Chapter 29
There isn’t just one police cruiser driving toward them, bouncing up and down as it rolls over the uneven, untended terrain. There are five.
At first, Grace doesn’t allow herself to believe it’s actually happening.
Despite the lights and sirens on full display, despite the quickly closing gap between her and this black-and-blue cavalry, she refuses to let her brain make a fool of her once again.
It had tricked her so harshly with the vision of her mother, with the sound of Crew’s voice—creating this facade in the form of a rescue seems on par with its savagery.
Even as the cars come to a stop and doors begin to swing open, she still does not fully accept it.
A distant, muffled-sounding voice makes its way to her ears, but it sounds like words being shouted underwater.
Put your hands where I can see them, Whitlock, Grace swears she hears—but there’s no way.
She mustn’t get her hopes up, mustn’t for one second believe that her uncle is finally going to be brought to justice.
Through squinted, swollen eyes, Grace stares out as a perimeter of cars begins to form around them, but her vision is blurry and unfocused.
She’s still on her knees, cradling her hand against her chest. She’s still crying, because the pain is somehow worse now—the tiniest of movements reduces her to the three shattered fingers, allowing her to focus only on them, on the agony they radiate.
Nausea begins to overtake curiosity, and the desire to lie down, to close her eyes and try to sleep, to forget—do anything but feel—is overwhelming.
She begins to vomit without realizing she’s doing it, doubled over and balancing on her good hand.
Strands of wet hair plaster to her forehead and fall into her eyes.
Sweat and tears and sick coat her skin. Strange noises are happening somewhere in her vicinity—she can hear them but can’t make them out.
It sounds like grunting, heavy breathing—she picks up a phrase that sounds suspiciously like Back the fuck up, but she can’t be sure.
A loud thump follows, and a croaking groan after that.
Now only coughing up bile, Grace gasps, the bitterness on her tongue making her eyes cross.
She’s teetering, ready to give in to the urge to collapse and evade consciousness for a long while, and it feels like she’s on her way down when something—someone—grips her arms, pulling her upright.
“Grace.”
It sounds so much like— No, she won’t let this happen again. Won’t let her stupid, overprotective brain gift her this fantasy, this false comfort. Grace shakes her head, tries to yank her arms out of this imitating hold.
“Baby, look at me.”
There’s something different about the voice than before.
In that beautiful, masochistic vision, it had been perfect—exactly what she needed to hear, as commanding as the day she met him.
No decipherable emotion, just calm, careful authority.
It had been Crew, or her mind’s best imitation of him, but without the authenticity and depth of his actual voice.
His real voice—the one that can carry a dozen different emotions in a single syllable, the one that can be harsh and sharp and intimidating in one breath, then kind, soft, and warm in the next.
That voice, she slowly begins to realize, is the one talking to her right now. “Grace,” it begs, watery and broken. “Please, sweetheart. Look at me.”
Grace stills, no longer trying to pull herself free of his grasp. Her lashes flutter as she opens her eyes, fighting through the overwhelming desire to keep them screwed shut. The blinding sun hurts her eyes, but she doesn’t care. She has to see.
What takes shape before her is like a reflection in a rippling pond.
Distorted at first, unrecognizable, but becoming clearer as the waves drift away.
Grace’s breath hitches when he comes into focus, as every detail of his face begins to sharpen.
It’s strange—though she knows it’s him now, can see and hear him clearly, it feels even less real that he’s here, on his knees in front of her, his hands leaving her arms to cradle her face.
He catches her head as it lolls forward, and she feels his thumbs wipe the corners of her mouth.
She has no energy to be ashamed or embarrassed at her state, at the sickness he just cleaned from her skin.
She’s too busy trying to figure out not how but why he’s here.
After what she did, she was certain she would never see him again.
That he’s here now, holding her up and looking at her with those soft but frenzied brown eyes, doesn’t make sense.
He couldn’t look at her at all the last time they were together, and now, it seems, he refuses to look anywhere else.
“You’re not…” Grace mumbles, leaning involuntarily into his palm as her head continues to fall in random directions.
