Chapter Thirty-One
AJ
Belle’s soft snores rumble at the foot of the bed, her paws twitching in some happy dog dream. Chasing squirrels, probably. Or tennis balls. She loves tennis balls.
My laptop is warm against my thighs, the glow of the screen the only light in the room. I’ve been up and working for hours, but Grace hasn’t stirred.
Hearing her broken, whimpering cries from inside the MRI machine destroyed me. She couldn’t tell me why she was screaming, “Make it stop.” She couldn’t say much of anything beyond, “Take me home.”
Jasper left his truck in the garage and drove us home so I could hold her. She clung to me, staring vacantly into the distance, not a single flicker of recognition in her eyes.
Was it a mistake to bring her to the hospital so soon? Reyes told me not to wait. That he’d done his best, but he wasn’t a neurosurgeon.
I should have known she wasn’t ready.
As soon as I helped her into her pajamas, she curled into a ball under the duvet and fell asleep. I didn’t even have time to get her a glass of water and one of the Xanax Dr. VanHorn prescribed for her.
I kept watch over her long after exhaustion tried to pull me under. But eventually, I wrapped my arm around her waist, buried my face in her hair, and let the nightmares come for me.
In every one, when I woke up, she was gone.
She’s going on almost fourteen hours of sleep, and I’ve spent the past five of them searching for any and all cult activity from Austin to the US-Mexico border.
Even after so long, her face looks…hollow. Like sleep can’t touch the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from constantly trying to remember who she once was. Or what was done to her.
Now on my second cup of coffee, I rest my back against the headboard and take a long, slow sip.
On screen, a slideshow of the bloodstained dress Grace was found in, the burlap bag, and the white and gold rope plays on a loop.
I keep hoping I’ll see something—anything—that might help me figure out who took her. And whether they’re still out there.
A ping breaks the quiet. A new email from Reyes.
AJ,
I received the toxin results from the lab this morning.
Grace consumed a concentrate of oleander nectar before she was stabbed.
It was strong enough that, had hypothermia not slowed her metabolism, her heart would have stopped before the blood loss killed her.
I hope all is well, and that Grace’s memories are returning.
Respectfully,
Alejandro Reyes
Oleander. Again.
What are the odds a woman with oleander flowers tattooed on her shoulder would be poisoned with oleander concentrate and bound by ropes woven with oleander blooms?
A soft, broken sound snaps my focus back to Grace. She twists under the blanket, breath catching in her throat. Her lips move, but no words come out—just choked sounds, her face pinched like she’s bracing for a blow.
Belle raises her head. “Shhh, girl. I’ve got her.”
Setting the laptop aside, I ease myself down and draw Grace against me. Her body fights me, caught in whatever hell she’s reliving in her mind.
Her pajama top slides off her shoulder enough to expose a bit of her tattoo—the spray of oleander flowers in pink and white and red. She got it years ago, not long after our wedding, to remind her how the blossoms framed us as we said our vows.
Fuck.
I don’t know what’s worse—her captors taking her because of the tattoo or them discovering it and turning it into the instrument of her death as part of some sick fucking joke. Either way, they’ve stained something that should have been untouchable.
Her choked cries coalesce into words, repeated over and over again. “AJ…please find me.”
My chest constricts. She needed me, and I wasn’t there. For three goddamn years. I failed her. I won’t fail her again. I can’t.
Tightening my arms around her, I press my lips to her ear. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re loved.” I repeat the mantra half a dozen times. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re loved.”
Her nails dig into my skin. “I’ll be good. I promise…”
Slowly, the tension starts to bleed from her muscles. Her rapid, wheezing breaths even out. She stops trembling.
Her eyes blink open, glassy and disoriented. “AJ?”
“I’m right here, darlin’. You were having a nightmare.” Grace fumbles for my hand, and I link our fingers. “Can you tell me about it?”
She curls into me, pressing her face to my t-shirt. “There were men. But…I can’t see them. I don’t…want to see them.”
The fear in my wife’s voice cracks my heart into pieces. I want to pull the duvet over our heads and hide away in this room for the rest of our lives. But that won’t keep her safe.
She’s not just your wife. She’s a victim. A witness. Treat her like one.
“Don’t look at them, darlin’. Listen. Tell me what you hear. What are they sayin’?” One hand curled around her trembling fingers, I run my other over her back in long, slow circles.
“I…can’t…”
“You can. You’re safe. Home. With me and Belle.” I keep my voice low so I don’t spook her. The dog wriggles closer, flopping across Grace’s legs like she’s trying to anchor her in the here and now.
She shudders once, then lets out a tiny cry. “‘You broke the rules. Again.’”
“What rules?”
“Not…supposed to talk. Not…Grace anymore. Can’t…I can’t…” Her words dissolve into weak sobs, and I rock her gently until she calms.
Not…Grace?
Did those fuckers give her a different name? Stop her from talking completely? I’m gonna cut out their tongues when I find them. See how they like bein’ forced into silence.
After a few minutes, she lets out a sigh. Her gaze flicks to mine, then shifts to the center of my chest, right where her wedding ring hides under my t-shirt.
“I’m sorry. I want to remember. I really do.”
“Grace, look at me. Please?” She doesn’t move, so I shift enough to nudge her chin up slightly. “After the MRI yesterday—after whatever memory it triggered—you were mostly out of it. But the doc explained a little bit about retrograde amnesia.
“Your memories are in there somewhere.” I press a kiss to her forehead, and when I pull back, she doesn’t look away.
“They’re like a ball of rubber bands—all twisted together.
But what you went through, combined with the head injury, covered the ball in layers and layers of bubble wrap.
Peeling them away? It’s gonna take time. ”
A tear glistens on her cheek. “They took me, AJ. What if they do it again?”
“They won’t. I swear to you, Grace. They won’t.”