“Don’t,” she squeaks out. “Just—don’t.”
Gracin observes from his spot on the other side of the room, his expression unreadable. The attraction that has been ever-present since we met has turned to flat out rage, but I manage to channel it into determination. I have to make this work. For Annie.
“You’ll need to stay out of the way until it’s time,” I tell him. “We’ll have to wait for shift-change, and you’ve already caused enough fucking trouble today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and the amusement is plain in his tone.
I grit my teeth and imagine gutting him with a scalpel.
Annie takes a seat behind the computer, leaving me to face the rush of afternoon patients—a mix of regulars who come to have their meds administered and a handful of inmates in for annual exams. The work keeps my hands busy, but my mind is on Gracin, who sits quietly in the corner. When the nurse in charge of medical stops by to inquire about Annie’s presence, I beg her off, saying I’m swamped and desperately need Annie’s help.
Under her condemning eye, I clean up the murder scene with unsteady hands, silent tears streaming down my face. There’s blood all over the grout again, and I can’t help but compare it to the night I had to clean up my own after one of Vic’s beatings. I gag on my disgust and throw the bloody towels into the appropriate receptacle. I allow Gracin to get up long enough to help me change the sheets on Salvatore’s bed. When I’m done, it looks as though he’s just resting peacefully, which only makes me cry harder.
By the end of the day, my nerves are shot, and I can’t stop from shaking. The poor man whose medicine I’m trying to administer withstands several long minutes while I fumble with bottles until I get my hands on the correct one. I mumble a distracted apology as the patient shoots me an irritated glare.
Even though I’ve desperately tried to ignore Gracin, I find myself looking up while I'm in the middle of treating patients. Each time, he’s watching me, waiting. In response, I bare my teeth, which only causes him to smile. He obviously has me right where he wants me. There’s no need for him to continue the little charade. It makes me want to claw his eyes out.
When Gracin lifts into a sitting position and pins me with a level stare, I know it’s time. With a nod, I glance at the door and find the officer has abandoned his post for the evening shift change. The very thought of how precisely Gracin orchestrated this entire situation makes my whole body go cold. If he can do this, what else is he capable of? Murder may seem like the worst act on the spectrum, but after years of torture from the one man I was supposed to trust, I know there are worse things than a quick death.
Annie still hasn’t said a word to me, and she hasn’t moved from her spot behind the desk. When Gracin gets to his feet and heads in her direction, she shrinks back against the chair, which emits a terrible squeak.
“Gracin, don—”
But before I’ve finished my plea, he strikes out with a swift grace I’m always surprised to see from his bulky form. His fist collides with Annie’s cheek, her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she slumps indelicately in the chair. He ignores my cry of protest and carefully arranges her body at the computer. When he’s done, her back is to the door. Anyone looking in would think she’s working. During shift change, no one comes to the infirmary, and most inmates are busy going to and from the mess hall for dinner. Salvatore is expected to sleep throughout the night for observation, and no one but me will know he isn’t sleeping.
My stomach sinks when I realize this is actually happening. I’m about to wreck my life for this man. All the prisoners who saw us together. The guards he bribed. Everyone will see me walk him out of prison, and I can only imagine the news reports. The trial. Oh my God, Vic is going to be furious.
“Time to play, little mouse.”
“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” I ask. My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. My throat is so scratchy it causes my eyes to water. Panic will do that to you, I guess.
“I want you to place a call for a medical emergency.”
My mind races, connecting dots that I’d been too distracted—or too blinded—to notice in the first place. That’s why Gracin targeted me the day we met. Why he hadn’t left me alone since. Why he wormed his way under my shell when I was at my most vulnerable.
“You—” I grind my teeth to stem the flow of words. “This is your end game. You didn’t pursue me because you were concerned about what my husband was doing to me. You don’t give a shit about that.”
He draws close, but I don’t back away. His eyes flit over my hard expression. “You can punish me for it later,” he says. “Make the call.”
