by Emily Elgar
“Hello everyone, my name’s Rose-Marie and I moved to the UK from Hong Kong . . .”
Jon didn’t want me to visit when he was recovering at home. I felt it as soon as I walked into his room. The atmosphere around his bed was unfriendly, like a hand gently pushing me away. I tried not to let my disappointment show. I’d wanted to tell him about my plans to become a journalist. How I was going to study criminology and then do a postgrad in journalism. I thought he’d want to hear, but he didn’t ask and I lost my nerve to tell him. He’d written me a card thanking me for helping him, for calling the ambulance. He didn’t even mention Grace.
Turns out Jon’s instinct was right from the beginning, from the first time he met Meg and Grace. He knew it was wrong that Simon was being kept from his daughter. He wrote the article and withstood the attack as well as he could. It makes me less angry with him now—I know he blames me for letting Grace go—which is definitely a good thing. It means I’m more likely to leave him alone.
“Thank you,” Rose-Marie says in a tiny voice before crumpling back into her chair.
I feel all the eyes in the room turn to me and my heart seems to have risen up from my chest because it’s now beating in my ears. I’m not sure I can remember anything, not even my own name, let alone the reason why I’m here. My hands are clammy against the table as I stand. I force myself to look at the curious faces, wonder whether any of them will become my friends. At the end of the table, there’s a tiny girl sitting next to Dr. Mackenzie; I hadn’t noticed her before. Her nose just about reaches over the tabletop, she’s wearing a baggy gray beanie, and behind her huge glasses her little eyes are fixed on me, like an X-ray. I look away from her, make myself smile, dig my thumbnail into the side of my finger, swallow, and speak.
“Hi, I’m Cara. I’m here because over the summer I learned for myself how even the worst crimes and the people who commit them often don’t fit neatly into the categories of guilty or innocent. I want to understand the space between guilt and innocence, I want to explore how the penal system could change to better help and rehabilitate someone who is both victim and perpetrator.” A couple of people nod in agreement and others tap their pens against empty writing pads. “I’m really happy to be here,” I add, and as I sit gratefully back down I glance across the table. Grace is still there, smiling her wonky smile at me. I know she’s not real. I glance down at my hands, make myself blink, and when I look up again Grace is gone.
Epilogue
He arrived at 1 a.m. I was standing in the dark kitchen, waiting to let him in through the back door. I’d already cleared the house of any evidence of what she’s been doing to me—leftover vials and bottles of drugs—put all our dark secrets in a black bag for the garbage men to take away. I didn’t want the police finding them, confusing the investigation into my disappearance. After so long I couldn’t risk anyone guessing the truth, not now when I need time to escape. He kicked off his shoes outside, just like we agreed. Down the hall, Mum snored. The reality of him being there was overwhelming, an online cartoon become flesh. He was like a miracle. I raised my finger to my lips.
“Shhh.”
He followed me down the hall. We paused outside her door, to check the other was ready.
“We tie her up, we inject her, we take the money, and we leave,” he whispered.
Her door opened easily. She was snoring, greedy and undisturbed by the yellow streetlight that seeped from the window like an infection. The air around her smelled off, like sour milk. She was turned towards us, her mouth slack, her cheek squashed against her pillow, her thin curls stuck to her forehead. I felt all my hatred and all my love as I stared down at her. She started to stir. I smiled. Her puffed eyelids parted, lazy at first and then, when she saw me standing smiling above her, they opened wide.
“Grace, what are you . . .” She tried to sit up, but Tony was quick, he pushed her down, half lifting himself onto her bed, pinning her arms above her. She screamed my name and I punched the gag into her mouth. Tony shouted, “Now!” and I watched her face crease with horror when she saw the syringe. I felt warm, knowing she knew what was about to happen. I had become her and she was me. She knew the pleasure in my power and I knew her fear. All this passed between us without words. I wanted the moment to stretch out, to solidify so it would last forever, but Tony shouted again, “Now!”
She started bucking beneath him. I aimed the needle for her arm, started to push, but she thrashed and the syringe leapt out of my hand, falling to the floor behind me.
Tony swore. She looked like she was going to erupt beneath him. All my senses surged. I knew the lamp was there. I yanked it out of the socket and my arm dropped under its weight. Tony watched. It took him a moment to understand as she squirmed, grotesque between his knees. He loosened his grip and she rose up beneath him like a cresting wave, making him fall back. But I already had the lamp above my head. I paused. I wanted her to see me, above her like this. She looked at me in a way I’ve never seen before, like I was a stranger to her, a person in my own right. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and then I catapulted my arms forward. The curled, iron foot of the lamp landed between her eyes. Behind the gag, she made a dull, sucking sound. Her clawing arms dropped as her strength started to fall away, like a battery finally dying. She fell back onto her pillow, her eyes so wide I could see their roundness as they spun in their sockets. Blood started to roll down her forehead from a wound I couldn’t see.
Behind me Tony started mewling like a kitten.
“Christ. What have you done? We have to go. We have to go right now,” he said as more blood seeped, warm and rich, from her head. I felt a flash of anger. He was weak, this man who had let my brother drown. I didn’t want him there for that moment, that pure, perfect moment that was just between Mum and me.
He started edging towards the door. He was shaking, desperate to leave.
“Wait for me in the car.” I was in charge now. I gazed back at her, wanted to wipe her blood all over her face, but I knew I had to think about evidence, about the future. My future.
