Chapter 10
Grace
I wake to deafening pounding on the door.
Something slams into the front door once, twice, three times.
Through the thin walls, I hear a dog growling, teeth snapping.
The windows tremble. Still dazed from the sleeping pills, I crawl out of bed.
My clumsy legs carry me across the room, stumbling, until I reach the door, still dizzy.
I turn the key with my eyes squeezed shut and my lips pressed tight.
I take shallow breaths and swallow carefully.
My lips, mouth, and throat are dry from the pills, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
The lock gives a tiny click. I wrap my fingers around the metal doorknob and slowly open the door.
Now I can hear the noise clearly. The balmy coolness of the summer morning makes me shudder, makes my nipples tighten.
Thanks to Cyrus’s black T-shirt, no one can tell I’m not wearing a bra.
I just stand there on my doorstep in only panties, mouth open, eyes wide with shock.
In my garden, the enormous malamute mix—Bruce—is ripping apart a brown cardboard box.
His growling and Dylan’s shouts, drown out everything else.
Dylan, his owner, is trying to haul him back by the collar, but the dog wants what’s inside the package—my package—, his muscles bunching with effort.
The adhesive strip gives way, and my new gift ends up in his mouth.
The dog shakes his frothing jaws. I feel like I’m hearing the sharp mew of a cat, but that… that can’t be.
The shock sends me running to the garden tap.
I turn on the tap, set the hose to a single jet, and aim it at the dog’s head.
I’ve always hated the dog shit on the pavement and on our driveway.
Cyrus and I have talked to Dylan about it more than once.
The dog also has a habit of digging up my flowerbeds.
He’s done a lot of damage in the neighbors’ gardens, too.
When the cold water hits him, he drops his prey from between those deadly teeth.
“I’m sorry, Grace!” Dylan says, forcing the huge beast to sit at his feet.
“I don’t know what got into him. He usually doesn’t behave like this, and…
,” he says as an excuse. He looks down at the bloody, hairy thing.
“Maybe this is for the best. That poor thing had been meowing in that box for hours.” He looks at the torn-up remains.
My breath gets stuck in my chest. No sound leaves my mouth—I just nod, dazed.
As soon as Dylan drags Bruce out of our yard, I shut off the tap.
I’m drenched in ice-cold water, shaking with cold.
I walk toward the animal on the cold, dew-soaked lawn and crouch down.
My mind floods with memories, and my eyes fill with tears.
The kitten is dead. It couldn’t survive the attack.
Its tiny tongue sticks out between its white teeth.
Its eyes are open, but its body is twisted into an unnatural position.
Every bone must be broken. I drop to my knees.
I sit back on my heels, my bare ass against them, and carefully stroke the bloody ginger fur soaked in saliva.
My lips tremble because its fur is the same color as…
My gaze slides to the tiny red collar, torn from the kitten’s neck.
I fall to all fours, reach for it, grab it, then read the name engraved on the golden-colored tag. Thick, bitter bile rises in my throat.
Poppy.
Of all the gifts he’s sent me, this one is the cruelest. My memories hit me with such unstoppable, primal force that they completely overwhelm me.
I stumble into the house, trembling and crying, pull on shorts, then take my garden tools from under the kitchen sink.
I tear up a few patches of lawn and loosen the soil.
I wrap Poppy in a cloth and put her in a metal tin so Bruce won’t dig her up the next time he’s here.
I bury the poor kitten in what used to be my flowerbed.
“Quite the morning.”
My blood freezes in my veins, and an icy pain spreads through my chest. I look at Ortíz through bleary eyes. His ginger hair and beard are even more striking in the golden sunshine.
“Are… are you in charge of me today?”
“No,” he replies, his voice grave.
My throat is dry.
“I’m here to tell you my men won’t be babysitting you anymore.”
Tears flood my eyes. Anger tingles under my skin, trying to claw its way free.
Ortíz crouches in front of me and looks me up and down. I pour all my repressed hate into the look I give him. My pissed-off expression draws a dark smile across his face. The muscles around my eyes tighten, but I steel myself. I won’t cry in front of him.
