Beast Mode (The Grimm Reapers #2)

Chapter 1

BELLE

“Bells,” he said when I stepped into his room at Long Creek Memory Care, squinting at me like I’d just materialized out of thin air. “You cut your hair.”

“I did not,” I told him, dropping my bag on the chair. “The lovely ladies in the salon did on Thursday, and you are as handsome as ever.” I lowered my head to kiss him on the cheek.

He chuckled, which felt like winning the lottery.

Long Creek wasn’t much to look at. The halls were a shade of beige that had given up on life sometime during the Obama administration.

But I made sure his room was cheery. He had the quilt from home.

The framed picture of us when I was a little girl, and one of him winning first prize at the Ohio State fair for his automated football thrower.

The little wooden clock ticked too loudly when everything else went quiet.

He needed more brightness in here, or maybe it was me who needed it bright. That’s really neither here nor there. The point is that I tried to make it a little slice of home for both of us.

“How’s my favorite girl?” he asked.

“I am your only girl.”

“Still counts.”

Sometimes I could see the fog roll in behind his eyes mid-conversation, like someone slowly dimming a room. But today the lights stayed on. He even remembered the Grimm Reapers’ name without prompting.

“Still knocking girls down?” he asked.

“Only recreationally.”

“That’s my girl.”

He squeezed my hand. His grip was still strong, which always surprised me. The body didn’t always match the brain’s retreat. He looked solid and present. I could still see the man who liked tinkering in his garage and yelling at the news.

We played two hands of cards. He cheated. I pretended not to notice. When I stood to leave, he held onto my fingers a second longer than usual.

“Oh, I brought you something. Bread Zeppelin has a new croissant,” I said as I took out a bakery bag from my purse.

He split it in half and gave me one, just like he always did.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked.

There it was. The rare clarity question.

I smiled automatically. “I’m always okay.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, like he knew that wasn’t a real answer. But then it passed, and he was waving at the television remote like it had personally offended him.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” I promised.

“Bring another croissant.”

“I will if you behave and stop pestering Mrs Miller down the hall,” I reminded him.

“She loves it,” he said with a smile I recognized, even if I didn’t see it much anymore.

I walked out smiling.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, already mentally calculating gas mileage on my way back to the van. I had enough gas for the week, and if I skipped the fancy coffee and pretended tap water was a personality trait, I just might make it to the next payday.

“Belle?”

I turned.

Nancy Carter stood near the desk, her expression carefully neutral in the way administrators do when they’re about to ruin your day.

“Hey,” I said brightly. “Please tell me you’re here to compliment my excellent daughtering skills.”

She didn’t smile. That was the first drop.

“Do you have a minute?” she asked gently.

Oh, that tone. That was the second drop.

“Sure,” I said, because what else do you say? “I’m extremely minute-rich.”

She led me into the small office off the main hall. The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly the air felt too thick. There were charts stacked neatly on her desk. A soft hum from the overhead light. A motivational poster about resilience that felt aggressively ironic.

“Is he okay?” I sat crossing and uncrossing my legs, keeping my voice light, like we were discussing laundry detergent.

She folded her hands. “Your father has had three wandering incidents in the past two weeks,” she said. “And an escalation in nighttime agitation.”

The words landed in neat, professional rows. Wandering incidents. Escalation.

I nodded like we were discussing weather patterns.

“He’s been more confused in the evenings,” she continued. “And there was an episode last night where he became disoriented.”

My throat tightened. “He didn’t say anything about that,” I said.

“He likely wouldn’t remember it clearly.”

Of course, he wouldn’t.

“Belle,” she said softly, “we believe he may need step-up care.”

There it was. The third drop.

I blinked. “Step-up like . . . an extra puzzle book?”

Her expression gentled even further.

“Step-up as in our higher-acuity wing. More supervision. Additional staff overnight. A different level of support.”

Different level. Higher acuity. More supervision . . . More money.

“How different?” I asked.

And I hated that my first thought wasn’t what that meant for him.

It was what that meant for the bill.

“We’ll need to reassess his care plan,” she said carefully. “There would be an increase in monthly cost.”

There it is. The fourth drop. My smile stayed in place out of pure muscle memory.

“Define increase,” I said.

She slid a paper across the desk.

The number stared up at me. It didn’t just increase. It doubled.

