Broken Grace Read online

  “True. But we also know he had bought a ring by Sunday—a week before the murder. Maybe that’s what the money was for.”

  “Also true.”

  “But you’re thinking maybe this blonde girl was trying to break up Michael and Grace? Maybe she’s the one we should be looking for?” He spoke disinterestedly, to avoid betraying his hope.

  “I don’t know,” Bishop said before spitting into his cup. Then he laughed. “What if the blonde was Grace? Like some kinky game, like she’s wearing a wig and they’re spicing up the love life—playacting? Showing up at the bar in a wig, pretending to be a stranger.”

  Hackett faked indifference. “It’s possible, I guess.” It wasn’t possible.

  “Can’t imagine my wife doing crazy shit like that, but maybe Cahill was a lucky bastard.”

  Until Saturday anyway.

  SEVEN

  WHEN GRACE OPENED HER EYES, she looked up at the water-stained ceiling, trying to figure out how long she’d been sleeping. After Lisa had dropped her at the house, she’d poured more coffee and made toast. The dry, crusty bread had crunched in her mouth, but the flavor of the jam and the cream cheese she’d smeared atop it was nonexistent, as if her taste buds had fallen out of her head with everything else. All she got was an amplified crunch in her ears and the useless chewing of flavorless, day-old gum. Nauseated and dizzy, she brought her coffee and meds to the living room, turned on the television, and sank into the couch, trying to focus on the screen. But her vision blurred. Her lids felt weighted. Eventually, she closed her eyes and the cushions swallowed her up as she fell deeper and deeper into a semiconscious state, able to hear things but unable to move.

  Now a new program was on and the sun had fallen. She stood and leaned on the frame of a nearby chair to get her bearings. She felt drunk, definitely worse than before.

  She sat back down, holding her head, reviewing what she knew. The days were blending into one another. Someone’s dead, she remembered. Police station. Driving with Lisa. A wave of nausea returned. She had to get outside and breathe fresh air. She grabbed the coat hanging in the hall, slipped on a pair of boots, and walked out the front door.

  The snow-covered landscape appeared like a painting, frozen in time; her breath, visible in the cold air, wafted into her sightline. But the picture was tilting—or was it she who was tilting? She wrapped her arms around the closest porch post, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly, trying not to upset her rib cage while inhaling the cold air—the life—into her body to get clear, to lift the fog.

  After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. The spinning had stopped. She walked around toward the back of the house and spotted a small white shed off to the right, closer to the woods. She peeked into its windowed door at the fertilizer, garden tools, and a red, rusted wheelbarrow propped up against the wall.

  Then, like a flash or a dream, she was sitting in the wheelbarrow. Riding in it. Laughing. But she was young. She looked back at the large, open yard behind her and saw a young girl, squealing with delight. The sun was shining on the little girl’s long brown hair, and the green grass was covered with fallen autumn leaves. The girl was holding on tightly, looking back and giggling at the man pushing her around the yard. Dad? He was tall, thin, fair, with freckles and a red beard. She blinked and the sunshine, grass, and leaves disappeared. The world went back to white.

  Something was unlocking inside her mind. She walked from the shed toward the tree line and looked into the woods at the underbrush, the bent twigs, coated in thorns. The lightness and joy left her. Tension crept up her spine. A single gunshot echoed loudly in the distance. She turned around to locate it, but there was no other sound. Was the shot real? She heard a scream—a little girl, crying. Grace spun toward the sound, but there was no one. She spun around again and again, until she lost her balance and fell to her knees in the snow. “What’s happening?” she screamed to the sky. Her voice echoed through the woods.

  Wesley Flynn strolled into the station with the faint smell of stale beer on him, a travel mug of coffee in hand. His unlaced Timberlands, unbuttoned flannel shirt, and beard stubble suggested a quick and recent dressing, despite the afternoon hour. Hackett thanked him for coming in on such short notice and brought him into the interrogation room where Bishop was waiting. Flynn pulled off his knit cap, brushing through his disheveled hair. Bishop told him to take a seat.

  “What’s going on, fellas? Am I in trouble or something?”

  “No,” Bishop said. “We were just hoping you could help us piece together Michael Cahill’s last days. You said you saw him last Sunday, a week before the murder, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was that at The Rack, after work?”

  “That’s right.”

  Bishop shared what they’d learned from the bartender, but Flynn didn’t recall the blonde. “Doesn’t mean much though,” he said. “I was playing pool most of the night.”

  “Do you recall Cahill talking about getting engaged?”

  Flynn swallowed visibly. “I don’t remember. Honestly, we were both there, but I was playing pool most of the time.” He grinned at them, as if his easygoing smile could be a substitute for real information.

  “Can you tell us the names of the other guys who were there?”

  Flynn thought for a second and shared the names of a few other construction workers. Hackett took notes before pulling up the Facebook post. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Flynn scrutinized the picture. “No.”

  “It was apparently taken at the Four Winds Casino. It was posted on Friday before the murder.”

