Twelve Grace
I follow Geny down the basement steps and try not to fall down the steep stairs.
“Don’t mind the boxes over there,” she says.
There’s a wall of storage at the far end of the room. Boxes are stacked up high, along with papers and a few other things that didn’t make it into a container. There’s a little bedroom set up, and despite it being in the basement, it looks cozy.
There’s a big area rug beneath the bed and nightstand, a lamp, and a plant I assume is fake. There’s even art on the wall behind the bed.
“Mom stayed here for a while when I first had Jack.”
I smile. Of course she did. “I bet she loved that even more than you did.”
“She was amazing,” she whispers. “She always knew what to do. Always kept her cool when I felt like I might scream if he cried for one more second.”
My face warms at what feels like an admission. Geny doesn’t like to admit when she’s struggling, though she never did hide it well.
“She had two newborns at once,” I say. “She was a veteran at crying babies.”
Geny nods, then stands up straight and wipes her eye.
“Anyway. Bring me the sheets, and I’ll help you get the bed made up.”
We work together to make the full-sized bed. There’s so much to say, but the words always feel stuck in my throat. I need to say as little as possible for the foreseeable future.
“Mom?” calls a voice from the top of the stairs. Jack, I think.
“Yeah?” she yells back.
“Grandpa is here. He wants to see Aunt Grace.”
A swarm of bees attack my insides. Here we go.
Geny looks up at me. I smile to calm her nerves, which she wears plainly on her face.
“It’s fine,” I say.
We walk upstairs together, me in front. Frank Gibbs is standing by the front door, no longer in his Sunday best, but dressed in his sheriff’s uniform. Official business then.
“Sheriff Gibbs,” I say as I approach.
He nods at me in greeting. “Ms. Chandler. It is still ‘Ms. Chandler’ isn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“If you have the time, we should really talk.”
“Does that have to happen today?” Geny steps forward.
“It’s okay. I have time.”
The sheriff looks between us. “It doesn’t have to be today, I suppose. But it should be soon—”
“I have the time now. Are we talking here?”
I can feel Geny’s eyes on me. She doesn’t want to separate. I feel the same way. But this needs to happen and the sooner, the better.
“Down at the police station,” he says.
I walk forward and he steps aside to let me exit the house first.
“You can ride in the cruiser if you want,” he calls.
“I’d rather drive if that’s okay.” I don’t turn around or wait for his approval.
I open my car door just as a blue pickup truck pulls up and parks in front of the house. Wyatt climbs out of the driver’s seat and takes in the scene.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Your dad wants to talk to Grace down at the police station,” Geny says, her arms crossed.
I don’t know why she’s feeling so defensive of me in this situation, but then Wyatt spins and faces his father with a similar attitude.
“Is that really necessary? Today? She just got back. I’m sure she’d like to settle in and spend time with her sister.”
“It’s just a chat, Wy.” Frank lowers his chin at his son. “She’ll be right back.”
“Does she need a lawyer or something?” Wyatt says.
Frank’s face screws up. “No, son. Why would she need a lawyer? It’s just a chat. Calm down and I’ll see you all at the fields in an hour.”
I glance at Wyatt, and my breath catches when our eyes lock. I look away and get into my car, shutting the door between us.
* * *
Inside the station, Frank uses a key card on a reader outside the door to let us into an interview room.
It’s too warm in here. I thought they kept them cold in the movies.
As many times as I’ve been in trouble, I’ve never actually been in one of these rooms. It was always a warning.
And then getting grounded when my dad found out, though he didn’t always find out. Not toward the end.
Frank Gibbs sits across from me, trying to look as relaxed and friendly as possible.
“This isn’t a conversation I ever thought I’d be having,” he says.
“Why would you? Dead girls don’t talk.”
He nods. Grins. “But you’re not dead.”
“Astute observation, Sheriff.”
A single eyebrow quirks up. It’s brushed with gray now. “I’m sensing some hostility. What’s that about?”
“From me?” I ask innocently. “Oh, no. No hostility here. This is just how I talk. Have you really forgotten my personality? I know it’s been a while.”
He exhales a laugh. “No. No, I have not, Grace. I remember your spitfire attitude just fine. I just want to make sure you’re not pointing that fire at me.”
My stomach churns at our exchange. At the way I intend to be mean, but it’s coming out wrong.
“Nope. Why would I do that?”
He shrugs. “So, then. Tell me what happened to you. Where have you been all these years?”
“Here and there.”
His brows rise, and he stares at me, staying quiet so I’ll talk more to fill the silence. Some parts of this actually are like the movies. It’s fine though. I’ll take the bait.
“I was never really hiding. I never had to. No one was looking for me.”
It’s the truth. I wouldn’t have been too hard to find if they were looking, but they weren’t. I stayed out of Michigan for the most part and kept my head down, and that’s all I really needed to do.
His jaw muscle twitches. I bet he feels dumb. He chalked me up as dead and never looked back. He never once thought I’d come back to haunt him.
“Why not come home?” he asks.
I shrug. “Didn’t want to. I was nineteen. An adult. I started over and lived my life.”
A knock at the door makes me jump, and I mentally scold myself. Another officer steps into the doorway.
“What is it, Holt?” Frank says, clearly annoyed.
“You’re needed in interview room four,” he says. “Jimenez can take over in here for you.”
“I’ll be over there when I’m done.”
“Jimenez said he can take over this interview for you.”
Frank glares at the younger officer. “No. Now close the door and make sure I’m not interrupted again.”
Holt stands still, and for a second I think he’s going to keep insisting the other cop take over. But then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
“Sorry about that,” Frank says.
I shrug. “Did you have any more questions?”
“Many more. You were declared dead. How were you able to function out in the world?”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t. I was never officially declared dead. I functioned just fine. Go ahead and look up my name in your system. My car is registered to me. I have a bank account in my name. A cell phone bill.”
“How—” He bites his cheek. “Ken said he filed your death certificate.”
My dad never did file or petition for my death. I don’t know why. I always assumed it was denial. Grief. I lived under the table for a long time, thinking I’d trigger some big flashing alert system if I used my real name for anything.
But I kept looking online for my name. My story never made it past the local newspaper.
Death certificates are public record, and mine was never added to the collection.
Slowly, I stopped being so careful. I got jobs that didn’t pay me cash.
Applied for apartments. All of it. Background checks never brought up anything about me dying in Lake Superior.
“I guess he lied,” I say. “Speaking of my dad, is he still under investigation now that he’s dead? How does that work?”
“I can’t talk about that,” he says.
“I’m not asking about details on the case. Just if there’s still a case being investigated.”
“Yes. The crime itself will still be looked into due to the nature of it. But it’s just protocol.”
“Right. Checking the boxes.”
He looks at me as though he’s unsure what to say.
“You were his best friend,” I say. “You know he wouldn’t do anything like what he’s being accused of.”
He sighs. “You’d be surprised what people are capable of. Even people you think you know.”
“Would I be?”
“Yes.”
“And what about you, Sheriff? You identified my body, right? Is it you or the funeral home I should request to have the grave exhumed? I’d love to know who looked so much like me that a mistake like that was made.”
He doesn’t say anything, and all I can hear is the heavy pounding of my heart in my ears. I stand up and push back my chair. “Are we done? I’d really love to see my nephew’s tee-ball game.”