“This situation is like quicksand. You’ll only sink deeper if you resist,” he says, digging his meaty fingers into the wet soil, then tossing a handful of clumped dirt into his other palm. The clump lands against his pale, freckled skin.
“Are you telling me to give up? To kill myself to end everyone’s suffering?” I’m completely serious. I look into his light eyes, determined. For a second, shock flashes across his face—for a second, I can see behind his mask. There’s pain and anger behind his pity.
“No.” He rubs his hands together to get rid of the dirt, then stands up. “I’m telling you to finally accept your fate,” he says in a monotone.
“What?” I stare up at the man towering over me, stunned. The protective walls in my mind crumble. “Why?” I challenge him. “Why didn’t you press charges against him? Why didn’t you take my statement?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
My brows knit in anger. I jump to my feet. “You know damn well,” I hiss.
He grabs my arm and yanks me closer. Our bodies don’t touch, but his grip is iron.
“Don’t make a scene. Believe me, it’d be bad for both of us. Now we’re going into your house.”
Ortíz presses his gun into my ribs. My body tenses, my hands curling into fists. I stumble toward the door while the Chief of Police keeps scanning the neighborhood, twitchy and alert. But the street is empty now—our neighbors have already left for school and work.
His thick fingers bite into my skin. Fear and anger choke my chest. After we step inside, he shuts the door and locks it. He pulls out a chair, sets his gun in the middle of the table, and wipes the sweat from his brow.
“Give me something to drink!” he hisses. His voice has that harsh fizz, like a soda can cracking open.
He’s gasping for air, his lungs wheezing, like he’s just run a marathon.
I take a bottle of flat mineral water from the fridge and set it in front of him. He slowly twists off the cap and drinks half of it in one swallow. He sets the bottle down beside his gun. Tiny beads of condensation slide down the plastic. His fingers drum against the weapon.
“Why do you need a gun?”
Ortíz tugs at his shirt. Fat drops of sweat roll down his forehead. “Better safe than sorry,” he says solemnly, staring into nothing.
“What do you know about him?”
“You mean, about them?” He looks at me.
“He has a brother.”
“So you know about his brother.” He clicks his tongue and sucks in air through his teeth. “Have you met him?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we have.”
Who is the other person in the “we”? Cyrus?
“Listen to me carefully.” He leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the table, and lowers his voice. “You guys can’t win. No matter what plans Cyrus has made. His life… you’re walking on thin ice. I know you’re the key.”
“What key?”
“The key to stopping what’s coming.”
I need a few minutes to organize my thoughts.
“Greta?” I whisper, my voice tiny.
Ortíz’s eyes soften, warmth blooming in them. His face looks like he’s mourning, his glance is suddenly warm. He closes his eyes and pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He slides it over to me.
“Don’t panic, she’s still alive,” he whispers, and stands up. He pinches the bridge of his nose and swallows back his tears. “But I have no idea how long that’ll be if he keeps defying them.”
He puts away his weapon and walks out.
He leaves me here, in the middle of this chaos. Alone. Exposed.
My legs tremble. Warm tears streak down my burning face. I unfold the paper with shaking hands.
Hi,
Shit, this sounds pretty lame, doesn’t it? This isn’t how you start a letter like this… I’ve never been good at this. I would never have thought that someday I’d have to write something like this. But if that’s how it is, I’ll try to do my best.
Dear Grace,
Grace.
Yeah. This is it. Grace. I love your name. Did you know my heart beats stronger every time I say it? Like it wants to break free of my chest. And did you know butterflies are fucking real? I don’t mean the ones flying around outside—I mean the ones that flutter in your belly.
They’re real, Grace. I swear. And do you know how I know? Because I feel them when I look at you. They beat their tiny wings, stealing my judgment and my appetite.
I hope you’re smiling, because I have a huge grin on my face.
I feel like an idiot… an idiot in love. Either you found this letter ahead of time and stole it from me, or the thing I was trying to avoid happened—and I kicked the bucket.
Don’t ask where I went. I’m not thinking about it, either.
I don’t know if there’s a heaven or a hell, so I can’t tell you what it’s like.
