by E. C. Diskin
Grace looked up at Lisa. “What’s going on?”
“What happened?”
She sat up with Lisa’s help. “I feel crazy.”
“Did you remember something?”
“I don’t know. I thought I did. But now I’m not so sure. Just the roads.”
“The roads?”
She instantly regretted saying it. “I mean this place. I remember you bringing me here. The roads to get here.”
Lisa looked at the counter where she’d laid out the pills. “Did you take all your medication today?”
“I skipped the dose at lunch. They make me feel awful. But then I felt worse later, so I took them.”
“Don’t you remember what the doctor said? You can’t skip them.”
“But I can’t sleep! How am I going to get rest if I can’t rest? I feel like I could crawl out of my skin.” She squirmed to get up.
Lisa stood too. “The doctor warned us that your brain injury can mess with your sleep patterns. And maybe you’ve always had insomnia—maybe that’s why you had the Xanax. He gave you Ambien. Here,” she said. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
Grace sat at the table and rested her head in her hands. “Something in this house scares me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I keep hearing things. Yesterday I heard a little girl crying. I saw a girl, maybe it was me, in the yard.”
Lisa joined her at the table. “In the yard?”
“I was walking around outside. I needed some fresh air. I saw the wheelbarrow in the shed, and then I saw this girl being pushed around the yard in it. She was little. It was fall. There was a man pushing her. They looked happy.”
“That was probably you and Dad.”
Grace smiled. “So that was a real memory.”
“Probably.”
“But then I felt scared. I heard a scream and I swear I heard a gunshot.”
“Well, I don’t know about the scream, but you might have heard a gunshot. It’s always hunting season for something around here. I think it’s pheasant season and maybe still deer season too. Till around Christmas.”
She sat up, staring at Lisa. “Tell me about our parents. Why don’t I remember them?”
Lisa went to the fridge and stood at the counter, opening a beer before she responded. “I don’t know if we should do this right now.”
“Why? I’m a black hole over here. Please. I need to piece my life together. Someone’s dead. Someone who I was apparently living with. And it looks like . . .” She didn’t want to say it.
“You’re supposed to rest. I don’t want to upset you.”
“What do you mean?”
Lisa took a swig before answering. “Our parents weren’t exactly good people.”
“What does that mean?”
Lisa took another sip and opened the fridge, staring at the half-empty shelves. “Have you eaten yet?” she said.
Grace stood. “I’m not hungry.” Suddenly, she felt very tired. She collapsed back into the chair. “Could I have killed Michael? I don’t know who I was. I don’t know if I could have done something like that.”
Lisa put down the drink and came over. “I don’t know. Come on.”
With her help, Grace stood. She took another pill for sleep and let Lisa support her up the stairs. She crawled into bed without changing clothes, as weak as if she had the flu, unable to raise her head, suddenly so drowsy she felt as though she were melting into the sheets.
Lisa pulled the covers up and stood to leave.
“Wait,” Grace said, in not much more than a whisper. “Tell me what you know about me. About Michael and me. Did we seem happy?”
Lisa sat next to her on the bed and brushed hair from her forehead. “I told you, we weren’t always close. So I didn’t see the day-to-day. I just saw when things happened. Like when you came here upset on Friday.”
Grace nodded.
“And when you slashed his tires.”
“What?”
Lisa chuckled. “I thought it was kind of funny, actually. I mean, I figured he deserved it, but you never said why you did it.”
“When did I do that?”
“About a year ago. You told him that you’d come out of work and found them slashed, but you told me the truth.”
The drugs had a strong hold on her now. She couldn’t sit up and could barely register a reaction, but something about this story felt familiar. “It was my birthday,” she slurred.
“Yeah, it was. Do you remember that?”
Grace couldn’t keep her eyes open. She didn’t answer, but she pressed for more. “Our parents . . . you said they were bad.”
Lisa pulled the covers higher over Grace’s chest. “The only thing a kid needs from a parent is love. Let’s just say they didn’t do their jobs.”
“Did they hurt us?”
Lisa didn’t answer and Grace forced her eyes open. Lisa was looking around the room, maybe searching for the words.
“Why do I have these?” Grace said, weakly offering her forearm to Lisa, showing her the methodical scars.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying,” she slurred. “You saw me notice them in the car. You know.”
“I told you. Our parents were not exactly the best.”
“They did this?”
“Dad wasn’t big on spankings. Liked to do little things that carried a big punch.”
Grace looked at her forearm in disbelief, unable to focus.
Lisa smiled. “That’s nothing. Look at this.” She pulled back her sleeve to reveal the inside of her forearm. Five small round scars, each the size of a pencil eraser.
“What’s that?”
“Cigarette burns.”
“He did that to you?”
“Guess he thought he could keep us in line this way.”
It felt like pure fiction—some wild fantasy that didn’t fit any instinct in her confused and darkened mind. But here was the evidence, a history that couldn’t be erased. Two unhappy kids. Abuse. Maybe it was good that their parents were gone, like Lisa said.
