by J C Paulson
“It’s this Grace person, isn’t it?” she asked, spitting out the name. “Adam, oh Adam, you know I love you. I want you. We can make it work,” she wailed, slipping her arms around his neck again.
But Adam grabbed her arms, forced them down to her sides and said, “No. Jilly, you must go. This will never happen. Do you understand? Never. Please. Go.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the house, where his sister was waiting impatiently on the porch.
“Adam. Grace saw,” she said.
Adam’s nostrils flared. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She gave a cry and ran out of the house. But Adam,” said Jen, sniffing, “you reek like Jilly. Do something about that first.”
“What if she left?”
“How? Unless your truck is gone.”
“No, it’s here. I saw it in the yard.”
“Okay. So she’s around, somewhere. Take the fastest shower of your life and go find her. Besides, you’re filthy.”
“No. I have to go now.”
“I will go. I’ll take my phone. Get.” Adam started to protest again, but Jen stopped him by reaching up and taking his face in her hands. “Adam. Mark me. Grace will never forget that smell as long as she lives. Now go.”
Jen grabbed her phone and headed out the back door, in time to hear spitting gravel from Jilly’s car as she tore out of the yard. “Good riddance,” Jen muttered.
Where would Grace go? Jen did a quick check around the yard, then hurried down the trail to the barn. Not there. Jen ran toward the grid road and looked right, to see Jilly’s vehicle disappearing in a cloud of dust. She looked left, and spied a tiny Grace at some distance, easily half a kilometre out.
Jen texted Adam. “G on road, headed west. U need car.”
Adam was already pulling on jeans. Clean ones. “Coming now.”
He grabbed his keys and phone, yanked on his sneakers, dashed out of the house and jumped into the truck. Speeding out of the yard, he drove past Jen and turned left.
He saw Grace, walking down the middle of the road, her arms wrapped around herself, and if it’s possible to feel one’s heart melt, Adam did.
“Oh, no, Grace,” he whispered to himself. “Hold on, Babe.”
Adam pulled over behind her, and leaped from the vehicle. She started to run.
“Grace!” he called, his huge baritone in full cry. “Wait! Grace!”
“Get away from me, Adam. Leave me alone.”
Adam started after her, then heard something behind him. A vehicle. He moved over toward the ditch, out of the car’s way, and bellowed, “Grace! Get over. There’s a car coming.”
But instead of slowing down, the car sped up, and Adam understood in a flash of fear it was Jilly. She had turned around for some reason — to try another plea? — and must have seen Adam chasing Grace down the road.
She was aiming for Grace. Adam couldn’t believe his eyes. Was she crazy?
“Grace! Dive for the ditch!” he yelled.
Grace turned to see the big white vehicle bearing down on her, and froze for a second, unable to register that someone was trying to hit her. Then she spun, took two steps and threw herself off the gravel and onto the side of the road, rolling into the wet ditch.
Jilly sped by, missing Grace by a breath. And kept going.
Adam, terror firing his leg muscles, ran full speed the few metres toward Grace. He skittered over the gravel and slid down the incline to the ditch, to find Grace lying limply at the bottom, face scratched and bruised, shirt torn, jeans ripped, a bloody gash in her arm.
Adam barely held himself back from lifting Grace into his arms. He first had to make sure she had no serious injuries.
“Grace, Grace,” he said, touching her scraped cheek. “Talk to me. Grace.”
Eyelids fluttered, then opened, and the deep brown pools were staring up at him. Thank God.
“Where are you hurt? Does your neck or back hurt? Grace, can you talk? Tell me, Babe. Tell me.”
“I . . . I think I’m okay,” said Grace, tentatively touching her head. Possible concussion, Adam thought. Then, “Ow,” as her hand found the torn arm.
Adam, well-trained in checking for injuries, said, “Hold still,” and looked at her pupils, gently felt her neck, and asked her to wiggle parts of her body, one at a time, in succession.
And then he grabbed her, emotion breaking through.
“Grace. I’m going to call Jen. Hold on.”
Bracing Grace against his chest with one arm, he dialled his sister.
“Jen. We need a doctor. Can you call Doug Smith, get him over here?”
“What the hell, Adam? Are you okay? Is Grace?”
“Jilly tried to run her down. Grace needs checking and some stitches. I’ll be back at the house in five minutes.”
“Holy fuck.” Jen knew better than to waste time asking questions. She hung up and called Doug Smith, family friend, neighbour, farmer and doctor.
Adam gently picked Grace up in both arms, carried her back to the truck, placed her carefully in the back seat and drove her to the farmhouse.
*****
“She should probably go to the hospital,” said Doug Smith, who arrived fifteen minutes after Adam had put Grace on the couch in the living room.
“No,” said Grace, in a voice so low they could barely hear her. “I’m not going to the fucking hospital. Ever again, if I can help it.”
Doug turned to Adam with an eyebrow up.
“Long story,” Adam answered his eyebrow. “Grace was in the hospital for a week this spring.”
The doctor sighed. “Okay, well, I have anaesthetic and antibiotics. Grace, I’m going to have to stitch up that gash.”