But I trust I did at least as much good in my life as bad.
I know this is the part where your tears start soaking the paper and the ink blurs.
So please—stop. I could go on and on about how gorgeous you look naked in my bed…
Because as I’m writing this, I have a painful erection: my dick wants to be close to you…
And after I finish this letter, I’m going to make love to you.
Yes, you read that right. Making love. But let’s drop it, because I’ll never get to the end of this letter.
Grace, even though there’s this huge gulf between us now—bigger than ever—I don’t want you to mourn me for long.
Give yourself some time, but don’t cry for me too long.
I won’t come back, and I don’t want you to follow me.
You must live. You’re a goddamn survivor.
A real cockroach—someone who can make the best of the shittiest situations.
I want you to stay with the boys. They know how much you mean to me, so they’d never hurt you.
And if anyone does, don’t worry—I have men who’d cut their throats in the night.
I’m not kidding, Grace. I’ll look out for you even from the other side.
I want you to become the leader of the team.
I know you’re capable of it. I want you and Cameron to run the bar.
If you give up, the “family” falls apart. Keep them together.
Kisses,
Cyrus
If your life really flashes before your eyes when you die, I think mine did as I finished the letter.
My blood boils with anger. A scream burns in my throat and lungs.
Behind my closed eyes, I see Chase’s angry dark gaze—flashing with threat.
A chill runs down my spine, because I na?vely believed Cyrus could protect me.
I was wrong. Chase is a cold-blooded killer.
Cyrus is empathetic. After he shot that gang member—his “friend”—he felt guilty for days.
Even though he did the world a favor: he got rid of someone who built his fortune illegally and corrupted teenagers.
Chase could kill him if he wanted to, but he wants something else. He has the same plan I do. I’m punishing him by being with Cyrus. He’d punish Cyrus by taking me. This has always been a game between the two of us—now it’s a bloody battlefield.
I can’t hide in a corner. I can’t stick my head in the sand.
I can’t just walk around holding Cyrus’s hand, ignoring Chase, lying to myself.
I can’t let Chase take even more people from me.
There’s already a lot of blood on his hands.
But I have a feeling Chase’s death wouldn’t break the cycle.
The person who got him out of jail—he’s the one who should die.
It’s time to dig up the bones that have been buried.
I peel off my dirty, wet clothes and step under the hot shower. The water is merciless on my sensitive skin. My gaze flicks to the plain tiles—tiles that used to have tulips on them.
I remember Mom. Her warm smile, her tinkling laugh. I’m so sorry she couldn’t be by my side as I grew into a woman.
When I was captive, I often woke up shouting, “Mom!” She didn’t come into that dark room to comfort me and wipe away my tears—she wasn’t even alive any more.
I know she used to tell me my happiness was the most important thing.
All she ever wanted was for me to be happy.
But the love that has overrun the garden of my heart feels like betrayal—I can’t love the man who took me away from them.
I can’t love the man who took them away from me.
I lived with Chase for five years. And even though it’s been four years since then, even though he looks different now, he’s still the same man who wants only one thing—who has only ever wanted one thing—me.
I crumple the letter and shove it into a bag with the ugly teddy bear. I’ll spend today the way I planned. But tonight, I’m going to Tulsa. I need to talk to Cyrus in person. We must put our cards on the table. I must tell him my fears and panic attacks have been caused by Nikky and Bo’s gang.
Chase…
I must tell Cyrus what I feel for Chase.
I must tell him what he means to me. That I’ve been running from myself all this time, that it’s been myself I have been afraid of the most. Maybe Cyrus will never understand me.
Jesus, sometimes even I don’t understand myself.
This is complicated, because I know what my body and heart desires.
But my mind doesn’t let me give in to them.
My mind is telling me to punish Chase Baker.
And… I must tell him that when I found the note stuck on our fridge, I didn’t leave the house for a long time.
Even though the door stood open, freedom waiting on the other side.
Being a captive, being locked up, is a dark stain on my mind.
A labyrinth—a huge maze with no way out. I’ll be lost in it forever.
Four years ago, before I left, I left a note for Chase on the kitchen table. It said:
I’m sorry