The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  “Gracie, I’m sorry. We’re together now. Do you hear me?”

  Silence. Then, “I hear you.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll go into work and see.” Grace’s stomach churns at the thought.

  “Good girl. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  She breathes deeply. Closes her eyes. Sighs. “They can tell me they don’t want me there any more.” She sees, in her mind’s eye, Mike standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, eyes glaring. “Get out!” Sue looking over his shoulder, her face radiating disappointment. Can I face that?

  Chloe can read her mind. She always could. “Grace, it probably won’t come to that, but whatever happens you can take the next step. Nobody said it would be easy.”

  “No . . .”

  ON LEADEN FEET, SHE drags herself from the bus stop to Mama’s Kitchen, heart racing. A bell rings as she opens the door to the warmth and smell of fresh bread.

  Sue pops her head around the corner, eyes twinkling. “Hello there! How was the soup du jour?”

  Grace does a double-take. Mike hasn’t told her! Then she must. A fluttering fills her chest. She takes a deep breath and walks determinedly to the kitchen where Sue is pouring a cup of coffee.

  “Want one?” She glances over her shoulder, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “Before the fun starts.”

  “Sue, I need to talk to you.”

  The words pour from her. Her life after Lyn died. Running away. Gabriel, and the introduction to drugs. Life on the streets. Addiction. Prostitution. As she tells it the tears flow. All the pain and sorrow surges from her in a flood, like water released from a broken pipe.

  Sue listens, leans toward her, eyes brimming, stroking her hand. She rises to wrap Grace in her arms, gently rocking her. “It’s okay now. It’s okay,” she murmurs, holding the younger woman at arm’s length to look intently into her face. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “You forgive me?” Grace is thunderstruck.

  Sue’s face crinkles. “Oh, honey. There’s nothing to forgive. I love you more than ever!”

  MIKE DIDN’T SHOW UP at the restaurant this evening; unusual for him lately. Neither Grace or Sue mention him as they lock up.

  “I’m here for you, Grace. Any hour of the day. I want you to call if you need a friend,” Sue tells her, grasping her arms, pinning her with serious eyes. “Promise?”

  “Thanks, Sue. I will.”

  Now as she stares out the window of the well-lit bus gazing at a dim, quiet city, Grace is cheered. Sue has her back. She knows that. Whatever Mike may think or do, his mother will not waver.

  Does she care what he thinks? She does. He’s been a good friend. His smile dances in her mind; broad, earnest, friendly. A winning smile; one that embraces whoever it is given to. Then she remembers his eyes. The horror she saw in them as it dawned on him. When he finally saw who and what she was.

  Grace shivers. How does he see her now? Dirty. Deceitful. Low. She lets the bumpity bump of the bus jiggle her along, head down, bobbing slightly. Past high-rises and shopping malls, across railroad tracks, by empty parking lots. Just before she reaches her stop she sticks her chin in the air. Sue loves me. Chloe’s in my life. I’ll be okay. She exits the bus with her head held high, and marches across the street to her apartment.

  Will he speak to her when he finally shows his face at work? She remembers his kiss, sweet and warm. Does he regret it? Does he feel sullied? Grace climbs slowly, head swirling with all that the day has brought. Up the steps, three flights, down the dingy hall-way, her foot-steps echoing loudly. Past apartment doors with smells of grease and onions and spices she can’t identify. To her apartment. She stops, gaping. The door hangs open, the door-jam a mess of sharded wood. Grace stands frozen, trembling, rasping, unable to move. She stares into her suite. From the faint light of the setting sun shining through the window she sees drawers yanked from the dresser, trash littering the floor, clothes heaped on and below the chair.

  Crumpling to the floor, she senses a figure looming over her. She folds her head into her arms, knees against her chest, back against the wall. Is this it? Is this how it ends? Alarm bells thrum in her head, but she manages only shallow breaths.

  “Lady? What happened? Can I help you?” His words echo as if through a tunnel.

  Grace looks up. A dark-skinned giant of a man bends over her. “Are you okay? Shall I call 9-1-1?”

