Chapter 4 #2
It still makes me sad and fearful. In those moments, I try to turn invisible and not take her nasty remarks personally. I keep my eyes on her huge, well-maintained garden, thinking how nice it would be if a child were running across the bright green lawn, chasing soap bubbles.
But these are just dreams. They remind me of my past—the happy moments and the sad ones alike.
Before all those horrors happened to me, I wanted to be a mom.
Since then, though… that dream feels too good to be true now, too far away.
Unattainable. Because the girl who had those dreams is lost in a maze—and I’m afraid she’s never going to make it out.
I inch along in the slow traffic on West Main Street behind Cyrus’s acid-green Pontiac muscle car, smiling as I watch his fingers drum against the freshly polished door, sunlight glinting off his watch.
Even from here, I can hear Californication—which happens to be one of his favorite songs—blasting from the speakers.
He once said that when he closes this new case, we’ll go to California—walk under palm trees, swim in the ocean, and then, on the sand, or in our hotel bed…
Here, he stopped short. And I felt horrible again.
Still, I think about those days and nights: crossing New Mexico and Arizona in his car, listening to our favorite songs, the wind blowing our hair into our faces—and, for a short time, forgetting who I’ve become.
Cyrus turns on the signal, and we take a left by Stella Nova Café, then keep going until we reach the end of the small street.
A dead end, where plenty of muscle cars already glint in the sunlight.
In front of his strip club. At first, I found it strange that a cop would run such an…
indecent place. But the two aren’t mutually exclusive, and it helps him go undercover and gain other people’s trust.
They don’t really need me here—I know the bar already has enough staff.
I know they only give me odd jobs, mostly just to keep my mind occupied—and because I can’t be around strangers ever since Bo and his gang assaulted me.
I’m so afraid of people that I don’t even get on a bus or take a walk alone.
I get anxiety attacks—my heart races, and I end up in the bathroom more often than necessary, because panic grabs my stomach and doesn’t let go until I vomit up every morsel of food I’ve eaten.
Everything scares me. That’s why Cyrus gave me this car from before the flood, barely running on its last wheels.
In my car, everything that can break down will break down—the brakes, the transmission, the battery…
Or maybe it just doesn’t like me. Whenever Cyrus opens the hood and touches a cable or two, the tricky old bastard rumbles to life, as if it were a well-fed cat expecting belly rubs after its meal.
My old Chevrolet jolts as I park next to Cyrus’s car. The engine stutters to a halt, and I’m pretty sure it lets out a puff of black smoke into the air.
The sun is high now, and the cool, fresh morning air has turned into the suffocating heat that dominates the day. The hot, humid air feels like oil against my skin, making it wet and sticky.
I take a deep breath and step out of the car. My attention is immediately drawn to the neon sign above the door—it’s partly broken. The red outline of the car is still on—though it’s barely visible in the sunlight—unlike the blue female body sitting on its hood with crossed legs.
Others don’t notice these small flaws. I do, because my past—and my present—have made me fond of everything broken, damaged, or incomplete.
Because they remind me of myself. I feel for them, because I know what it’s like to be different.
Incomplete. Empty. Lost. I’m constantly searching for beauty in their damaged appearance—and reaffirming to myself that they’re precious just the way they are.
That’s why in these past years I’ve been collecting mugs with broken-off handles, or ones filled with cobwebs of cracks.
That’s why I can’t let go of my car. And our house.
“Is everything okay?” Cyrus asks as we head for the bar, our sides brushing.
I suck in my lower lip and nod, but my posture gives me away.
I fold my arms around myself, because the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I’ll never be able to wash the acidic, burning looks off my skin.
Whispered words tear through my chest like icy shards, while a rich, metallic taste fills my mouth.
It’s been several years now. But people who knew my parents and their kids still look at me with pity or send me withering glances.
It makes a life that’s already bad even worse, because it drags me back to those horrible years.
No matter how baggy the clothes I wear, I can’t hide who I am—what I am—from curious gazes.
Grace McCarty.
A victim.
Every emotion I feel right now coalesces into a massive knot in my throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe.
My heart is racing unnaturally, skipping beats here and there.
