. Roberts warning Lisa to look out for signs of depression.

Bishop focused on Grace. “I’m really sorry to hear about this, Miss Abbott. But do you remember anything about that morning?”

Mutely, Grace shook her head.

“Detective,” Lisa said, “Grace doesn’t remember anything.”

Hackett leaned forward, eyes intense. “You mean you don’t remember what led to the accident?”

Grace opened her mouth to speak, but Lisa beat her to it. “She was unconscious for quite a bit. She doesn’t remember anything. She didn’t even remember me. The doctors said she has a traumatic brain injury, a TBI, but they tell us to be hopeful.” She turned to Grace. “We’re just going to get some rest, right, Grace? And it’s all going to come back.” Lisa patted her knee again as if comforting a small child, and Grace stared at the hand, anxious to push it away and run. Her headache was returning.

Lisa looked back at the officers. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t know about her accident, what’s going on?”

Grace could feel Bishop’s eyes on her. “We’ve actually been trying to find you for the last few days, Miss Abbott.”

“Please don’t say that,” she said, keeping her head down.

“What?” Hackett asked, his tone gentler, less accusatory.

She met his dark brown eyes. “
Miss Abbott.
Will you call me Grace, please? I’m not a librarian.” Hackett looked at his partner, who now sat back, arms crossed, studying her.

Lisa frowned. “It’s a side effect. The doctor said she might be a little off. Maybe irritable.” Her black nails tapped Grace’s knee. “It’s okay. Grace, it’s okay.”

She wanted to jump out of her skin. Except it hurt to think about jumping. “Just tell me why you’re here already.”

Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “This is about Michael Cahill,” he said, watching her response.

“What about Michael?” Lisa asked. “Is he in trouble?”

Grace hugged herself, feeling chilled. “Who’s Michael Cahill?”

“Michael is your ex-boyfriend, remember?” Lisa said.

“Ex?” Bishop sat forward, arms uncrossing.

Both Lisa and Grace answered, “Yes.”

“But it appears that you and Mr. Cahill live together in Harbert.”

“I thought I lived here?” Grace turned to Lisa.

“You do, Grace. Now, anyway. But the officers aren’t wrong. You only asked to move in a week ago. It was last Friday night.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I . . . don’t really know. You were just really upset, you said it was over with Michael, and you asked to move in here. You ran up to your old room, so I let you be. I figured we could talk in the morning.”

“What time was this?” Hackett asked.

“I don’t know.” Lisa shrugged. “Maybe ten o’clock. I don’t really remember.”

“Did Grace tell you in the morning what had happened with Michael?” Bishop asked.

“I never had the chance to ask. She was up and gone in the morning, and then she got in that terrible accident.”

Grace sat forward as if she could take back some control of the situation, of a life that made no sense to her. “What is this all about? Is he in trouble?”

The two men glanced at each other again. “No,” Bishop answered. “Mr. Cahill is not in trouble. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

Grace focused on that word:
dead
. She began picturing dead people. A casket. A funeral. A man being shot off a horse in an old western. Dozens of men in confederate uniforms lying dead in a field.

“My God!” Lisa said, her alarm puncturing Grace’s mental tangent. “What happened?”

Bishop ignored her. “Miss Abbott? Grace?”

Grace finally returned her focus to Bishop, watching his mouth as he spoke.

“We’re still trying to figure it out. He didn’t show up for work on Monday, so one of his coworkers went to the house that evening. He found the body. After questioning the witness and a few others, we began looking for Grace.”

“What happened to him?” she asked.

“He was killed,” Bishop said.

“What do you mean?” Lisa asked. “Like murder?”

“Yes.”

Lisa’s hand covered her mouth. Grace watched her face, trying to read it like a new language.

“We believe he’d been dead a few days.”

“How? Why? What do you think happened?”

Grace sat back, watching their discussion like they were actors in a play—like some sort of interactive theater in which she was supposed to participate. But they were strangers and she didn’t know the story.

Bishop leaned forward more, as if proximity would make them friends. “We were hoping we might find out more from you, Grace. When we investigated the crime scene, it was pretty obvious from the bills and the clothes that you lived there. So when we couldn’t locate you, we were concerned.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Lisa, rubbing her face with her hands. She patted Grace’s knee. “Oh my God, Grace, thank God you were here, what if you hadn’t . . . ?” She didn’t finish the thought, her eyes watering.