Gracin prowls back to the bank of computers where Annie slumps somewhat drunkenly over the keyboard. He places a hand on her head and absently strokes her hair.
Threat signed, sealed, and delivered.
My hands don’t tremble as I reach for the receiver and punch in the number to the control room. The line rings for a few long seconds, and then a familiar voice answers, “Control Room, Sergeant Bennet speaking, how may I help you?”
“Sergeant Bennet, this is nurse Emerson from medical. I have a patient here in need of an ambulance for transport to the hospital.”
“Inmate’s number and medical information?”
“Number 8942589. The inmate is presenting with symptoms of appendicitis. He needs to be transported immediately for further evaluation.” I try to interject enough impatience in my tone to make it seem like I’m just doing my job.
“Prepare inmate for transport.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I turn to find Gracin standing behind me. “Get on the gurney,” I snap. “You’re supposed to be sick.”
“I like it when you’re feisty,” he says with a smile as he hops onto the gurney and reclines.
“I like it when you keep your mouth shut.”
He groans as if in pleasure. “You’re only making this better for me, little mouse.”
I strap him down and pat my pockets to make sure my car keys are still there. I won’t have a lot of time between them loading him into the ambulance and making my escape. The next person through those doors will find Annie, who probably won’t hesitate to tell them exactly what happened, then the police will be hot on my tail. I just have to be gone before that happens.
I don’t know where I’ll go, but it will have to be somewhere far enough away that Vic, the cops, and Gracin can’t find me.
Like a deserted island in the middle of the ocean.
“What are you thinking about so hard?” Gracin asks as I begin to wheel him down the hallway.
“A vacation,” I retort. “Now shut up. You’re supposed to be incapacitated and in excruciating pain.”
“Keep talking to me like that,” he croons, “and a part of me will be in pain.”
“Your head, because I may accidentally dump your ass on the concrete. Keep your mouth shut until we get to the ambulance.”
Before he has a chance to reply, the officer summoned by the industrious Sergeant Bennet arrives to escort us to the ambulance at the gate. My chance to turn back comes and goes, and I can only follow the officer as he moves at a clipped pace. I have to take two steps to his one as we speed through the prison and toward the west gate where the ambulance will be waiting.
From there, everything speeds up. So much so that I can almost pretend it’s happening through the filter of a dream. If it weren’t for that filter, the gravity of the situation would have been too big, so big the weight of it could crush me. When a rush of panic threatens to suffocate me, I feel someone’s hand brush my own and find Gracin watching me. I immediately pull mine away and suck in a strangled breath.
You can do this, Tessa.
We burst out into the bracing cold, and I curse under my breath at the slap of frigid air against my bare skin. Without my coat, it’s like jumping in the Atlantic—Titanic style. Except there’s no hero to talk me off the edge. In my case, it’s the villain for
cing me into taking that first plunging step.
The ambulance is already waiting by the gate with another officer in a van, which is idling by the control tower. A part of me had been hoping something would go wrong. Someone would discover Annie or Salvatore, call Gracin on his fake performance, or question me about his illness, but none of those things happen.
The officer escorting us guides the gurney to the back of the ambulance, and I cling to it, if only to have an anchor in the maelstrom of my uncertainty. A paramedic emerges from the back of the ambulance, and he and the officer transfer Gracin to another stretcher and load him without any fuss at all. A sick, oily feeling begins to roll in my stomach, and it’s only my clenched jaw that keeps me from being sick at their feet.
In seconds, the officer is jumping in the ambulance behind Gracin’s prone form as the paramedic slams the door closed. I reel back on my heels, stumbling on the slick pavement and reaching blindly for the door handle to keep myself upright. The ambulance guns for the gate and pauses while it opens. My heart leaps, thudding erratically as I wait for someone to sound the alarm, but they don’t. In fact, the ambulance glides through the open gate, and the van follows behind without any fanfare.
