2005 Grace
Grace
“Hey, miss,” a voice called.
I hadn’t noticed how long I’d been standing in front of Cyrus’s door, my gaze fixed on the indentations his fists had left in the hardboard.
I looked at the uniformed police officer who was being discreet—he didn’t look at me funnily because of how I was dressed.
“Follow me.”
He led me to an interview room where they were already waiting for me. They placed a bottle of water and a disposable plastic cup in front of me and asked me to tell them everything that had happened.
I slouched in my chair. It was difficult to open my mouth and tell them everything I’d been through.
The details upset me all over again—I started crying more than once.
At one point, I yelled in anger, then apologized for my behavior.
They kept telling me it was okay, that everything was all right now. That I was safe.
I did not feel safe. I did not feel okay. I was exhausted, cold, and wanted my mom. I wanted to go home.
But that scared me too.
The thought of my old room, my old things—because I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
“Have you told us everything, Grace?” The old man looked deep into my eyes, furrowing his thick gray eyebrows, his gaze cold and distant. He was a professional, his face an emotionless mask. I looked at the woman on his right—younger than him, older than me—and she nodded.
Tears flooded my eyes. My throat tightened as I held back sobs. I was angry, and I felt like a sticky swamp of shame would swallow me if I told them everything.
“No one will blame you, Grace. But we need to know everything.”
I took a long, deep breath and pushed my tears back.
I wiped my wet face with the checked shirt, then my gaze drifted to the wall, the center of which held a mirror.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew others were standing behind it, listening to us. I must have been a sensation—a girl kidnapped five years ago, now appearing out of thin air.
Knowing the whole station would know what had happened to me felt awful, but I got a grip on my emotions and shared every sick detail with them.
The man sighed and leaned back in his chair. The woman’s eyes glinted with pity. Once I learned that, after my statement, an arrest warrant had been issued for Chase Baker, a huge weight fell off my chest.
“I want to go home. Where are my parents? Haven’t they been notified?” I asked the police officer who had led me into the room. The other officers in civilian clothes had already left.
“I’m sorry, Miss McCarty. My condolences.”
“What? What do you mean?” I shook my head in denial as hot tears streaked down my face.
He set the folder down in front of me on the stainless steel table. The small room seemed to contract, and the air thickened, suffocating me. My heart was pounding, my eyes burning. I opened the folder with shaking fingers. Among the press statements and other documents, a headline caught my eye.
Married couple searching for their daughter killed in head-on crash
Then the next one.
15-year-old Grace McCarty still missing
It was strange to see my five-years-younger self in the newspaper. I had been so childish, so innocent—and now an orphan. Still, my own tragedy felt like nothing compared to my parents’ deaths. They died. Because of me.
I shuddered.
My parents had died. And they were the reason I had held on, not killed myself—the reason I survived.
I broke into sobs and buried my face in my palms. Mom and Dad.
I had a mild anxiety attack. I did not want to accept the fact that I would never see my parents again. Every breath I took made my heart twist.
“No. No!” I protested, shaking my head wildly, sobbing, hiccupping, kicking the metal table. I have no clue how much time I spent like this.
The next thing I remember was sitting in the corner, my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking softly.
It was something I’d started doing over the past few years.
Whenever Chase hurt me, this was what I did afterward.
Sitting in the corner, rocking like a lunatic, shutting out the world.
In those moments, I didn’t see or hear anything—I was only existing, a body without a soul, trapped in the cruel prison of life.
“Where are my siblings?”
“The house you used to live in was sold that same summer.”
“What does this mean? That I don’t have a home anymore?”
My heart beat faster, and I was out of breath.
Where are Nikky and Jamie?
“Your siblings bought an old farmhouse at an auction. That’s all they could afford after paying off the mortgage on your parents’ house,” the policeman said.
I fell apart.
Again.
I stayed in the corner with my head resting on my knees, crying. I was tired. And an orphan. My parents were dead. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Mom and Dad were not… Pain tore me to pieces.
“Grace.” A deep voice rumbled through the room. I looked up and saw the cop built like a pro wrestler crouched in front of me. We looked at each other for a long time.
“My parents are dead,” I muttered. It was all I was able to say.