Hackett sat forward, his voice soft. “Grace, do you remember Vicki Flynn?”

She shook her head.

“She got a text from you last Friday evening around nine o’clock saying that you had big news and that you’d stop by in the morning after your run. She lives a block from Cahill’s house.”

Grace looked at Hackett, her mouth open, ready to speak, but she realized she had nothing to add.

“You don’t have any idea what that might have been about?” Hackett asked.

She could barely keep up; this whole conversation was like a book she’d never read. “I don’t know who Vicki is. I don’t know anything.”

“Did someone break in?” Lisa asked.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Bishop said. “There’s no evidence of a break-in, but of course we’re a bit hampered by the delayed discovery of the body and the snow that blanketed the area by midday Saturday.”

“What can we do?” asked Lisa.

“Just help us if you can in piecing together Mr. Cahill’s days before the crime. Our team is running down several leads from the crime scene. We’ll be looking into everything about his life.”

“Of course,” Lisa said.

Grace turned to the younger cop but hesitated. “How was he killed?”

“Shotgun. He was in bed at the time.”

Lisa covered her mouth and shook her head. Grace pictured a generic man in a pool of blood—like a character in a movie, about whom she knew nothing.

Bishop tilted his chin toward Lisa. “Since Grace is unable to remember, perhaps you can help us?”

“Of course,” she said. “Whatever you need.”

“Any idea where Grace might have been going when she got in the accident last Saturday morning?”

Lisa repositioned herself on the sofa, even closer, and looked at Grace before responding. “I wish I could tell you.” She put her arm around Grace. “I slept in and then got the call from the hospital about the accident. But Grace is a runner. She always does her big runs on Saturday mornings. Maybe she wanted to go for a run in those trails by the dunes. Maybe she went out for coffee.”

Hackett took notes. Bishop’s attention shifted back to Grace who was staring at the shag carpeting.

“You can’t think that Grace could have done this,” Lisa said, her arm still wrapped around Grace, now pulling her closer. Grace leaned back and away from Lisa, mumbling about her headache. She needed to catch her breath; Lisa’s smothering felt like a bag over her head.

“We simply need to establish alibis for everyone who knew Mr. Cahill well.” To Grace, Bishop said, “Given the fact that you lived there, when we couldn’t locate you for several days . . .”

“You thought it was Grace?” Lisa’s voice rose. “That’s ridiculous.”

Bishop held up a palm in Lisa’s direction. “We’re not accusing you, Grace,” he said. “In fact, there was the possibility that whoever killed Michael had harmed you as well.”

“We’re relieved that you’re okay,” Hackett said, his voice soothing. “We’re not accusing her of anything,” he assured Lisa. “We simply need to gather information but, given Grace’s condition, this might be a little more difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said to him. “I wish I could help. I wish I could remember.” A bolt of pain shot through her temple, so sharp and sudden it was as if a nerve had been cut. She cried out, wincing and grabbing her head with both hands.

Lisa jumped up. “Lie down.” She grabbed the pillows from the end of the couch. When Grace was settled, she turned back to the detectives. “I’m so sorry to hear about Michael, and please keep us posted on any developments. But you can see Grace is no help to you right now, and the doctor wants her to rest.”

The men stood. “Grace, we hope you feel better soon,” Bishop said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Grace couldn’t respond.

Lisa ushered them to the door. She heard them talking but couldn’t understand what was said. The door opened and closed. The house fell silent. A short while later, the door opened and shut again.

Lisa approached and laid a wet towel across Grace’s forehead. She knelt beside her and leaned in. “Are you okay?”

Grace looked at this woman’s face, her raccoon-like eyes, her squirrel-like movement, her total lack of respect for personal space. “I’m okay.”

“Grace—did any of that ring a bell?”

“What do you think?” she responded sarcastically. Obviously she didn’t remember anything or she would have said something. Lisa was starting to play the role of Nurse Molly, and Grace was starting to think about another face slap.

“Hey, the doctor warned us of this, remember? You may feel anger or irritation, even when it’s not called for.” She went to the kitchen and Grace heard the fridge open and close. “So I’m not going to take it personally, okay?”

