Page 100 of Grace

I watched them for two years. Lucas didn’t let me take his life. He had other plans for him. Cyrus didn’t just go undercover to get information for the police—more importantly, he reported to Lucas.

“Tell me about Cyrus.”

“Cyrus Phoenix was born on August 10, 1978—”

“Chase!” she grumbles at me in a slurred voice. “The gist. Why a cop?”

My lips pull into a scornful smile as I look into Grace’s beautiful, glassy eyes.

“Because it’s useful for Lucas to have people in law enforcement. He doesn’t only work with the police.”

“That’s how he could get you out of jail.”

I nod.

“This means Cyrus isn’t serving Lucas willingly.”

“Do you find this reassuring?”

“Yes,” she snaps. “Because I know he’s a good person.”

“But he lied to you.”

“He isn’t the only one,” she replies, shooting me an angry look.

I swallow hard and keep my eyes on the road.

“Sleep.”

“I don’t trust you,” she says, all attitude.

“I don’t trust you, either.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She opens her mouth to say something, then doesn’t. She bunches the wet bag under her head and turns her back on me, sinking into the seat.

The storm subsides.

Grace falls asleep.

And dreams sweet dreams.

Grace

Eakly, Oklahoma

I often found Cyrus’s behavior weird, because I know what it’s like to keep horrible secrets. Dirty secrets that would make everything between us dirty. And I am the crazy one out of the two of us. Because I am the one driving across Oklahoma with a murderer.

I will never be angry with Cyrus for not telling me who he was working for in secret. He must have been ashamed to do what he was forced to do. Because he is a good man and a good cop. We both held our cards close. We both played dirty. But this doesn’t absolve me from the fact that I kissed Chase. And it would be unfair to bring Cyrus’s one-night stand into this. But I think the circle is almost complete—it has almost reached its starting point.

I’ve been awake for a while now, but I don’t want to open my eyes. But when the suffocating smoke of burning paper replaces the smell of sunshine and the familiar scent of the old car, my eyes fly open. Chase is holding my letter in his hand, watching as Cyrus’s words are devoured by the flames. My mouth and throat are dry like a desert. I watch with wide eyes and a racing heart as white ash drifts down onto his worn jeans.

The last flames lick at his fingertips. He doesn’t react. Then he turns to me. Words scorch my throat, but fear twists my stomach into a knot. He had no right to do this. Still, I can’t say a thing in protest.

“Do you love him?”

“I had sex with him.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” He gets out of the car. I slam the door of the black 1990 Chevrolet and storm after him.

“Doesn’t mean anything?” I shout after him. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn back. He walks to the gas pump. When he pulls the nozzle out, I catch up with him and start pounding on his chest with both fists. He rocks back a little. He lowers his eyelids, stoic, and lets out a sigh like he’s bored with this one-sided conversation.