  Dazedly, she rises to her feet. He moves into her apartment calling “Hello?”. She follows him, stepping over broken dishes and scattered pots and pans. They look around. No one is there, but everything she owns has been ripped apart and tossed around the room. F U BITCH is written in large, red letters across her fridge.

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay here on your own? You don’t want me to call the police?” Grace’s big, dark savior looks unsure.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’ll be okay. Thanks.” I just need to be alone!

  He watches her curl her hands over her head, trembling. “I’m Jamahl. My apartment’s across the hall. If you need me yell,” he says.

  Just go!. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  He hesitates. “Will they come back? We should call the police.”

  She shakes her head violently. “No.”

  “I hate leaving you here with a broken door. Anyone can get in.”

  “Please,” she begs in an emotion-choked voice, “It’s been a shitty day. I just can’t deal with any more. I need to be alone.”

  Grace kneels by her bed, face buried in the twisted mattress, gulping great mouthfuls of air. Who did this? Why? Mike? No, it couldn’t be . . . Frantic breath gradually eases to deep, long inhales, and she feels herself begin to calm. Reaching under the bed she rubs her hand on the cold, hard floor. There’s nothing there. Adrenalin shoots through her body as she bends to look. Her metal box is gone. Fucking assholes!

  Should she call Sue? No. Sue doesn’t need to be pulled into her shit the very first day she learns about it. She can handle this. Grace springs into action, straightening the mattress, grabbing her bedding and making her bed. Storming through the apartment, she shoves clothing and make-up back into drawers, gathers broken glass, tossing it in the garbage. Luckily she doesn’t have much. Clean-up is quick. She leaves the lipsticked message on her fridge. Maybe she should call police. She’s a law-abiding citizen now. Grace, you’re good and smart and strong. She is! She feels it now. A sense of pride. Shoving her chair under the door-knob – hoping it will keep intruders out - she pads across the cold linoleum floor to her bed, sinking into the comfort of it. Curled into herself, teeth clenched, mind numb, she lies shivering until she falls asleep.

  Chapter 39

  ~Darby

  A dark green truck sits in front of Darby’s house as she pulls into her driveway. Upon opening her garage door she sees, through the corner of her eye, a figure exit the vehicle. She closes the door, enters her town-house and peers through the front window. It’s a man, tall and well-built. He stands looking at her place, then slowly walks around his truck. There’s something familiar about him. A fluttering that starts in her gut, rises to her chest as she stares out the window. It’s Sam.

  With long strides – a walk she remembers well – he crosses the front lawn to the sidewalk, up the steps to the front door. She stands there a moment, insides fluttering, feeling like she wants to run away. Something moves her legs, rubbery and weak, to the front door. She opens it. There he is after all this time. The same handsome, candid face. Piercing dark brown eyes, longish black hair curling around his neck, falling into his forehead just a little.

  Darby stands, breathing heavily, unable to speak or move.

  “Darby – I . . .” he begins. His voice is slightly hoarse.

  They stand, staring.

  The words push from her mouth with little breaths of air. “Come in.”

  She collapses onto her couch, rigid and white-faced, looking into the face that has moved her m
ore than any other.

  He stands, awkwardly, looking at her. Then he sits on a chair across from his former lover.

  Conversation is stilted. He asks and she answers – short, clipped replies to how she’s doing (fine), what she’s doing (she’s an RCMP Sergeant). He’s impressed. What does she do for recreation? (mostly rides her horse, Bojangles). Does she have friends here? (a few). . . She can’t bring herself to ask him questions.

  When they lapse into tentative conversation, they talk about their time in Afghanistan, wonder about the street urchins they befriended, bemoan their friends who died. They don’t mention the love they shared or the bad times, but as Darby looks across at him she’s taken back to the warmth and the comradery, the passion they shared. A devotion that got them through. All the feelings come rushing back. For a time. Until a bitterness fills her mouth and throat as she remembers the letter she received. She can see it in her minds-eye, swirly, feminine hand-writing:

  Dear Darby,

  My name is Lisa, and I’m writing because Sam finds it too hard. He has told me of your relationship while you were both stationed in Afghanistan. Because you were so far away from home, and in such a terrifying place, I understand how things happened between you the way they did. Neither of you were yourselves.