This was a bizarre nightmare, that’s what it was. And when she woke up, this blinding pain would be gone and—

Lisa popped the tab on a can of soda. “You went to Michael’s house last Saturday morning. You were going to get some clothes because you said he’d be at work.”

Grace grabbed the towel and sat up. “What?” Intense pain stabbed at her temple.

“Don’t worry. Maybe it happened after you left. Or maybe you never got there.”

Grace leaned back onto the couch. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen shows about this. Cops look at the spouses, the girlfriends, the boyfriends. I’m not going to hand them information that could hurt you.”

She didn’t know what to say. And the pain in her head made it impossible to focus on anything else.

“But they did take your clothes from the accident,” Lisa said, her voice fading for a minute. “That Bishop handed me a warrant at the door. The bag was still in the car, so I gave it to him.”

She came over with a glass of water and a pill. “Here. And don’t worry. Maybe that’s good. Get you cleared from the radar so they can focus on who really did this. You want me to close these shades?” she said, walking to the bay window. “Maybe darkness is better.”

“Good idea,” Grace whispered. She had no reason to be fearful, no knowledge of wrongdoing, but suddenly she felt hunted.

FOUR

T
HE FROZEN SNOW CRUNCHED BENEATH
their boots as the men walked back to the squad car. Hackett didn’t know what to say or how to feel. Every day that he remained quiet potentially made things worse, but there she was. Alive. It hurt a little to face her blank stare, like they were strangers, but at least she was okay.

Be objective. Solve the case.
That was the mantra he’d been silently repeating since he found Cahill’s body and he saw the photo of Grace—smiling, arm in arm with the dead man—covered in shattered glass, the frame cracked.

They sat in the car, letting the engine warm up for a minute. “Well, that was interesting,” Bishop said, rubbing his hands together in front of the heating vents. “I’d say that was a good enough reason to call me on my day off.”

“Yeah, I figured as much. Why’d you pretend we didn’t know about the accident?”

“I wanted to see if her story would match what we had learned.”

Hackett was just glad to finally see her. After learning the make and model of Grace’s car, they’d put a “Be On Lookout” on the network by midday Tuesday, but it was only yesterday that a cop from the Bridgman station had called, letting them know the car had been in a near-fatal crash the previous Saturday. After they determined where Grace had been taken, Hackett had wanted to jump in the car and drive all the way up to Kalamazoo, but Bishop had sent him to deal with getting the wreckage towed while he took care of securing warrants for her hospital records and clothing from the crash. Bishop had said they would head up to the hospital together on Monday, but Hackett couldn’t wait. He’d driven up there this morning, only to learn from an overly cheery nurse that Grace had just been released to her sister.

“Well, what do you think?” Hackett asked.

“I think this girl is pretty lucky.”

Nothing about this situation was lucky. “How do you figure?”

“Her boyfriend is dead. She may have been the last one to see him, and she can’t remember a thing. I’d say that’s pretty lucky.”

“You think she’s faking it?”

“I’m not saying that, but her accident happened within the window of our vic’s time of death. Unless the medical examiner comes back with something in his final report that says Cahill definitely died after nine o’clock that morning, this may have simply been a case of the perp leaving the scene. Crashed. Done.”

Bishop buckled in and filled his bottom lip with a wad of chew from a tin he kept in the driver’s-side door.

“We should see if there was a motive though, right? We can’t just jump to the conclusion that the girlfriend did it.”

Bishop backed out of the driveway. “Motive is good, but if the evidence points her way, I don’t care if we never understand why. People kill for a lot of reasons, and if you spend too much time trying to connect every dot, you might miss your chance to catch them. Crazy people do crazy shit for crazy reasons all the time.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Of course I am, kid. I’m old. That’s why you’re going to follow my lead, do as I say, and we’ll solve this case inside of a week.”

“A week? How can you be so sure? The lab work can take months.”

“True. But nine times out of ten, the killer is right in front of you. It’s young guys like you who want to overcomplicate things and miss the obvious. No offense,” he added with a backhanded slap to Hackett’s leg.

Hackett’s throat tightened. Bishop was from the region’s homicide task force, brought in to work the case with Hackett; he’d have to defer to him and all his experience, but he needed Bishop to value him and not discount his opinions.

“Pretty cool for you too,” Bishop said as they drove the mostly plowed road that cut through the expanse of desolate, snow-covered farmland.