The exhaustion, the heat, the pain—it’s getting the better of her now, threatening to pull her under the surface.
She takes a deep breath and manages, hardly coherent, “You’re not supposed to be here. ”
Crew’s nostrils flare. He inches closer to her, pushes her hair back in smooth sweeps until it’s all out of her face. “Neither are you,” he says resolutely, his head dipping down so he can look her dead in the eye. “I’m taking you home.”
A weak smile forms on Grace’s lips, and her eyes drift to somewhere far away, someplace beyond this field of stones and blood. “Home,” she repeats wistfully.
“Yeah,” Crew says, nodding. “Home. Back to Halcyon.”
Grace’s brow furrows. “Can’t go—can’t be there, isn’t safe—”
She begins to lose the fight with her body, growing weaker by the second, and before she realizes what’s happening, Crew is scooping her into his arms and holding her against his chest. With his lips at her temple, she hears him say, “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.
I promise. After today, you’ll never have to see this place again.
You belong at Halcyon.” He breathes, pushing a hard kiss to her skin. “You belong with me.”
Grace sighs, lets herself sink into the promise of his words, and nods. “Belong” is all she says in return, all she can muster. It’s the most beautiful word she’s ever uttered.
Her eyes drift upward, looking hazily at the police cars, the ambulances bookending them on either side. Police officers stand beside them, looking stiff and ready to pounce. They’re all holding out some type of firearm, using their car doors as shields.
“Bullshit,” a cold, withering voice calls. It’s one Grace knows well; she’s been subjected to it for most of her life. Its menacing tone, its poisonous pitch—she has adhered, toiled, and bent under the weight of it. “She ain’t going anywhere with you people.”
Grace frowns, upset by the statement. She latches on to Crew with whatever strength she has left, hoping her uncle’s words don’t change his mind about taking her back to Halcyon. If she clings to Crew hard enough, maybe her uncle won’t make her stay.
“Only place she belongs is right here. With her family.”
Crew’s grip on Grace tightens, and she realizes a beat too late that the voice is growing louder.
She can hear wheezing breaths erupting from tar-soaked lungs, and Grace’s eyes flicker open to confirm her suspicion.
Her uncle is zeroing in on them, closing the distance with violence flashing in his eyes.
Crew’s voice is laced with a growl when he warns, “Take one more step and it’ll be the last thing you ever do. ”
As if on cue, to further assert and validate Crew’s threat, a figure emerges beside him.
Not quite as tall but on his way to becoming just as broad, Cooper Caldwell wears a hardened scowl, and his chest is rising and falling quickly as he stands beside his brother with clenched fists.
Bellamy’s lip curls, and it’s painfully obvious that though he wants to call Crew’s bluff, he knows this is not a battle he will win.
He’s surrounded. But that doesn’t stop him from considering it.
And when Cooper recognizes that, he practically snarls.
“Try it, motherfucker,” the younger Caldwell says. “Just try it.”
An officer’s voice suddenly bleats through a speaker, echoing its command across the field. “Step away from them, Whitlock. Now.”
Bellamy, still too close, takes a wobbly step to the left, then another, until he is far enough away that Grace can no longer catch whiffs of the malodorous mix of cheap cologne, sweat, and alcohol.
He stands completely still, with his hands at his sides.
Though his body is unmoving, his face is a war zone of emotion—panic, fear, anger, and shock all battle it out.
“Put your hands behind your head,” the officer says. “Get on your knees.”
“Fuck you,” Bellamy bites out through gritted teeth.
Then, because he is nothing if not the worst, most detestable person on the planet, he hawks a golf ball–size loogie and sends it flying in the direction of the police cars.
“You can’t come onto my private property and bark orders at me. I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“Well, that’s just not true at all, is it?”
Grace’s head swings around—more of a slow swivel, because everything she does seems to be in slow motion right now—the familiarity of that voice pulling her attention like a magnet.
Female, crystal clear, brooking absolutely no argument.
The younger, crisper, less accented version of one Grace knows very well.