42. Chapter 42
Nate
I’m sitting here, empty-handed, with Constable Tim staring me down. I’m trying and failing to quell my worries about Grace. I’ve asked about her more times than I care to count, but no news.
“I’ve been told by your lawyer,” Tim says, “that continuing to interview you is inadvisable, but I do have some more, shall we say, casual questions I might put to you, if you’re willing?”
“We can chat,” I say. “But first—did anyone get a hold of Grace?”
Tim shakes his head. “She hasn’t answered our calls yet.”
“And her mother?”
“Nothing.”
Tim’s eyes never leave my face. I can imagine how a normal person would squirm when confronted by the man’s careful regard. I don’t.
“Tell me,” he says, “how did you know about Constance Reid’s ongoing mistreatment of Grace? To my knowledge, plenty of doctors, therapists, and social workers were consulted throughout the years. None of them ever reported anything amiss.”
I shrug. “I’ve known Grace more deeply than anyone else for years. I could show you the emails she and I have exchanged—they’re all on my phone. If she agrees to it, you can look at her bullet journal, too. She’s documented everything. The signs of her mother’s abuse are everywhere.”
“Why didn’t you try to help her sooner, if this was all so obvious?”
I snort. “I did fucking try. I tried to stop Grace from marrying my brother because I worried what would happen, but I didn’t have the means to offer her anything.
I was young and dumb and broke. Things went even worse than I’d expected, though.
My brother ended up being Constance Reid’s enabler.
That’s how his marriage to Grace worked—he loved Constance and encouraged her to abuse Grace because it made him feel even closer to her mother. ”
Tim’s jaw flexes. “Munchausen by Proxy is complicated. I’ve only seen it once before, and it’s difficult to diagnose, let alone to prosecute.”
“And,” I supply, “it can be even harder to resolve without having the victim fall into subsequent abusive relationships.”
“Exactly. So, you want me to believe that getting your hands on your brother’s wife was all down to altruism? Breaking the cycle of abuse like a good man should?”
I raise my brows. The guy is beyond sharp, asking something like that so casually. What Tim is actually trying to do is set me up with a motive. Regardless of what he’s trying to pull, I like him. If I can win him to my side again, I might be able to get Constance Fucking Reid put away properly.
“My mother died when I was eleven,” I say, changing gears.
I see the information throws him off, but he nods me on.
“ALS. Slow death. Terrible. My father didn’t want anything to do with it, so he left Nick and me in the hospital while he went on dates with my mother’s replacement.
We were left to watch the doctors try to help her deal with all the pain.
It’s hard, you know, when a person’s body shuts down one organ system at a time until she’s drowning within her own flesh.
” My voice is steady as I review the beating terror that’s never gone quiet, the very heart of my life.
“When Nick met Grace, I think there was a choice. There was a sick mother, like ours, and a sick daughter, too. He decided to help the mum. And,” I give a small scoff, “she fucking rewarded him for it.”
“And what did you do?” Tim prompts.
I shrug. “I chose Grace. The first time I saw her, we were twelve. My mum was dead and my dad didn’t give a shit.
Nick and I were broken, and so was Grace.
I couldn’t help her back then. It took me years to figure out what I could do to fix her.
Fucking decades. So when my brother died, I took the chance.
And she still isn’t as healthy as I want, but she’s getting there. ”
He sits back, his eyes calculating. “You’re the hero husband, then? Making her all better by forcing her to marry you?”
I press my palms to the cold metal table between us, knowing that he’s just opened the trap wide and that I’m not going to be able to avoid it. Not entirely. Not without denying who and what I am.
“That bitch would have killed Grace after my brother died. Nick enabled the abuse, but he was also keeping Constance from escalating. I set up an exit for Grace to take by the end of this year. I helped her get enough credits to finish her degree and gain some independence. I was trying to help her along that path so she could get the hell away when she was ready.”
“You were grooming her.”
I open my hands on the table. “Check the damn emails, man. My lawyer will fucking kill me, but I’m giving you permission to open my phone and look at the email thread between Grace and me.
All you’ll see is me trying to build that woman up until she couldn’t accept being slowly killed by my brother and her mother anymore. ”
Tim holds my stare for a long time, and I can’t get a read on his expression. Finally, he lets out a long breath through his nose.
“The only person we can get the truth from at this point is Grace. We’ll bring her in soon.”
Relief makes me feel shaky. “You guys sent someone out to get her? She’ll be at her mother’s and—”
“Yes, I am aware of your concerns, and I share them. My partner went to Constance’s house as soon as it became clear that Grace wasn’t answering calls. Hopefully everything is fine and the two of them are just… catching up.”
I have to force myself to stay seated. I can’t do anything to help Grace beyond what I’ve done. Like other times, I have to step the fuck back and let her make the big choice and finally deal with her mother. She can do it. She must do it.
