Page 92 of Grace

I peel off my dirty, wet clothes and step under the hot shower. The water is merciless on my sensitive skin. My gaze flicks to the plain tiles—tiles that used to have tulips on them.

I remember Mom. Her warm smile, her tinkling laugh. I’m so sorry she couldn’t be by my side as I grew into a woman.

When I was captive, I often woke up shouting, “Mom!” She didn’t come into that dark room to comfort me and wipe away my tears—she wasn’t even alive any more. I know she used to tell me my happiness was the most important thing. All she ever wanted was for me to be happy. But the love that has overrun the garden of my heart feels like betrayal—I can’t love the man who took me away from them. I can’t love the man who took them away from me.

I lived with Chase for five years. And even though it’s been four years since then, even though he looks different now, he’s still the same man who wants only one thing—who has only ever wanted one thing—me.

I crumple the letter and shove it into a bag with the ugly teddy bear. I’ll spend today the way I planned. But tonight, I’m going to Tulsa. I need to talk to Cyrus in person. We must put our cards on the table. I must tell him my fears and panic attacks have been caused by Nikky and Bo’s gang.

Chase…

I must tell Cyrus what I feel for Chase. I must tell him what he means to me. That I’ve been running from myself all this time, that it’s been myself I have been afraid of the most. Maybe Cyrus will never understand me. Jesus, sometimes even I don’t understand myself. This is complicated, because I know what my body and heart desires. But my mind doesn’t let me give in to them. My mind is telling me to punish Chase Baker.

And… I must tell him that when I found the note stuck on our fridge, I didn’t leave the house for a long time. Even though the door stood open, freedom waiting on the other side. Being a captive, being locked up, is a dark stain on my mind. A labyrinth—a huge maze with no way out. I’ll be lost in it forever.

Four years ago, before I left, I left a note for Chase on the kitchen table. It said:

I’m sorry

Chase

Lucas taught me to protect what’s mine. What makes me stronger. What makes me a better man.

That fucking cop couldn’t keep his ass in line.

He crossed a line—he deserved to be punished.

I thought Lucas was the silent monster. That he was the bad guy, not me. I was wrong.

We’re both monsters.

Ortíz parks in front of a food stand far from town. There are a few cheap plastic tables and chairs next to it. The red parasols flap in the wind like sails. The poor guy works his ass off, and still he has to eat at this cheap stand because his salary isn’t even enough to have a few bills left at the end of the month to wipe his fat ass with.

The place is empty this morning, there’s no one here but us. It’s the perfect place to meet. I pull my hood up and reach for the door handle, but I stop when I see two little girls staring at the freezer full of ice cream.

They’re holding hands—they’re probably sisters. The older one keeps the younger one tucked close to her side. She’s protecting her. They’re wearing slippers and light summer dresses. They choose their ice cream quickly, pull out the exact amount, so they don’t have to stay a second longer than absolutely necessary. Smart girls.

The cop is keeping an eye on them. Good.

Usually all that’s left of them is a photo of a shoe, a cold case file, and the sympathy of cops.

Ortíz lifts his badge from beneath his shirt and flashes it at the vendor with an air of superiority, then takes a calm sip of his coffee.

I watch the sisters’ quick steps as they cross the street, then my gaze returns to the man who looks vaguely Mexican. He slips out the side door and punches in a number on his phone. He keeps glancing around to see if Ortíz is listening.

Young. They’re too young.

“There’s a food stand south of town, on the road to Goldsby. It must be new, and it’s pretty poor. The server looks Mexican. I think he’s setting up a kidnapping right now. The girls are under twelve,” I give Lucas the fucking facts when he picks up.

“Do what you went there for and then get out of the neighborhood. Gino will go there and pick up the guy. I want to know who he’s working for.” He hangs up.

When the rat gets back to his den, I get out of the car. I approach Ortíz with heavy steps and sit down next to him without a word. He looks at me with bored, washed-out eyes, then tosses the little plastic pick he used to eat his French fries.

“What the hell do you want?”

His breath reeks of stale coffee and cheap food—sour, nauseating.

I reach out and grab his meaty fingers. His face turns red under my grip, and fat drops of sweat roll down his brow. My lips curl into an icy smile as I twist my hand. I break two of his fingers. And before he can yell and draw attention, I slam the photo down on the plastic table. His terrified gaze locks on the picture, and pure terror replaces the pain.