It turns out when your life falls to pieces right before your eyes, it isn’t with a bang . . . it’s with a whisper.
The entire way back through the prison to the control room, I’m certain someone will stop me and demand to know where Gracin is. I jump at every sound and stop breathing each time I hear footsteps or voices coming toward me. But they just pass by without a glance. It should be reassuring, but it has the opposite effect, ramping up my anxiety until I feel like I’m going to snap in half from the tension.
I make it back to the locker rooms and retrieve my things. As I close the door, I realize it’s probably the last time I’ll ever be back, so I open it back up, clean out all of my belongings, and throw away what little trash is inside. My bag is a bit heavier than normal, and my steps are hesitant and dragging as I make my way to the control room, where chaos reigns.
Two officers are on duty, and they’re both so busy it takes a few minutes for them to even see me waiting on the other side of the thick glass. One raises an eyebrow at me, and I put my keys through the slot and sign out. It isn’t the end of my shift and Annie is the only nurse on duty, but they don’t comment, and I don’t dare draw any attention to the fact.
“See you tomorrow,” are the first words I wring from the officer.
I make an appropriate reply, but my voice cuts out. I can’t force any enthusiasm into the words.
I won’t be back. Either I’ll escape this place or I’ll be in jail myself.
The shock hits me on the drive home, and then numbness floods through me, and I’m grateful for it. It blots out all the doubts, the fears, the hopes. I feel everything through a pleasant layer of warm, fuzzy cotton and only manage to pull into the drive safely because I’ve driven it so many times it's practically muscle memory.
Moving on autopilot, I park and head straight for the bedroom to pack. There’s no reason for me to delay leaving. Plus, I don’t want to risk being here when Vic—or the cops—show up. Bras and panties, T-shirts, jeans all get tossed in the bag indiscriminately. I won’t need anything fancy. Especially not the trashy lingerie Vic insisted I wear. That stays in the drawer. I give a passing thought to burning it, but it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
I grab my things from the bathroom and look around the room I’ve lived in for the past three years. There aren’t any mementos from my childhood, no photo albums or baby blankets. I threw everything from my wedding day away after the honeymoon and didn’t bother scrapbooking after it, either. There isn’t anything besides clothes that I care to take with me.
Maybe it’s a good thing. A fresh start.
I shoulder the bag and head for the front door, plotting my route as I go. Maybe I’ll head for Mexico. Somewhere with the sun to burn away all the dreariness.
I wouldn’t have even seen the drawing if it wasn't taped to the door right in front of my face. There’s only one person who could have put it there. I don’t realize I’m saying, “Nononono,” until my voice chokes with tears. It’s a drawing of me the day I visited his cell. I’m clinging to the bars and looking a bit wild—my eyes bright and my hands gripping the metal like it’s a lover.
Certain I’m imagining it, like a waking night terror except in the middle of the day, I don’t believe Gracin’s standing in the doorway until he says my name.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing around wildly, as if I’ll be able to pull the answers from the ether. It makes no difference. I know why he’s here. I’d be lying if I said I wasn't expecting to see him again.
As he pushes his way inside and closes the door behind him, I realize he’s changed clothes. He isn’t wearing the standard issue prison uniform anymore. I squint as he comes into the light, trying to make out what he’s wearing. Then it dawns. The pants are so familiar because I see them at work every day. They’re from an officer’s uniform. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he must have overpowered the one in the back of the ambulance and escaped somehow.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and ask the question that has knots forming in the pit of my stomach. “Did you . . . did you kill them?”
He raises a brow. After a pause, he says, “No, I didn’t kill them.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say his voice sounded almost tired, but that can’t be possible. The energy coming off him in waves has my pulse responding in kind. Adrenaline kicks up and ignites in my blood. As he advances, I take matching shuffling steps backward. With one eye on him, I look for a weapon, nearly seething. I’m sick and damn tired of being hunted in this house. Of being terrorized and bullied by men like him.