  What Sam didn’t tell you is that he and I are engaged to be married. We have been for two years now. I faithfully waited for him, and I’m glad I did. He’s come to his senses now that he’s home, and I can forgive him knowing the circumstances. It was a crush born from needing to lean on each other. That’s all.

  I hope we can be friends. If you’re ever in Madison give us a call. Sam speaks highly of you, and I feel like I know you already.

  Sincerely,

  Lisa Grant

  It was shortly after receiving it that she lost the baby she was carrying – Sam’s baby. The memory jars her, hardens her, and she looks at him through cold, dark eyes. Her voice is shaky. “Are you married now?”

  He is visibly startled. “No.”

  She stares, waiting for more.

  “I was. I should have told you . . .”

  Darby continues her fixed stare, saying nothing.

  “I was engaged when we were in Afghanistan, but it was such a different world. I didn’t feel like I was . . . “

  She remains immobile; silent, her eyes locked onto him.

  “What you and I had was real. I didn’t even think about Lisa.” He looks for affirmation from her. He gets nothing.

  “I was a mess when I got home from Afghanistan. Head-aches, dizziness, chest pains, trouble sleeping . . . I couldn’t function. Couldn’t feel anything. I’d have flash-backs . . .”

  “PTSD,” Darby murmurs, softening a little.

  “Part of me knew you were expecting to hear from me, but I didn’t have the strength to go against my family and her. I just went along with everything, got married, had a kid. It was a disaster, of course.” He looks at Darby entreatingly, palms upward, resting on his knees as he bends toward her.

  Her eyes fill with tears, but her face remains resolute. Did you think of me at all? Ever think I was waiting? Pregnant and hopeful.

  “Darb, I never stopped loving you. I never stopped thinking about you. But I was so fucked up I couldn’t even call.” His face breaks. Voice catches. “I’m so sorry.”

  She breaks down as she watches his head fall into his hands, his big shoulders shaking. Slowly, she rises from her chair and wraps her arms around him while he weeps.

  Chapter 40

  ~Darby

  Like a sprung trap, Darby purposefully closes and sets aside her personal life to focus on work.

  Sam, vulnerable now, but sweet and regretful, is back. He’s settled himself in a travel-lodge in town, insisting it’s the best place for him to be. He needs to be here. Darby hasn’t told him about Jim. Is there anything to tell? There is, but she can’t. He hasn’t asked, and she can’t blurt out, “I’m casually seeing someone that I like. Someone that likes me.” How does one say all that just out of the blue?

  Jim is out of town, but he’ll be home soon. How do I feel about that? She’ll deal with it later.

  For now, there’s work. It’s early morning. Darby and Brandon pull into the Ritz parking lot, knock on the front door and are greeted by Hannah. She leads them to Steve’s office where he and his wife appear to be going over the books. When the two police officers enter, they are greeted with reserved courtesy, but when they produced the gun with Brandon’s accusatory, “Look what was found in the staff-room,” Both Steve and Chloe are visibly ruffled.

  “It’s the murder weapon,” Brandon is practically sneering. “With your prints on it, Steve.”

  “It couldn’t have been Steve!” Chloe, red-faced and tearful, insists. “We were at our cabin the night Gabe died! What is it you don’t understand?” Hands waving, body tense; she’s practically hysterical. So, she’s not completely unflappable.

  Darby attempts to reassure the distraught woman. “We’re not accusing anyone, Chloe. We just want to ask you some questions.” She looks at Steve, who is closing the books in front of him and rising from his chair.

  He peers at the gun through narrowed eyes. “Where did you say it was?”

  So neither Mona or Tom have said anything. “Under the sink, behind the drain-pipe.”

  Steve exhales loudly, and shrugs. “It looks like mine, but I didn’t put it there. I haven’t used that gun in ages.”

  “When was the last time you saw it?” Darby asks.

  He rubs his jaw with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. I belonged to a shooting club, but haven’t gone in . . . must be a year or so.”

  “Did anyone else have access to it?”

  “No. It was stuck away in the back of my closet.” Steve sits back in his chair, picks up a pen and taps absently.