“What happened to them?”
“Someone broke in.”
Grace tried to sit up but couldn’t. “Relax,” Lisa said, her voice softening. She took Grace’s hand in hers and held it gently. “It’s an awful thing to think about. I didn’t want to tell you. You don’t remember anything. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“When? How?”
“About three years ago. We weren’t home.”
“It happened here?”
“Yeah.”
“Where were we?”
“You were over at a friend’s house. I’d moved out a while before.”
“How? Who did it?”
“Some drug addict trying to rob them. He’s in prison now.”
“Oh my God.”
Lisa didn’t say a word. She continued to pet Grace’s hand as if Grace were a little girl.
“Why are we living here after such a terrible thing happened? And if they were bad? Why—?” She tried to sit up again. “Was it in here?” She looked around the room in a panic.
“No, not in here. They were asleep. It wasn’t easy to stay, Grace, but this is the only thing they left us. Our parents gave us nothing.” Suddenly her voice was laced with anger. “And life is hard enough. I really don’t want to get into it right now.”
Grace relaxed back into the pillow. It was too difficult to sit up. In fact, she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. “I went to the basement the other night. I had the strangest feeling when I was by the washer. I heard this little girl crying.”
Lisa pulled the covers up higher, continuing to prep Grace for sleep like a small child. “Maybe your brain is protecting you. Some things are better left behind. Some m
emories are too painful. I’ve been trying my whole life to forget. You just got the slate wiped clean.”
She had so many questions, but she could feel that the words weren’t coming out right. She was losing consciousness. She heard Lisa walk out of the room, her footsteps crossing the hall, the squeak of her door shutting, and then a click. Had she just locked her door? Was she afraid? And then every thought in her head faded to black.
TWELVE
GRACE WAS TRAPPED UNDER SOMETHING HEAVY. It was dark. She broke free and began crawling out of the darkness. When she stood, tiny blue and white flowers covered the walls in front of her. Her vision telescoped in on the pattern, then expanded to a circle of fuzzy images surrounded by blackness, as if they were miles away. She walked closer. Closer. The images became clearer. The wrought-iron-frame bed. Mom. Dad. The bed covered in blood. Grace stood at the side of her parents’ bed, screaming. Her own nightgown drenched with red. “No no no no no no.”
The shaking finally woke her. When she opened her eyes and saw Lisa, she grabbed her and held her tight, ignoring the pain it brought.
“You were having a nightmare. What happened? Did you remember something?” Lisa maneuvered to sit by her side, still bracing Grace’s shoulders. “What is it?”
“I saw them.”
“Who?”
“Mom and Dad. They were dead. There was blood everywhere. I was standing there. Mom’s face was frozen. Her mouth open like she was shouting. Did I see it happen?”
“No. No. It was just a dream.”
“But I was there. I was there!”
Lisa relaxed her grip and pulled the covers up over Grace. “I just told you about the murder. You were probably imagining it. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you. I thought it might be too upsetting.”
“But it was real.” Sweat trickled down her forehead. “Please, get these covers off me.”
Lisa left the room and returned a moment later with a wet rag, gently laying it on Grace’s forehead. “It’s okay. You weren’t there. It was just a dream.” Lisa sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair.
“I’ll never sleep.”
Lisa checked the clock, then left the room. The stairs creaked beneath her as she went down, and a minute later she returned with a glass of water and a pill.
“Here.” She sat. “It’s been more than four hours. You can have another.”
Grace swallowed the pill and relaxed back into the pillow.
Lisa put aside the empty glass and stroked Grace’s hair. “It’s going to be fine,” she said again and again.
The pill took effect. Like a wave, Grace floated out to sea.
She woke several times in the night, but she didn’t dare get up, terrified of the visions and sounds that exploration brought. She stared at the water spots on the ceiling, the room dimly lit by the moon. She thought about Michael—and the photograph of the two of them—trying to make his face come to life, to see his smile, to hear his voice. But she couldn’t conjure him. Instead, those officers’ faces filled her mind, the younger one’s especially. Justin.
Hackett sat on the couch, beer in hand, staring at the console that used to house his TV. Olivia had convinced him that she had to have it. Joe didn’t have a flat screen, she’d pleaded, and Donny watched Yo Gabba Gabba! every afternoon. Please don’t make this worse, she’d said. Bullshit. All of it. But it had all happened so fast, and his goal had been to get the hell out of there as soon as possible, to leave and never look back, so he’d caved.
It was late, but he put on his coat and walked the two blocks to The Pub, hoping it would still be open. He needed some ESPN on a big screen to turn off his racing mind.
Alice was pouring drinks for a few men at the far end of the bar, but otherwise the place was empty.
“Hey, Officer!” Alice waved. She knew his name at this point, but he was pretty sure she’d be calling him “Officer” forever. She’d carded him his first time in. He’d smiled and pulled out his ID and newly acquired badge. “Sorry, honey, but you do have a baby face,” she’d said. They’d both had a good laugh, and she’d welcomed him to the neighborhood.