Instead of backing away, I charge in his direction. He isn’t expecting my sudden movement, and this time, my shove catches him off guard and knocks him into the wall. Pictures dislodge and rain down, crashing to the floor in a spectacular shower of broken glass. His hands come up to block as I attack with my fists, unleashing a whirlwind of pent-up frustration on any part of him I can reach.
My fury knows no bounds, and I slap, punch, and scratch every available inch of his skin. Unrecognizable sounds tear from my throat, and soon I’m panting from exertion. My nails rake down his cheek and score along his throat, breaking the skin. He curses and takes both of my wrists easily into one hand and pins me against the sofa with his hips.
“Why are you even here?” I scream at him. “I did what you wanted. I got you out. You win!”
His body goes still, and he presses as close to me as he can. My heart leaps into my throat, and my pulse trips over itself.
“What if I want you?” he asks quietly.
My lips part, and for once, I don’t have a retort. That is the last thing I ever expected for him to say.
When I manage to speak, it’s more like a croak. “You’re certifiable,” I say, and try to squirm away from him. “After all the shit you pulled, you come back for what? A booty call? Screw you.”
He ignores me and says, “Come with me.”
My brain simply short circuits. “What?”
The grip on my wrists loosens. “Come with me. Now. Let’s leave together.”
“You can’t be serious,” I exclaim. “You just killed a man! I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Dead serious,” he replies. “You can’t stay here, so leave with me. I can keep you safe.”
“Keep me safe? You’re on the run from the cops! I just helped you escape prison.” A laugh escapes me then, and I double over with it, my head going to his chest as the emotions bubble over. “I guess that means I’ll be on the run from the cops, too.”
He tips my chin up. “So run with me.”
I don’t get the chance to answer his question because Vic chooses that moment to walk in the front door. My heart drops to my feet, and my body turns to stone. Gracin doesn’t he
sitate to shove me behind himself, guarding me against Vic.
This can’t be happening.
Vic’s eyes find us in the living room, he lets out a puff of breath, and his eyes go wide. The expression would be almost comical if the situation wasn't so dire. His cheeks color with rage and a vein at the corner of his temple begins to throb as he takes a step forward . . . and runs right into Gracin’s fist.
If I thought he was capable of violence before, it’s nothing compared to the beating he unleashes on Vic. The sound of fists meeting flesh reminds me of all the times Vic did just the same thing to me. A voice inside my head tells me I should intervene. I should tell Gracin to stop, that we can just leave, anything to get him to quit, but I can’t make myself say the words. I derive a sick, twisted satisfaction from each pained sound, each connected hit. It’s the vindication I didn’t know I was looking for. Vic’s face is covered in blood, and his eye is already swelling, but Gracin keeps going.
“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” he says, grunting with the effort it takes to heave a bobbing Vic back to his feet. “How does it feel, motherfucker?”
“Fuck you,” Vic says, spitting blood and earning another punch. The resultant crunch causes him to squeal, and his head lolls back, blood spurting from his nose.
Gracin prepares to levy another hit when Vic lunges to the side and grabs a lamp from the side table. It isn’t a cheap one, either. So, when it crashes into the side of Gracin’s head, I call out, “No!” as he crumples to the ground by the coffee table.
I scramble to his side, feeling for a pulse and am swamped with relief when it flutters against my fingers.
I don’t have time to properly examine him before Vic stumbles to my side and pulls me to my feet with a fist wrapped in my hair. Instinctively, I pivot, gun in hand. I’m not blind to the fact that I didn’t pull the weapon I’d saved to protect myself against Gracin.
Vic barks out a laugh. “You think you’re gonna use that on me, girl?” His hand comes away covered with spit and blood as he wipes his face. “You don’t have the goddamn balls. Fuckin’ cunt.”
Toxic Page 9