  Flynn shook his head, but frowned.

  “What?” Bishop asked.

  “We swore that place off. I mean, my wife absolutely forbids me from going anymore. We lost far too many paychecks after a few too many. I thought Mikey was done with it too.” He stared at the photo. “What do you think it means?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” Bishop said. “And you didn’t see Cahill again until you found him the following Monday?”

  Flynn sat back and began buttoning his shirt over the white tee. “That’s right.”

  Hackett thought he saw something there. A hesitation or avoidance of eye contact. He couldn’t be sure, but something made him asterisk Flynn’s response on his notepad. “How long have you known Cahill?”

  “Oh, forever, man. We’ve been friends since we started working together. That was, like, right outta high school.”

  “So does that mean you know Grace Abbott well?” Bishop asked.

  “Of course. Grace is a sweetheart.” Flynn leaned in. “Is there any news on Grace?”

  Hackett nodded. “She’s okay. She was in a car accident. She spent the last week in a hospital up in Kalamazoo.”

  “Shit, you’re kidding.” He smacked the table. “That’s great news. My wife is going to be so relieved. She okay?”

  “She’s pretty banged up,” Hackett said. “But she’s alive.”

  “Speaking of Grace,” Bishop asked, “do you know if she smokes?”

  “Cigarettes? No way, she hates the smell. Where is she now?”

  “At her sister’s place in Buchanan,” Hackett said.

  Bishop’s cell rang. He checked the number, stood to leave, and signaled Hackett to wrap up the interview. Hackett leaned forward as Bishop left and lowered his voice. “Do you know if Cahill ever cheated on Grace?”

  Flynn sat back, stunned. “Why? You think a woman did this?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  Flynn scanned Hackett’s eyes and then the room before responding. “Michael loved Grace, I can tell you that for sure.”

  “That’s not actually an answer to the question.”

  “My point is that Michael wasn’t always the best boyfriend, but . . .”

  “So he did cheat on her.”

  “I didn�
��t say that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know of any affair. I don’t know of any cheating specifically, but Michael was a bit of a magnet. That doesn’t mean anything, but if he ever slipped, I’m sure it wasn’t recently. He was a good guy.”

  Hackett sat back, exasperated. “Wesley, do you think Grace could have done this?”

  “Grace? Fuck no.”

  “Well, if you know something that could shed some light, out with it. It could help her.”

  Flynn looked around. “It’s just that, now and then, someone would do something to Michael. His tires were slashed last year. It was just about a year ago. It seemed like he knew who did it but wouldn’t say. That’s all. And before that, someone threw a rock through his bedroom window. It kind of made me think of a woman, that’s all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I don’t know. We’d all been out for Grace’s birthday that night. It just seemed like maybe a woman saw them and got mad. What can I say, he was a good-looking dude. Maybe I’ve just seen too many movies. But I never found out who did it.”

  Hackett thanked him, walked Flynn to the door, and went to his desk. He couldn’t decide if what Flynn just shared could help or hurt Grace, so he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.

  Bishop sat at the neighboring desk, finishing up the call. “That was Kewanee,” he said, putting down the phone. “Turns out Cahill was a big winner at Four Winds last Friday.”

  “How big?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” Bishop grabbed his coat and checked his watch. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “We’re gonna get a warrant to get back into that house.”

  Two hours later, Bishop pulled into the gravel drive in front of Cahill’s house. The snow had been packed down by all the squad cars, but the yellow tape remained at the front door. “Good,” he said. “Looks like no one’s been here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That tape really has no meaning anymore. It’s been a week. That’s why we had to get a new warrant. I thought the landlord might have sent a cleaning crew to deal with this place by now.”

  “Wouldn’t want that job.”

  “God, no.”

  There had been no chance to check for footprints or tire tracks or any evidence outside the house because the snow had fallen all day Saturday, days before the body’s discovery. There was no point looking for anything outside now.

  Bishop slipped on some latex gloves and tossed a pair at Hackett before they walked through the house again. Hackett went back to the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed; the mattress was still covered in bloodstains. “So what are we looking for?”

  “Look everywhere,” Bishop said. “Think of places you might hide a lot of cash. If we find the money he won Friday, then I’m guessing this isn’t about money. If we don’t, well, who knows? There certainly weren’t any deposits for that kind of money in his account.”

  Bishop checked the bathroom, the living room, and began opening cabinets in the kitchen. He emptied the contents of a small trash can on the counter. “Hey, Hackett, check it out.”

  “What? What’s that?”

  Bishop carefully lifted a large yellow envelope from the mass of discarded mail on the counter. “It’s addressed to Grace. Date-stamped December fifth. A couple days before the murder.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking this envelope is the perfect size for photographs.”

  “It’s only an envelope. Seems like a stretch.”

  “Really?” Bishop turned the envelope around so Hackett could see the front and the stamp PHOTOS DO NOT BEND. They both chuckled.

  “Well, that was kind of easy,” Hackett said.