“Do you worry that Constance will turn violent against your wife?” Tim asks after a few minutes have passed.
“I don’t know what she’ll do,” I say, not bothering to hide my hatred anymore, “but no wife of mine would willingly let an abusive cunt like Constance get her hooks in.”
“You have faith in her.”
I meet his eyes with a smile. “The Grace Hadley who came down here isn’t Constance's daughter anymore. She’s my wife.” I laugh despite myself. “And I guess you’re right, Tim. I do have fucking faith in her.”
Tim nods, leaning back in his chair and giving me another once-over. I regard him in return. After a few minutes, he leaves me alone, saying that he needs to check in with his partner.
I resettle myself in the cheap chair, trying not to flip my ever-loving shit. Watson will be here soon, and he’ll probably have me free within a matter of hours. But Grace—
I stand up and walk across the tiny room, then back, picturing my wife caught again in that mouldy townhouse, the starting point of a journey that should have ended with Horseshoe Manor.
But Grace returned. Despite all the healing, all the progress, she needed to come back.
And something makes me question if it wasn’t something Constance Reid said, but what I did.
Especially last night, when I did the unforgivable.
But Grace forgave me. Or… she seemed to.
I mentally review our recent days. Grace was working hard on the project that’ll close out her degree.
She was seeing more and more of Mihi, which I found annoying, but which provided enrichment for her.
And she was deliciously compliant most of the time, even revelling in our closeness.
Then I consider the aspects of my wife that weren’t completely revealed to me.
The bullet journal. Although I bought the correct pens for Grace to use, she kept filling out her charts with fine-liners, drawing patterns into her trackers rather than using colours.
And she changed the patterns often enough that I gave up trying to figure them out.
The insight I’d hoped to gain from the journal was absent.
I wipe my hand down my face, wondering just how much I’ve missed.
How much I’ve neglected. How much I really damaged us both last night.
Because if Grace were truly mine, she would have offered the journal to me.
She would have written out a legend for the patterns and asked me to help track them, rather than hiding it in a code I didn’t bother to break.
She would have given me the words I desperately wanted without a fight. She’d have—
I pace, my fists bunched so hard my hands hurt. My wife is not mine. Not properly. I’ve made sure she feels my love in every way, every day, but she chose to leave rather than ask me the questions she needed answered.
My eyes sting.
I’ve failed so completely that Grace really did leave me—and she was right to.
My entire body tenses with the impulse to run. To throw my shoulder against the locked door until it breaks, or the door opens. I need Grace. I need her to understand that I know I’ve done wrong. Beyond last night. Beyond everything.
I raise my fist and knock on the door.
“Hey!” I peer through the polycarbonate window. “Hey, Tim? Tim, where the fuck are you?”
I hammer at the door. I’m not sure what I’ll say to make them release me, but something has to be done. If Grace is still with her mother, if she’s in the grip of that bitch after running away from my fucking failures—
“HEY!” I yell, my fist aching as I keep on hammering. I force myself to stop. If I lose my shit right now, I might not get out at all. I might confirm exactly what Tim has started thinking of me.
Exactly what Grace herself might think.
That I’m too volatile to be safe. Too controlling to love.
I close my eyes, willing myself to calm the fuck down.
Willing myself to be the man she needs, even at a distance.
The man who will let his lawyer handle this.
Who will trust his wife with her own safety.
And who will let her choose that safety, and then stand by and witness her miraculousness rather than forcing it.
I bow my head, pinching the bridge of my nose.
My fingers slip outwards, against my closed eyelids, pressing until it hurts.
I breathe. That hurts, too. Especially now that memories are closing on me, the heavy breaths of the only other woman I loved.
Mum, lying in a narrow bed, lungs filling with fluid, her breaths rattling.
And Nick at my side, crying the tears I couldn’t allow myself.
That’s the day we stopped looking the same.
He, the crying, better twin. Me, the expressionless, worse one.
The tears have been waiting, all these years—for Grace.
Grace, who might be breathing painfully now, her chest heaving in that terrible, beautiful way.
Caring for her, even during the tiny moments we had that first day twenty years ago, was enough to let me duck out from under Mum’s death.
But loving my Grace so deeply hasn’t been enough. Not even close.
The lock rattles and I jump away from the door, readying myself to talk to Tim. To ask—to fucking beg—for news of my wife.
A jingling of keys, and the door opens. Tim is there, but only for a second. Because Grace brushes past him.
Grace, perfect and beautiful and smiling.
“Hey, big heart,” she whispers, hesitating a little, as if unsure of how I might react. “I’m here to set you free.”
I fall to my knees.
And my wife, my Grace, kneels down with me. She presses her cheek over my heart, wraps me in her arms, and says—
“I love you, Nate.”