Hackett’s face flushed. “How’s that?”

“We’re in the sticks. You can spend years doing nothing more than dealing with permits, speeders, drunks in the summer, and, if you’re lucky, the occasional break-in. Not every day a young gun like you gets assigned to a murder investigation with a hotshot like me,” he added with a grin. “And this one is starting out pretty interesting.”

Hackett faked a smile and stared out his window. Bishop was right, of course, and it was great luck, given the situation. He couldn’t let himself get removed from the case. “Have you investigated a lot of murders?”

Bishop smoothed the wisps of hair that remained on his bald spot and spit into a cup. “Sure. I spent most of my career in Detroit. No missing out on the rough crimes in that area. But about a year ago, the wife begged for a transfer. She grew up in Stevensville. Wanted the kids to live in a quieter town, experience life by the lakefront. Can’t say as I blame her.”

“I don’t know Stevensville.”

“North of Bridgman, south of St. Joe. What, you not from around here?”

“I’m down in New Buffalo, but I just transferred from Indiana last summer.”

“And of course, this is your first murder investigation.”

“Right.”

“Well, lesson one, young squire. There’s no perfect crime. People always make mistakes.” He spit again.

Hackett couldn’t get Grace’s face out of his mind. Those chestnut eyes that had drawn him in the first time he saw her. Those lips. That smile. The thought of her connected to the blood and violence found at Cahill’s was hard to process. If she had been there, if she’d seen that happen, he was relieved she’d blocked it out. Because how could she live with those images? “My cousin had a traumatic brain injury from a skiing accident up in the U.P. a couple of years ago.”

“Oh yeah? Did he lose his memory?” Bishop asked.

“Well, he couldn’t remember the accident or the whole morning before it happened, but he remembered everything else.”

“Huh.”

“He was pretty messed up, and his reactions were odd. He would start laughing when people were telling a serious story, or he’d lash out at people for no reason. The doctors told us that sometimes people with TBIs have no emotional connection to what you’re saying.”

“Well, that sounds about right. She certainly didn’t react like someone who cared about the vic.”

“She doesn’t remember him.” Bishop shot him a curious look. Had his tone been too defensive?
Be objective. Prove yourself.
Maybe then, even if Bishop found out the truth, it wouldn’t matter.

“So what do you make of her?” Bishop asked.

“I don’t know.” It felt like a trick question. “What do you think?”

“I’m keeping an open mind, but we always gotta start with those closest to the vic.”

Hackett gazed at a silo in the distance. “What’s next on the list?”

“Food,” Bishop said, slowing for the intersection. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you were eating when I called you this morning.”

“I was, but the wife’s got me on some crazy diet. I’m starving all the time.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m sure it would if I did what she told me. She usually packs lunches for the kids and me every day, but she’s been too busy lately, so I’m getting a little reprieve.”

Hackett reviewed his notes. “Well, after food, we gotta visit the victim’s work again. We’re waiting on the bank records and Cahill’s cell records. We still don’t know who was the last to see him, what he was into.”

“That’s right. And I need to get Miss Abbott’s clothes sent up to the crime lab. If we’re lucky, Cahill’s blood may be on some of these items.”

That was the last thing he wanted. “But even if his blood is present, that only puts her at the scene. It doesn’t mean she did anything. Maybe she was running from the killer.”

“We’ll see.”

Hackett put away his notes and pen. “I hope she wasn’t involved.”

Bishop spit into his cup. “Why’s that?”

He shrugged, avoiding Bishop’s eyes. He shouldn’t have said that. “She’s pretty cute.”

Bishop gave his thigh another backhanded slap. “Don’t do that, boy. First rule of murder investigation—stay objective. Don’t want to cloud your judgment.”

Hackett nodded. “I know. I’m just sayin’, she’s kind of cute. Don’t you think?”

“Whatever, rookie. Just be smart.” He glanced over. “She’s a sweet-looking young chick, and you’re what? Twenty-six, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Single, right?”

“Yeah—”

“No kids, I assume?”

Hackett turned quickly to see why Bishop would mention kids, what he might know, but Bishop chuckled. “I know your generation is full of baby daddies,” he said, like he was channeling the street lingo, “and people don’t get married anymore.”

He was closer than he knew.