“Do what you need to, doc,” said Grace, already feeling weird from the pain medication he had administered.
“Maybe we should get her upstairs. She’s going to be pretty much out after all these drugs.”
“Right,” said Adam, who lifted her as if she were weightless and started up the stairs.
“Put me down,” said Grace, wriggling. “You liar.”
“Grace, let me explain, please.”
“Sure. You go right ahead and explain why you brought me out here and then decided to kiss some other woman in front of me. Who also decided to run me over. Put me down.”
Adam held on to her, hard, and kept going up the stairs. “No.”
Grace looked into his face and began to cry, huge fat tears rolling down her face.
They reached the bedroom, and he put her down on the bed, but held her gently by the shoulders to keep her there. Doug Smith was right behind.
“Would you like some privacy for this, Grace?” he asked, holding up a needle destined for her backside.
“I’m not leaving,” said Adam.
“It’s not up to you, Adam,” said Doug.
“You should leave, Adam,” said Grace. “What are you doing here anyway? I assume that’s the person who’s been calling you lately. Or maybe she always calls you. How would I know?”
He kneeled by the bed, took Grace’s face in his hands.
“Grace. I’ve been trying to get away from Jilly all my life. She was my friend Bobby’s girlfriend. Three days after he died in a farm accident, she was over here trying to . . . hook up. I thought she was desperate and lonely and grieving. It’s been ugly ever since.
“I don’t know how she knew I was home, but news gets around out here. It never occurred to me she would show up — she lives in Regina — much less try to run you down.
“I have never been near her, Grace, much less with her, apart from the occasional scene similar to what you saw. I swear to you, Grace. Please believe me. I want you. Only you.”
Doug Smith was turning red at witnessing the intimate scene, and nodding at the same time. That Jilly. She had it bad for Adam to this day, fourteen years after she’d first tried, and failed, to latch onto him. Everyone knew it. But no one would have expected her to try to kill his girlfriend.
>
Grace started to cry again, but this time she reached up and wound her fingers in Adam’s hair. Doug left the room.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” she whispered.
“For what, Babe? I’m sorry.”
“For not trusting you. But you’ve been so far away, and I thought . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, God, Grace. I know. I’m so sorry, so sorry.”
The embrace was clumsy and passionate, and only lasted a minute. The doctor was back.
“Adam. Grace,” said Doug. “I have to get on with this, or you might end up in the hospital whether you like it or not, with an infection. Do you want Adam to leave?”
“No,” she said. “Adam, hold me.”
“I’m right here, Grace.”
Doug injected the antibiotic, and the anaesthetic, which hurt like hell and made Grace cry out. After a moment, he started to sew up her arm. When he was finished, he started to pick gravel out of her face and knee.
*****
An hour later, Grace was asleep, knocked out by all the medications. Adam sat beside her, touched her face, her lips, her shoulders, and wondered how it all came so close to going very wrong. It was bad enough as it was.
After a while, he went downstairs to update his family.
“How’s she doing?” asked Jen, anxiety stretching her voice up a few tones.
“She seems okay. Doug said she’d be fine, but she’ll be in some pain for a few days, and tired from all the meds.”
“Here, Adam,” said his mother, putting a plate in front of him. “Eat something, dear. You need some strength after the day you’ve had.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he said. But he didn’t eat. He sat at the table, head down, fingers combing through his hair.
“My poor bairn,” said Elizabeth, kneeling before her son. “It will be all right. But you must tell Grace, Adam. Soon. You almost lost your chance.”
“I know, Mom,” he said, his voice low, breaking. Even in his state, Adam was amazed at his mother’s intuition. “I know. We’ll stay tomorrow — she’ll need to rest, anyway. But I’ll take her home Sunday. And I will tell her, Mom.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Grace was in more pain than she had expected, and much groggier. She limped around the farmhouse or slept most of Saturday. Adam suggested they go home Sunday, but Grace said no way. Finish your part in the harvest.
But it was time to go on Monday afternoon. There were a few tears, many hugs, and they were on their way back to Saskatoon. Grace kept falling asleep in the truck, off and on.
“I’m bringing you home with me,” said Adam at one point, piercing her fog. Grace nodded and passed out again.
They struggled into Adam’s condo, and Grace went straight up to the loft and to bed. Adam awakened her later for a light dinner of omelettes and toast, and let her go back to sleep.
Adam roamed around the condo. He had a Scotch, tried to calm down. Finally, he went to bed, too, and slept for a while.
The inevitable nightmare came to him, forcing him to relive the sight of Jilly trying to kill Grace. And in his dream, succeeding. He awakened, sweating, with a start, and quickly turned to see if he had roused Grace, but she was still asleep. He crawled silently out of bed and down the stairs to the main floor.
Naked, he walked to the soaring window overlooking the street. Trying to cool himself, he put both arms over his head and leaned his entire body against the wet window. It was raining, but a streetlight managed to cut the darkness and the streaming glass.
But Grace had awakened. She came up through layers of dreams and deep sleep, and knew Adam would not be there beside her. Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, she crept to the top of the stairs and saw Adam stretched long and hard in the dim light. She stopped, awestruck at his perfect, powerful body, aware of how the light gleamed on the muscles in his shoulders, his side, his buttocks.