The broken shards of my life all point in the same direction.
Every loose end leads to him. Chase Baker.
The boy who was beautiful in his silent, unnerving way when we first met—breathtakingly cute and dangerous.
I wish I could have seen earlier through that thick, intangible mist that left a sweet taste like chocolate on my tongue.
I wish I could have seen the monster waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike his victim. Me.
I inhale sharply when Cyrus’s long, thick, sun-tanned fingers wrap around the door handle. He looks at me, and I do what I always do: I nod.
I nod that I’m fine. That I’m all right.
That I’m prepared for the people—and the looks—waiting inside.
But deep down, I want to shake my head and cry.
And scream that nothing is all right, that I want my parents and my brother back, that I want fifteen-year-old Grace back—the girl who wasn’t afraid to leave the house.
The Grace who fell asleep dreaming sweet fantasies and woke up full of desires and plans.
We enter, and the stuffiness inside replaces the fresh air in my lungs in an instant. My heart is beating erratically, my stomach knots, and a shiver runs through me when a thick arm wraps around my thin waist and nudges me forward.
This hug is protective, supportive—heavy and light, warm and cool at the same time.
Cyrus is so good to me. I’m not worthy of him, and the looks people give me—the furrowed brows and slight leers tugging at the corners of their mouths—confirm that they think the same.
I swallow down all the negativity directed at me and walk with him along the bar counter to his office, leaning into his hard body.
I know why he makes me do this every day—and why I agree to it. He wants to help, and I want to heal. I want to trust people again and believe in myself. But this is insanely difficult, because I’m looking for him in every face, every gaze—and I see him.
Because Chase isn’t a nightmare. He isn’t a shadow or a fever dream. He isn’t the product of my imagination.
He is a living, breathing creature—flesh and blood—part of my darkest hours, because all the dark hours I spent daydreaming about him eventually became reality. A bizarre reality I never wanted to be part of.
November 2000
I had been scratching lines into the wall.
That’s how I knew I had been Chase’s prisoner for three months.
Those three months had been hell. Every day was long and full of misery. I was locked in the room and had to hold back my pee until he got home. I was a pet he fed in the morning, then allowed my “potty break,” before he closed the door on me again.
I kept banging my fists against the door and the walls. I shouted for help as long as my vocal cords could manage, then fell asleep from all the crying and exhaustion.
When he was home, I cried quietly and thought about my parents. Their smiles and their love—and I couldn’t fathom the pain they must have been going through while I was locked in an underground room with a lunatic.
Because Chase was a lunatic. He was crazy. A normal twenty-year-old doesn’t kidnap fifteen-year-old girls. And unfortunately, I have to talk about his appearance…
He wasn’t old or ugly. My sister was crazy about him. A lot of girls at my school were crazy about him. He could’ve had any of them… Still, he wanted me.
The little grey mouse. The Samaritan.
Every evening, he came in and just watched me. He looked at me as if I were a work of art commissioned solely for him.
“You are mine.”
That’s what he kept whispering in my ear when I pretended to sleep. And when he traced my side with his fingers and inhaled the scent of my hair deeply, it took all my strength not to tremble.
Hot tears flooded my eyes, my heart beat against my chest, and a silent scream burned in my throat. These were the moments when I felt too weak and vulnerable to look into his eyes.
Still, I usually just sat on the corner of my bed, watching him.
His presence, his posture, and his eyes had a completely different effect on me.
I felt as if I were trapped in a room with a sleeping monster, waiting for something.
When I looked him in the eyes, I remembered our kiss, the night he walked me home, the moments in the van, and I didn’t understand what had happened to the boy who had stolen a kiss from me.
Maybe he had never existed. Maybe I had seen him through a fog and had feelings for him…
because I wasn’t indifferent toward him.
I liked his smile, his sharp, strict face, his cool, dark eyes, his deep voice, and his mysterious air.
His aura—hinting at danger, full of temptation—pulled me in like a magnet.
However, when he kidnapped me, these na?ve, childish feelings burned away—no rose-colored glasses anymore.
Put simply, everything I had once liked about him revolted me.