“So I’m just saying, I know it’s a small town and it’s the off-season, so it feels even smaller, but you need to stay focused.”

“I only said she was cute,” he muttered. “Can we drop it?”

“Whoa. Little sensitive, there? Lighten up, Francis.”

“What?” Could his new partner really not remember his first name was Justin?

“Name that movie. Come on. You must know that line,” and then he said it again, with more gruff in his voice. “
Lighten up, Francis.
”

“No idea.”

“The introductions in the barracks . . .” He started laughing. “
Stripes
!”

“Never saw it.”

“Jeez, you are a baby. Okay, that’s a required movie. I’ll tell the chief you’re not ready for the next level until you’ve seen it.”

Hackett finally broke a smile. “Okay, okay. I’ll add it to the list.”

Bishop spit into his cup. “Good.”

When Grace woke, a blanket covered her and her shoes had been removed. The living room was darker now, though light streamed in from the kitchen, where Lisa was cooking at the stove. Music played softly in the background. Grace pulled the towel from her forehead, sat up, and slowly made her way into the room.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Feeling any better?”

“Yeah. These headaches just wipe me out. I feel kind of woozy.”

“Well, I guess that’s better than the pain, right? Hell, that’s why I drink this.” Lisa raised her wineglass. “Nothin’ wrong with a little woozy.”

Grace sat on a barstool at the counter while Lisa stirred something in a saucepan, the fragrance of roasted tomatoes in the air. “Were you telling the truth before? To the police?”

Lisa froze. “What do you mean?”

“Did I tell you what happened when I came here Friday night?”

“No,” she said, and lifted her glass for another sip. “I know this must be so strange. You probably don’t know how to feel.”

“I feel lost.”

“Well, I can tell you that maybe this was a good thing.” She set down the glass and continued stirring.

“How can you say that?”

“I don’t mean good that he’s dead. I just mean good that you broke up. At least we know he can’t hurt you anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Lisa hesitated, looking at the grease-stained tiles behind the stove. “Michael had a temper. That’s why you wanted to get your stuff when he wasn’t home. You didn’t want a confrontation. I asked you to leave him so many times, Grace. It wasn’t healthy.”

“Did he hurt me?”

“Well, that’s a loaded question, isn’t it,” she said, her eyes avoiding Grace’s like it was too hard to say what came next. “I never saw a black eye or anything, and you never said he hit you, but I don’t know what went on behind closed doors. You just seemed afraid.” She turned and must have sensed Grace’s anxiety. “Don’t worry. The doctor said you need rest. Your memory will come back. This will all get cleared up. They’ll figure it out. He probably had lots of enemies. Now,” she said, opening the oven door below her and retrieving two sandwiches, the cheese oozing from their sides, “I made tomato soup and grilled cheese. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Much better than the stuff at the hospital, and despite everything, she was hungry. After dinner, she went back to the sofa and Lisa went up to work on her bedroom. Grace said she’d watch television, but she preferred silence. She scrutinized the walls: the scuffs, nail marks, the lightened rectangles of space indicating longtime locations of paintings or pictures. She studied the fireplace: the painted wood mantel, its ornately detailed design now grayed from soot; the iron grate; the remnants of wood, mounds of ash, and the cracked brick hearth. She’d been a child in this house, a little girl who probably sat in front of the fire, playing board games on that rug. But as she tried to conjure the image, to transform the space in time back to something recognizable, it felt forced, like she was simply drafting a story in her mind.

When she couldn’t wait any longer to use the bathroom, she stood, bracing the arm of the sofa to regain her equilibrium. Specks of light clouded her vision, but she slowly made her way up the stairs and paused in Lisa’s doorway to say good night. Lisa brought her an old T-shirt and some sweatpants from Grace’s dresser, turned down her bed, and got her evening dose of medication.

When Grace opened her eyes again, the green digital display on the clock atop the milk crate next to her glowed in the darkened room: 1:36 a.m. She was wide awake. She sat up slowly, trying to protect the ribs that begged her to be still, and walked to the window, the cold wood floor creaking beneath her bare feet. The full moon cast a dim light onto the front lawn, and stars speckled the clear sky. It was peaceful. Beautiful. Or it could be; maybe it used to be. She put her hand to the window. In the frigid air, the icy-thin glass fogged around her fingers.