For a moment, the hum of the fluorescent light grew louder than her voice. My chest felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped something essential from the center of me and forgotten to put it back.

I nodded again. Because I am very good at nodding.

“I see,” I said.

Which was a lie. I did not see. What I did see was my van and my part-time hours. Sadly, I saw my father wandering into the wrong hallway at two in the morning.

“Is this urgent?” I asked because I needed time. Even if time wasn’t a real solution.

“We recommend transitioning within the next month or so,” she said gently. “His safety is our primary concern.”

“Of course,” I said. My voice sounded far away. Of course, I was concerned about his safety too, but I only had so much money and so much time to make more.

“We’ll send you the updated estimate and paperwork,” she added. “Let us know if you’d like to discuss payment options.”

I stood carefully, like sudden movement might crack something.

“Thank you,” I said, because I’m also very good at thanking people for things that feel like avalanches.

I made it all the way to the parking lot before my hands started shaking.

I leaned against the side of my van and pressed my forehead to the cool metal.

“Okay,” I whispered to no one. I’d handled worse. I could handle this. I just had to figure out how.

And I would. There were no other options.

But I was about to put all that behind me. I was on my way to the one place none of this mattered, the one place I could let it all go and take out my aggression in a healthy way.

The second I stepped into the Grimm Reapers’ rink, the world recalibrated again. The track gleamed under fluorescent lights. Wheels clacked against the wooden floor. Someone had cranked the music loud enough to count as emotional regulation.

“BLYTHE!” Mel shouted from across the floor. “If you’re late again, I’m replacing you with a folding chair.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I shot back. “I have a better hip check.”

Robin rolled past me backward, effortless and smug. “You look like someone who’s about to pretend she’s fine.”

“I am fine,” I said brightly.

Robin narrowed her eyes. Derby girls could smell emotional instability the way sharks smelled blood.

I dropped my bag on the bench and started lacing my skates. The ritual helped. Pull tight. Cross. Loop. Ground yourself.

On the track, nothing else mattered. Not bills. Not fluorescent offices. Not numbers that doubled when you blinked. Just momentum.

Mel blew the whistle, and we started drills. I blocked Zella into the padded wall hard enough that she whooped in appreciation. Eleanor clipped my shoulder and nearly spun me out.

“Stay low, Belle!” Mel barked.

“I am low!” I barked back. “This is as low as God made me!”

Laughter rippled.

We ran endurance laps. My lungs burned. My thighs screamed. My brain went blissfully blank. This was the only place I didn’t feel like I was juggling glass. Halfway through scrimmage, I planted hard and absorbed a hit that rattled my ribs.

“That’s it,” Sonia yelled. “That’s the wall!”

Wall. I was very good at being a wall.

When practice finally wrapped, we collapsed in a sweaty heap near the benches.

“You coming out after?” Robin asked, peeling off her helmet.

“Tempting,” I said. “But I have a hot date with caffeine and questionable life choices.”

“Belle,” Mel said quietly, handing me a water bottle. “You good?”

There it was again. That look. The one that said you don’t have to perform here.

I forced a grin. “I’m excellent. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

She held my gaze a beat longer than comfortable.

Then nodded.

“Text if you need anything.”

I just nodded and finished taking my skates off.

By the time I got to Bread Zeppelin, the sky had gone that deep indigo. I ordered the cheapest coffee on the menu and claimed my usual corner table.

“Living the dream?” Otto asked. He owned the bakery and the little art gallery in the back. He was a good man who always offered me free coffee, which I always denied. But when he did offer me the random shift, I took him up on those.

“Always,” I said. “If the dream is subsisting on caffeine and baked goods.”

He laughed like I was joking.

I opened my laptop and prepared for an email from Long Creek that I was not ready for. Around me, couples leaned into each other. Students crammed for exams. Someone argued softly over wedding centerpieces. Normal life hummed.

And there it was, the dreaded email. I calculated the step-up care cost again. Then again. Then, once more, the numbers might rearrange out of pity. They didn’t.

Closing time came too fast.

“Alright, Belle,” Otto called gently. “We’re locking up.”

“Thanks, Otto. Have a nice night,” I said, packing up.

Outside, the air had cooled, but July in Ohio was never that cool.

I drove back to the rink parking lot.

The Roll-o-Ramma sign flickered above the building like it couldn’t fully commit to existing. The lot was empty, and I parked in my usual corner.