Page 103 of Graciously His

I turn, heading towards the door.

“You—you can’t just leave!” she whines from behind me.

I glance back, double checking that the knife is where she left it on the table.

“I’m going home,” I say, using my key to unlock the door. I slam it shut behind me, heading down the front steps.

“GRACIOUSLY!” she yells, the door thumping open. “Graciously, don’t go! I—I’ll call everything off if you just stay here, all right?”

I stop at the bottom of the front stairs. “Call off what?”

“That constable, that older one—”

“Tim?” I prompt, staring up at her.

“Yes, Tim. He… he sent a team to intercept Nate at the airport. They’ve got him now. If you just calm down, lovey, and agree to stay with me a bit longer, I’ll call and have them let him go.”

It’s the final piece, sliding into place. I check my phone. It wasn’t Nate who called last—it was Tim. I open the voicemail he left. In terse tones, he asks me to come to the station to discuss the circumstances of my marriage.

“No need for you to call them,” I say, turning away without bothering to look at the pleading woman again. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

I walk away. Her cries echo down the street behind me as I pass the oval of lush green grass where an old playground used to stand. I call for a car, then I check the texts Nate sent me when he arrived in Dunedin. I read them while I wait:

Tim had me taken to the station, Grace. I’m stuck for now, but my lawyer will have me out soon.

Don't be afraid of your mother, little heart.

You'll handle her.

I love you.

I close my eyes, savouring Nate’s words for a long minute. Then I text Mihi, asking if Shep is all right (he is). I text Eileen, thanking her for my health (I’m welcome). And, although I know he doesn’t have access to his phone, I answer each of Nate’s messages with the same three words, fully safe now.

The taxi pulls up, and I’m on my way.

Chapter 42

Nate

I’m sitting here, empty-handed, with Constable Tim staring me down. I’m trying and failing to quell my worries about Grace. I’ve asked about her more times than I care to count, but no news.

“I’ve been told by your lawyer,” Tim says, “that continuing to interview you is inadvisable, but I do have some more, shall we say, casual questions I might put to you, if you’re willing?”

“We can chat,” I say. “But first—did anyone get a hold of Grace?”

Tim shakes his head. “She hasn’t answered our calls yet.”

“And her mother?”

“Nothing.”

Tim’s eyes never leave my face. I can imagine how a normal person would squirm when confronted by the man’s careful regard. I don’t.

“Tell me,” he says, “how did you know about Constance Reid’s ongoing mistreatment of Grace? To my knowledge, plenty of doctors, therapists, and social workers were consulted throughout the years. None of them ever reported anything amiss.”

I shrug. “I’ve known Grace more deeply than anyone else for years. I could show you the emails she and I have exchanged—they’re all on my phone. If she agrees to it, you can look at her bullet journal, too. She’s documented everything. The signs of her mother’s abuse are everywhere.”

“Why didn’t you try to help her sooner, if this was all so obvious?”