She brought him a draft Bud, his usual—it was good enough and he was on a budget—and told him to holler if he needed anything.
Hackett turned his attention to the television in the corner and tried to focus on the scores, but his mind was on the case. There was something about that Jacks guy. He had a thing for Grace, Hackett could feel it. He didn’t trust Sheri Preston either, though it may have just been that her air was too reminiscent of Olivia. But after they’d left New Buffalo, Bishop wasn’t as impressed. He was more excited by the engagement news, which bolstered his working theory: Grace got engaged on Thursday, found pictures of her fiancé cheating on Friday, ran out, then returned Saturday morning to blow his brains out.
Other than getting those pills from Jacks’s apartment analyzed, Bishop was ready to move on. But Hackett knew that couldn’t be it. There was something wrong with that guy.
Twenty minutes later, the men at the other end of the bar left, and Alice offered Hackett a refill. He agreed, not ready to go home yet, even though SportsCenter was ending.
“So, Officer, why don’t I ever see you in here with friends or girls? You gotta be beatin’ them off with a stick.”
It made him smile, which set her off again. “Look at those dimples. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t have a girl.”
He shook his head and laughed.
Alice had already offered up her life story during a previous evening: divorced, two kids, deadbeat ex-husband, but a new boyfriend who was her true love, her destiny. She was nice and friendly, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he had such bad luck when this woman—forty pounds overweight; an unruly mound of frizzy, gray-streaked hair; and arms covered in decades-old tattoos that were stretched and faded into unidentifiable blobs of black ink—was so in love. Maybe it was her edge. Maybe nice guys did finish last. His brothers had pounded that mantra into his brain for years, trying to get him to be more aloof, cooler, somehow more appealing to the girls.
“Come on,” she continued. “What about that pretty young thing I saw you with a few weeks back?”
Shit. “Who?”
“I don’t know, but I remember you were talking in the corner there. Seemed to be getting along. I think you walked her out—you remember?”
“No, I guess not.” Fuck. “Well, couldn’t have been anything, or I’d remember, right?”
Alice smiled flirtatiously and took a sip of her beer. “If you say so.”
When Grace woke on Wednesday, Lisa was already gone. She’d left another note in the bathroom about her work schedule and more reminders about taking the prescriptions.
Grace was heading downstairs when a squad car pulled into the driveway. She froze on the step. Were they coming for her? Or perhaps there was good news.
The young officer—Justin—got out of the car and came to the door. She opened it before he had a chance to knock.
“Hi,” she said, suddenly hopeful.
“Hi, Grace.”
“What’s happening? Do you have news?”
He shook his head and flushed slightly. “I just wanted to check on you. I’m on my way to the station, but I was wondering if you’re feeling any better. I hope that’s okay.”
“Sure,” she said, stifling her disappointment. “Come in.”
She led him to the living room, and they both sat. When the silence between them grew awkward, Grace finally broke the ice. “This is kind of weird, but I kept seeing your face last night.”
He smiled, a shallow dimple appearing on one cheek. “What do you mean? Did you remember something?”
“Not exactly.” It didn’t seem right to talk about her parents and the blood. “I was having these disturbing thoughts and, for some reason, when your face came to mind, it
kind of calmed me down. Weird, huh?”
Hackett leaned forward in his chair, lips parting slightly, as if he wanted to say something, as if maybe he knew something he wasn’t telling her, but he didn’t speak.
“What is it?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I probably shouldn’t be here right now. I’m guessing my partner wouldn’t be happy about it, but I . . . I want you to know that I don’t think you did this.”
Relief nearly made her laugh. “You don’t? Because I’m sure it doesn’t look good.”
He sat back and said gravely, “We have to follow the evidence, and some of it doesn’t help you, but I also have to follow my gut. I don’t think you killed Michael.”
She hadn’t even realized how much that meant until he said it. She’d been focusing simply on piecing together her history, unable to deal with her present reality, but somewhere in the back of her mind, the idea of having committed a crime, of killing another person, of being sent away for life for something she didn’t even understand, felt like a rockslide that had buried her alive. The moment he said he believed in her, it was as if a boulder had rolled aside, light streamed in, hope emerged.
“You know, I almost feel like you and I are doing the same things,” she said lightly. “I feel a little like an investigator. I’ve got almost nothing to go on but the contents of this house and the fragments of memories that seem to pop up, but I spend most of my time around here searching for answers.”
“And have you figured anything out yet?”
“Only that I didn’t have a great childhood. It seems there might have been some abuse, and something about this place scares me. Last night I found out my parents were murdered here.”
He nodded, brows furrowed. “I know. I’m really sorry, Grace.”
“You know?” she asked, but she answered before he could. “You’ve investigated me.”
He nodded. “That crime was solved, and we’ll solve this one too.”
She looked down, picking at a seam in the leather. “I just can’t believe that nothing really clicks. I obviously lived here. I have fragments of memories, but everything I learn is like this crazy fiction.”