  “No one borrowed it? Your house wasn’t broken into?” Brandon sets the gun on Steve’s desk; a menacing accusation.

  Steve frowns, looking at his wife. “Maybe the time someone went through our bedroom when we were out back?”

  She blinks uncomprehendingly for a moment. “Yes!”

  He slams the pen onto his desk. “A couple of weeks ago when we were planting flowers in our yard someone must have entered the house. They emptied drawers in our bedroom, threw a few things around...”

  “Was your alarm system activated?”

  Steve shakes his head. “Not when we were just outside.”

  “Did you notify the police?”

  “No, we couldn’t find anything missing. And we all know how effective the police are in dealing with home invasions.” His smile is sarcastic.

  “It was a horrible feeling of violation, though,” Chloe adds.

  Darby nods sympathetically. “You say you were at your mountain cabin the weekend Gabe was killed.”

  Chloe nods. Yes.

  “When did you arrive there?”

  “About 8:00 Friday night,” Chloe says. “I had to be in Edmonton to oversee our restaurant during the day, and didn’t get back to Rockydale until around 5:00. We threw together food for dinner, packed some clothes and went up as soon as we could after work.”

  Steve is staring at his gun, brow furrowed.

  “What did you do Saturday night?” Brandon asks him.

  “ We had a few drinks, watched Netflix, went to bed early . . .”

  “We’d hiked all day,” Chloe adds, “so we were pretty tired Saturday night.”

  “DO YOU BELIEVE HIM?” Brandon asks, shucking his jacket onto Darby’s desk.

  “Hard to say.” Darby stares at the time-line drawn on her white-board. “Did you notice how surprised she looked when he mentioned the home invasion? As if he was making it up?”

  Brandon nods thoughtfully. “Who’d have the guts to walk into their home while they were in the back yard to find Steve’s gun? Unlikely. I say we charge him.”

  Darby runs her hands through her hair. “We need more. He’s got an alibi, aft
er all. And that gun has to have been planted.”

  “His alibi depends completely on the wife. What if she’s lying?”

  “She could be protecting him. Sure. But I’m positive that gun wasn’t anywhere in that restaurant when Gabe was murdered. Maybe someone stole it weeks ago and he didn’t notice.”

  “Someone might be framing him.” Darby says.

  “Did you look under the sink? Could we have missed it?”

  Chapter 41

  ~ Grace

  Crash! Grace bolts upward, jarred from a restless sleep. Bang! Bang! Bang! There’s a thumping on her door as the chair clatters across the floor. The sound of her heartbeat thrashes in her ears as she watches, helpless. Her door smashes open. A big, dark shape streaks through it. And another smaller one. Covering her eyes, she cowers against the headboard.

  “Where is it?” A rasping voice, malevolent.

  Grace is frozen speechless, her arms wrap around her body, holding herself tightly.

  “Grace!”

  Her eyes fly open. He’s standing over her bed now, his face twisted, teeth bared.

  Behind him a white-faced wisp of a girl drifts, points at Grace. “Where is it, Bitch? We know you’ve got . . .”

  “Alicia.” Grace mouths the word.

  Alicia stares, hollow-eyed at her. Grace watches her mouth move, as if in a dream. Her words echo in the now-quiet room. “There’s no fuckin’ supply. None for days. You’re not sick. We know you’re holding out, fuckin’ bitch.”

  Dazed, Grace gapes at the two frantic junkies bearing down on her. “I’m on meth. Alicia, I’m clean.”

  “Bull-shit!” Alicia pushes past her boyfriend to climb onto Grace’s bed, lips curled, nostrils flaring.

  Suddenly, “Stop. Police!” Two officers barge in, grabbing the intruders. Grace, curled into a ball, gasps, relieved. In the doorway she sees Jamahl, her trusty new neighbor.

  Later, she remembers it all as if in a dream. Two familiar policemen ushering Alicia and her friend down the hall. It must be a dry time, she thinks. No drugs available and everyone is desperate. She understands. She’s been there. When the police ask she won’t press charges. Jamahl must have called them. Her guardian angel.