This incredible man. Passionate and ethical. To a fault, sometimes. She thought of how different her circumstances were from the women who were murdered. How privileged she was. How unbelievably lucky to have found her fierce and tender lover.
“Adam,” she said.
He turned. “Grace. Should you be up? How do you feel?”
“Much better. I think I’ve had enough sleep.”
She came down the stairs and stood before him.
“Adam, what’s wrong? Did you dream?”
“Yes. I saw Jilly driving like a madwoman toward you. Hitting you.”
“Oh, Babe,” said Grace, putting a hand on his cheek. “What has happened to her?”
“The RCMP picked her up. She’s in remand, as far as I know.”
“I understand that she’s in love with you. Trying to kill me, though, might have been a little extreme. Is she . . . all right, do you think?”
“She’s crazy,” said Adam, flatly. “Obviously. I hope she gets some time, and some help. Under other circumstances, I may not have been able to protect you.”
“But you did, Adam. I’m here, and more or less fine, because of you.”
“It was close, though. And the women who were killed by Delacroix. I couldn’t protect them, either, or Suzanne. You did a better job at it than I did. What the hell good am I, then?”
“Adam, you found the killer. I know it’s not enough for you. But you did what you could. Everything you could.”
“No. We’re not doing enough to stop this.”
“You have started to change things, at least to the extent you can, in your department. Opening a position for missing persons co-ordinator will help. If you can get Lorne to take it, you have a really good start.”
“Do you think so? Be honest, Grace.”
“I do. Every time a good policy is made, we take a tiny step forward, toward equality. You’ve seen some differences already, since they fired the previous chief. You can’t stop murder, Adam. You can only help break the cycle and change the system.”
Adam shivered. Grace opened the blanket and wrapped it around him, and herself.
“I don’t want to live here anymore,” he said simply. “It’s not me, it’s not home. I feel so far away from myself. I’m going to sell the condo.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know yet. But I have to get out of here.”
Grace’s body was starting to awaken. It had been too long since they had made love, and she wanted him badly, particularly after having been so frightened by Jilly — not the attempt to run her over, but by the horrible scene in the farmyard.
“Adam. I need you to make love with me. Please. I’ve missed you so much.”
He bent his head and kissed her, so gently, as she had kissed him the first time their lips had ever met. Her arms went around him, and she held him tightly against her breasts and belly and thighs. She felt him respond, and he kissed her deeply, swung her up against his chest and took her back to bed.
Adam laid Grace on her back and gently kissed her neck and breasts; and as she moaned, he entered her and held her tightly.
His body shuddered, the sensations luring him, but he had to stop. The time had come. He had waited too long as it was.
“Grace, look at me,” he asked, softly. “Into my eyes. Sh, now. Stop for a moment.”
Grace writhed under him, and stopped moving with an effort.
“Adam? What’s wrong?”
“Listen to me, Grace. Hear me. I love you. I am in love with you. I have loved you from the very start. I should have told you before now. I should have, but I thought it was too soon, that you wouldn’t believe me.”
He moved inside her involuntarily, the physical connection and intense declaration rocking his emotions and body.
“Do you love me, Grace? Tell me.” Adam was still looking into her eyes. He had to hear the truth, and see it.
Grace moved her arms from his shoulders and took his face in her hands, holding his gaze firmly. She moved her hips, smoothly caressing him inside her.
“I wanted you from the start. I fee
l like I’ve loved you forever; I was just waiting to find you.”
She paused.
“Adam. Come live with me.”
“Live with you? Come live with you? Grace, are you sure? I can’t . . . what if I hurt you again?”
“I’m as sure as I’ve ever been of anything. We will find the way to cope, if we are together. Say yes, Adam. Say it,” breathed Grace, rocking him. “Come live with me, love.”
Adam shuddered again, a tremor pulsing through him, bringing Grace with him. The spasms rose and fell and left them helpless to each other.
“Grace,” he said, holding her tightly. “Yes. Oh, God, yes. I will come and live with you.”
Notes and Acknowledgements
The second crime in Broken Through, after the death of the dog in the first chapter, is not entirely fictional.
Indeed, a woman lost her life, was found in a basement, and was likely murdered by a man she knew well. He was never charged or tried for the crime. We will never know if he was indeed the killer; there was most certainly domestic abuse.
How often does that happen? How many people are actually guilty of many more crimes than they are ever charged with? How can the police better piece together the motives, the factors and locations of missing and murdered people, particularly women? And particularly Indigenous women?
In the late-2000s, Canada did not yet have a country-wide missing persons database or protocol among law enforcement services. Some dedicated and horrified police officers in this country have made that happen, many of them good white men. They are, in part, represented in this book by Adam Davis.
The remainder of the book deals with other men, mainly white, who are not good. Some are blind; some are evil. None of them exist in real life, although some of their crimes certainly do. There was never an intention to vilify any particular profession or person. The plot found its villains for their capabilities and circumstances.
I have had an enormous amount of support in the writing of Broken Through. My husband, Ken, and primary beta reader: Love and thanks.