Tony’s shadow loomed across the walls as he left the room. I was glad. I lifted the lamp above my head again, the weight made it drop harder. The curled foot struck her forehead again and again. When my arms were tired and my gloved hands couldn’t lift the lamp anymore she made a wet, grunting sound, and as her eyes filled with blood she kept them fixed on me. I watched as the darkness came for her. And as I watched her life slip away, I felt my own glow and I became alive, reborn. Grace was gone, and Zoe stood in her place.
Author’s Note
**This note contains spoilers**
A friend and I once had a discussion about how all stories are based on real life to varying degrees. I’ve thought about that a lot recently and am inclined to agree. Grace Is Gone is no exception, as the novel was inspired by the story in Missouri of mother and daughter Dee Dee and Gypsy Rose Blanchard.
Dee Dee was diagnosed posthumously as having Munchausen by proxy or fabricated illness, which is described by the NHS as “a rare form of child abuse. It occurs when a parent or carer, usually the child’s biological mother, exaggerates or deliberately causes symptoms of illness in the child.” Dee Dee inflicted years of unfathomable suffering on her daughter—forcing her to have unnecessary surgeries, making her live in a wheelchair, fabricated endless medical emergencies for her, and even told the world she had the cognitive capacities of a seven-year-old when she was, all along, a healthy young woman. Together with her then boyfriend, Gypsy Rose plotted and carried out her mum’s murder to escape the horrifying abuse. Grace Is Gone is inspired by these real-life events but it is a work of fiction and all the characters and events are products of my imagination.
I found Gypsy Rose’s story absolutely devastating, but the more I thought about it, the more her story raised broader questions in my mind—questions which in time became the bedrock of Meg and Grace’s story. It is a story about what happens when maternal love—possibly the fiercest typ
e of love—mutates and goes wrong. Meg and Grace’s story is also, to my mind, about justice and redemption: like Cara at the end of the novel, I found myself wondering whether murder in extreme circumstances can ever be justified? What if I’d experienced such horrifying and debilitating abuse as Meg inflicted on Grace, who would I be? What if I tried to tell the world, but no one believed me? Would I be driven to commit the ultimate crime to escape?
Would you?
Acknowledgments
I’d like to start by reassuring you that none of the characters in this book are inspired by anyone in my family. James, Otis, Edward, Sandy, Tim, Catherine, Eloise, Joshua, Rose, Alex, Laura, Leo, Barnaby, and Chloe: you can all breathe easy! Thank you for being terrible material for a psychological suspense novel.
I’m absolutely indebted to my incredible agent Nelle Andrew whose dedication and passion is second to none and whose gentle parental advice has helped see me through some of the tougher moments of being an author and a new mum.
Huge thanks to my two editors at Little, Brown, Lucy Malagoni and Lucy Dauman (“The Lucys”), for guiding me through with such skill, grace and calm, good humor.
I’d also like to thank Kate Hibbert, Andy Hine, Helena Doree and Sarah Birdsey, the fantastic foreign rights team at Little, Brown.
My thanks also to desk editor Thalia Proctor, copy editors Zoe Gullen and Mari Roberts, and to proofreader Jon Appleton. Thank you for rescuing my appalling grammar.
My thanks also to Steve Panton for the fantastic cover design that made me feel so excited I almost went into early labor.
Deep gratitude to Dr. Tim Hall and Dr. Deepa Shah for their professional wisdom and for taking the time and care to respond so thoroughly to my very dull questions. Thank you.
Personal thanks for the love and support to “The Berlin Five”—Marlies Lenstra, Rebekka Benzie, Charity Garnett, and Becky Murrell. I love you all.
I am indebted to my friend Tor Garnett for her wisdom: “Manage your energy and not your time.” Thanks also to my friend and fellow author Lulah Ellender for the sage advice and professional first read.
My gratitude to the Ladykillers for sharing all the highs and lows. It is excellent to be part of the coven.
To my darling godkids—Maalu, Dash, Sephy and India—I love you all but please put this down, I’m sure you’re not old enough to read it yet!
Thank you to my son, Otis, for being with me—literally while I wrote this book and for arriving when it was mostly finished. You have changed the world for the better just by being you. I love you.
Thank you to my husband, James, for always saying “I love you” even when I’ve done nothing but snarl and talk about how tired I am. I love the life we’ve made together. Finally, to the readers of this and all books—thank you!
This book is dedicated to my wonderful parents, Edward and Sandy Elgar. Thank you feels so inadequate for all the love you share, but it’s all I have—so thank you.
About the Author
Originally from the Cotswolds, EMILY ELGAR studied at Edinburgh University and went on to complete the novel writing course at the Faber Academy in 2014. Her debut If You Knew Her was an international bestseller and received rave reviews. Grace Is Gone is her second novel.
Emily lives in East Sussex with her family.
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Also by Emily Elgar
If You Knew Her
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
GRACE IS GONE. Copyright © 2020 by Emily Elgar. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photographs © John Harper/Offset (grass); © Ed Samuel/Shutterstock (rain texture); © vvvita/Shutterstock (sky); © Media Whalestock/Shutterstock (girl); © antb/Shutterstock (landscape); © Klintsou Ihar/Shutterstock (clouds)
Originally published as Grace is Gone in Great Britain in 2020 by Little, Brown UK.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Digital Edition JANUARY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-294564-8
Version 11092019
ISBN 978-0-06-294563-1
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