  “Maybe whoever took those photos of Cahill and the blonde wanted Grace to see them.” Hackett took the envelope in his gloved hand and examined it. On the back side, in the bottom right corner in tiny print, were the letters HBG. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “No idea.”

  Hackett went back into the bedroom and got down on the floor, searching under the bed for a box or anything one might put cash in. He didn’t find any box, but he spotted an empty handwritten envelope, addressed to Michael Cahill, sent from Oaks Correctional, also date-stamped December fifth. He brought it back to the living room. “What do you make of this?” He held it up.

  Bishop took the envelope. “Friends in prison? Anything in it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Make a note to call the prison. See if Cahill ever went to visit someone there and, if so, who.”

  “Got it.”

  They spent an hour carefully reexamining the crime scene but found no sign of the cash.

  “Well, I guess that leaves a lot of possibilities,” Bishop said.

  “You know what else?” Hackett said. “Cahill was allegedly gonna propose. You see a ring on Grace’s finger?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Well, I do, because I was standing there when she gave her prints this morning. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry. I wonder if he ever proposed.”

  “I’m still waiting for her medical records from the hospital in Kalamazoo. Maybe there will be a record of whether there was a ring on her finger when she came in.”

  They both stood at the kitchen counter, scanning the living room. The room, painted in soft yellow, gave no hint of the violence that had occurred in the bedroom, other than that broken picture of Grace and Cahill that had been found on the floor amid shattered glass.

  Hackett thought about the moment he’d entered the house last Monday. He’d been the first responder at the scene. All he’d known at that point was that someone had been shot. Investigators were soon crawling all over the place, snapping photographs, bagging items. He’d hesitated to go into the bedroom, terrified he would find Grace there. Now he walked over to the spot on the floor where he’d found the broken picture of the onetime happy couple. He looked at the wall above it, at a small gash in the wallboard, and turned to Bishop. “Maybe you were on to something about those photos.”

  “What do you mean?” Bishop asked.

  “Maybe they were about blackmail.”

  Bishop shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But remember that broken picture of Cahill and Grace?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was here, on the floor,” Hackett said, pointing to the spot by his feet. “And here”—he pointed at the gash in the wall—“looks like the kind of mark that could happen if you threw the picture across the room.”

  “Doesn’t mean much. Grace could have done that. Or Cahill.”

  “Or maybe it was a moment of jealousy of seeing the happy couple. We know he was with another woman. What if we don’t see the money because he paid someone off?”

  “The photos were in the bedside table,” Bishop said. “Grace’s side, from the look of things. And if they came in that envelope, they were addressed to Grace. If I wanted to blackmail Cahill, I’d send them to Cahill, not Grace.”

  EIGHT

  GRACE WOKE ON TUESDAY WEARING only a robe. The wet towel had come loose from around her hair and dampened her pillow. She sat up slowly. It had been another restless night. She’d dreamed of the swing out front, maybe because of that photo she’d found. But she wasn’t the girl on the swing. She was behind the girl, pushing her higher and higher as they laughed. Then the little girl fell, crying as she hit the ground, holding her ankle. Grace’s own ankle throbbed in that moment, her tears and pain jolting her awake.

  By three a.m., she’d gotten out of bed and considered wandering the house again, searching for clues to her former life. But the dull headache that seemed to have permanently installed itself behind her eyes and the weakness she felt when moving dissuaded her. Instead, she filled
the tub with some bubbles and grabbed a washcloth. At least she’d finally feel clean. She shaved her legs and washed. But then it happened again—that feeling—the churning in her stomach, the uneasiness.

  She lay back against the porcelain and closed her eyes, covered her face with the damp washcloth, and tried to focus only on her breath. But then a vision came like a rush. Splashing water, struggling for air, arms flailing. She screamed, “Stop! No!” And then she was sobbing. The cries were real. And loud. She sat up, wincing from the pain of her sudden movement and shocked by her own outburst.

  Lisa barreled into the room. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” Grace cried. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  Lisa came over to the tub. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

  “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “It was probably a bad dream,” Lisa said, gently positioning her hands under Grace’s arms to help her stand.

  “But I wasn’t asleep.”

  Her sister helped wrap her in a towel and grabbed another for her hair. “When did you come in here?”

  Grace put on the nearby robe and wrapped her head in the towel. “I don’t know. Three?”

  “It’s five o’clock. You probably fell asleep in the tub. Maybe you had a nightmare.”

  It was a nightmare: every moment since she’d woken in the hospital.

  Now the house was empty and Lisa was gone. A note on the kitchen counter reminded Grace that she was at work. Other notes on the counter reminded her to take her pills, which had already been separated into little piles marked morning, midday, bedtime. Lisa had made coffee and left chili in a Crock-Pot, and there were more notes reminding her to eat, along with a cell phone number if Grace needed anything.

  She took the first pile of pills with her coffee and went to the bathroom. Another note was taped to the mirror: “Take your medicine!” Despite the shakiness in her step and the vague sensation that she might faint, she was relieved to be alone.