Page 104 of Graciously His

I snort. “I did fucking try. I tried to stop Grace from marrying my brother because I worried what would happen, but I didn’t have the means to offer her anything. I was young and dumb and broke. Things went even worse than I’d expected, though. My brother ended up being Constance Reid’s enabler. That’s how his marriage to Grace worked—he loved Constance and encouraged her to abuse Grace because it made him feel even closer to her mother.”

Tim’s jaw flexes. “Munchausen by Proxy is complicated. I’ve only seen it once before, and it’s difficult to diagnose, let alone to prosecute.”

“And,” I supply, “it can be even harder to resolve without having the victim fall into subsequent abusive relationships.”

“Exactly. So, you want me to believe that getting your hands on your brother’s wife was all down to altruism? Breaking the cycle of abuse like a good man should?”

I raise my brows. The guy is beyond sharp, asking something like that so casually. What Tim is actually trying to do is set me up with a motive. Regardless of what he’s trying to pull, I like him. If I can win him to my side again, I might be able to get Constance Fucking Reid put away properly.

“My mother died when I was eleven,” I say, changing gears. I see the information throws him off, but he nods me on. “ALS. Slow death. Terrible. My father didn’t want anything to do with it, so he left Nick and me in the hospital while he went on dates with my mother’s replacement. We were left to watch the doctors try to help her deal with all the pain. It’s hard, you know, when a person’s body shuts down one organ system at a time until she’s drowning within her own flesh.” My voice is steady as I review the beating terror that’s never gone quiet, the very heart of my life. “When Nick met Grace, I think there was a choice. There was a sick mother, like ours, and a sick daughter, too. He decided to help the mum. And,” I give a small scoff, “she fucking rewarded him for it.”

“And what did you do?” Tim prompts.

I shrug. “I chose Grace. The first time I saw her, we were twelve. My mum was dead and my dad didn’t give a shit. Nick and I were broken, and so was Grace. I couldn’t help her back then. It took me years to figure out what I could do to fix her. Fucking decades. So when my brother died, I took the chance. And she still isn’t as healthy as I want, but she’s getting there.”

He sits back, his eyes calculating. “You’re the hero husband, then? Making her all better by forcing her to marry you?”

I press my palms to the cold metal table between us, knowing that he’s just opened the trap wide and that I’m not going to be able to avoid it. Not entirely. Not without denying who and what I am.

“That bitch would have killed Grace after my brother died. Nick enabled the abuse, but he was also keeping Constance from escalating. I set up an exit for Grace to take by the end of this year. I helped her get enough credits to finish her degree and gain some independence. I was trying to help her along that path so she could get the hell away when she was ready.”

“You were grooming her.”

I open my hands on the table. “Check the damn emails, man. My lawyer will fucking kill me, but I’m giving you permission to open my phone and look at the email thread between Grace and me. All you’ll see is me trying to build that woman up until she couldn’t accept being slowly killed by my brother and her mother anymore.”

Tim holds my stare for a long time, and I can’t get a read on his expression. Finally, he lets out a long breath through his nose.

“The only person we can get the truth from at this point is Grace. We’ll bring her in soon.”

Relief makes me feel shaky. “You guys sent someone out to get her? She’ll be at her mother’s and—”

“Yes, I am aware of your concerns, and I share them. My partner went to Constance’s house as soon as it became clear that Grace wasn’t answering calls. Hopefully everything is fine and the two of them are just… catching up.”

I have to force myself to stay seated. I can’t do anything to help Grace beyond what I’ve done. Like other times, I have to step the fuck back and let her make the big choice and finally deal with her mother. She can do it. She must do it.

“Do you worry that Constance will turn violent against your wife?” Tim asks after a few minutes have passed.

“I don’t know what she’ll do,” I say, not bothering to hide my hatred anymore, “but no wife of mine would willingly let an abusive cunt like Constance get her hooks in.”

“You have faith in her.”

I meet his eyes with a smile. “The Grace Hadley who came down here isn’t Constance's daughter anymore. She’s my wife.” I laugh despite myself. “And I guess you’re right, Tim. I do have fucking faith in her.”

Tim nods, leaning back in his chair and giving me another once-over. I regard him in return. After a few minutes, he leaves me alone, saying that he needs to check in with his partner.

I resettle myself in the cheap chair, trying not to flip my ever-loving shit. Watson will be here soon, and he’ll probably have me free within a matter of hours. But Grace—

I stand up and walk across the tiny room, then back, picturing my wife caught again in that mouldy townhouse, the starting point of a journey that should have ended with Horseshoe Manor. But Grace returned. Despite all the healing, all the progress, she needed to come back. And something makes me question if it wasn’t something Constance Reid said, but what I did.

Especially last night, when I did the unforgivable.

But Grace forgave me. Or… she seemed to. I mentally review our recent days. Grace was working hard on the project that’ll close out her degree. She was seeing more and more of Mihi, which I found annoying, but which provided enrichment for her. And she was deliciously compliant most of the time, even revelling in our closeness.

Then I consider the aspects of my wife that weren’t completely revealed to me. The bullet journal. Although I bought the correct pens for Grace to use, she kept filling out her charts with fine-liners, drawing patterns into her trackers rather than using colours. And she changed the patterns often enough that I gave up trying to figure them out. The insight I’d hoped to gain from the journal was absent.

I wipe my hand down my face, wondering just how much I’ve missed. How much I’ve neglected. How much I really damaged us both last night. Because if Grace were truly mine, she would have offered the journal to me. She would have written out a legend for the patterns and asked me to help track them, rather than hiding it in a code I didn’t bother to break. She would have given me the words I desperately wanted without a fight. She’d have—

I pace, my fists bunched so hard my hands hurt. My wife is not mine. Not properly. I’ve made sure she feels my love in every way, every day, but she chose to leave rather than ask me the questions she needed answered.