“I’m sorry,” he said with empathy.
“What time is it?” I asked, sniffing.
“It’s almost dawn.”
“Have you caught him?”
“Not yet.”
His answer landed like a slap to my face.
“But we will. I promise you. You should go home. You went through a lot, and you’re exhausted.”
“I don’t have a home,” I whispered.
“But you have siblings. And they have a house. I’ll take you to them.”
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly. If I could have, I would have stayed at the police station.
We left the “Welcome to Willow Creek” sign behind and drove a few miles before turning onto a dusty dirt road.
There were no buildings around, only empty, barren land.
The wooden poles carrying the power lines were rotten—some of them looked close to falling over.
It was a miracle they even had electricity out here.
The car struggled with the deep, dangerous ruts left by agricultural machinery in the dirt road. Cyrus swore loudly when a sharp stone hit the chassis. By the time we reached a smoother road, he was already sweaty.
When I looked at Cyrus—his eyes huge, snorting like an angry bull, wiping pea-sized drops of sweat from his brow, glinting in the dawn light—a smile spread across my face. I was surprised by my own reaction.
“This car is my everything,” he explained.
I nodded and tore my gaze away from him.
Dawn was breaking.
The sun had just appeared on the horizon. My sensitive eyes were burning, my stomach was empty, and my soul was wandering somewhere far away.
The death of my parents struck me again, and I was angry with myself for having smiled just moments before. The intense pain in my heart and the icy knot in my stomach did not subside when I saw the wooden house. What I saw did not warm me up—instead, it spread even more sadness through my cells.
We parked in front of the farmhouse, which looked as if no one lived there.
I started toward the building without thinking, but when I stepped onto the stairs, I had to grab the railing because the old boards sunk under my weight.
The windows were small and dirty. Time—and bugs—had eaten part of the wood away.
I looked at Cyrus, grabbed the door handle, and pressed it down.
The smell in the house made me raise my arm in front of my face—the place smelled as if there had been a rotting dead body inside.
My gaze swept around the inside of the house.
The “living room” had a worn couch—its fabric was torn, and metal springs jutted out of it.
The kitchen was full of unwashed dishes, the food inside them was overrun with hairy mold, and disgusting, fat black flies buzzed around them.
There were heaps of disposable food containers.
The trash can overflowed, spilling its contents onto the brown linoleum floor.
The door of a kitchen cabinet was partially off its hinges.
I saw nothing familiar from our old home.
I pressed my nausea down and stepped inside, Cyrus following me. When Jamie appeared in one of the doorways, we both stopped. He looked awful. He’d never been muscular, but I had never seen him as thin and as pale as in that moment. His face was gaunt, and his hair hung down to his flat chest.
For a second, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief, then ran to me. Cyrus stepped to me protectively, but Jamie didn’t want to hurt me. He embraced me, crying, pressing his face into my shoulder. I was crying, too, as he had never hugged me before.
“Nikky!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
Another door opened, and I saw my sister over my brother’s shoulder.
Her face was nothing like the girl I had been carrying in my memories.
She looked… older—the misfortunes of the past couple of years and the death of our parents had left their mark.
She was thin and wore clothes that did not leave much to the imagination: a glittering blue mini skirt and a black crop top that only covered her most important body parts.
There were piercings in her belly button and her nose, and she was wearing heavy, smoky makeup around her eyes.
Jamie stepped out of the way. I opened my arms. My sister started walking toward me with tears in her eyes and slapped me so hard that my head spun and my nose started bleeding. I was shocked by her reaction, and so were the others. The air was heavy with tension.
Cyrus’s jaw tensed, his stern eyes following Nikky’s lithe steps to the kitchen. She grabbed a pack of Marlboro Reds and an ashtray from the windowsill, then lit a cigarette. She poured coffee into a dirty mug, and her lips twisted into a scornful smile. She exhaled smoke through her nose.
“Welcome home, Grace!” she spit the words in a venomous voice.
I shuddered.
Cyrus was standing next to me, his eyes full of disapproval at Nikky’s behavior.
“Come, Grace, I’ll show you your room.” Jamie took my hand and led me to a door he had written my name on. At least my brother had been waiting for me to get home.