Page 31 of Grace

My old Chevrolet jolts as I park next to Cyrus’s car. The engine stutters to a halt, and I’m pretty sure it lets out a puff of black smoke into the air.

The sun is high now, and the cool, fresh morning air has turned into the suffocating heat that dominates the day. The hot, humid air feels like oil against my skin, making it wet and sticky.

I take a deep breath and step out of the car. My attention is immediately drawn to the neon sign above the door—it’s partly broken. The red outline of the car is still on—though it’s barely visible in the sunlight—unlike the blue female body sitting on its hood with crossed legs.

Others don’t notice these small flaws. I do, because my past—and my present—have made me fond of everything broken, damaged, or incomplete. Because they remind me of myself. I feel for them, because I know what it’s like to be different. Incomplete. Empty. Lost. I’m constantly searching for beauty in their damaged appearance—and reaffirming to myself that they’re precious just the way they are. That’s why in these past years I’ve been collecting mugs with broken-off handles, or ones filled with cobwebs of cracks. That’s why I can’t let go of my car. And our house.

“Is everything okay?” Cyrus asks as we head for the bar, our sides brushing.

I suck in my lower lip and nod, but my posture gives me away. I fold my arms around myself, because the hairs on my arms stand on end. I’ll never be able to wash the acidic, burning looks off my skin. Whispered words tear through my chest like icy shards, while a rich, metallic taste fills my mouth. It’s been several years now. But people who knew my parents and their kids still look at me with pity or send me withering glances. It makes a life that’s already bad even worse, because it drags me back to those horrible years.

No matter how baggy the clothes I wear, I can’t hide who I am—what I am—from curious gazes.

Grace McCarty.

A victim.

Every emotion I feel right now coalesces into a massive knot in my throat, making it impossible to swallow or breathe. My heart is racing unnaturally, skipping beats here and there. The broken shards of my life all point in the same direction. Every loose end leads to him. Chase Baker. The boy who was beautiful in his silent, unnerving way when we first met—breathtakingly cute and dangerous. I wish I could have seen earlier through that thick, intangible mist that left a sweet taste like chocolate on my tongue. I wish I could have seen the monster waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike his victim. Me.

I inhale sharply when Cyrus’s long, thick, sun-tanned fingers wrap around the door handle. He looks at me, and I do what I always do: I nod.

I nod that I’m fine. That I’m all right. That I’m prepared for the people—and the looks—waiting inside. But deep down, I want to shake my head and cry. And scream that nothing is all right, that I want my parents and my brother back, that I want fifteen-year-old Grace back—the girl who wasn’t afraid to leave the house. The Grace who fell asleep dreaming sweet fantasies and woke up full of desires and plans.

We enter, and the stuffiness inside replaces the fresh air in my lungs in an instant. My heart is beating erratically, my stomach knots, and a shiver runs through me when a thick arm wraps around my thin waist and nudges me forward.

This hug is protective, supportive—heavy and light, warm and cool at the same time.

Cyrus is so good to me. I’m not worthy of him, and the looks people give me—the furrowed brows and slight leers tugging at the corners of their mouths—confirm that they think the same.

I swallow down all the negativity directed at me and walk with him along the bar counter to his office, leaning into his hard body.

I know why he makes me do this every day—and why I agree to it. He wants to help, and I want to heal. I want to trust people again and believe in myself. But this is insanely difficult, because I’m looking for him in every face, every gaze—and I see him.

Because Chase isn’t a nightmare. He isn’t a shadow or a fever dream. He isn’t the product of my imagination.

He is a living, breathing creature—flesh and blood—part of my darkest hours, because all the dark hours I spent daydreaming about him eventually became reality. A bizarre reality I never wanted to be part of.

November 2000

I had been scratching lines into the wall.

That’s how I knew I had been Chase’s prisoner for three months.

Those three months had been hell. Every day was long and full of misery. I was locked in the room and had to hold back my pee until he got home. I was a pet he fed in the morning, then allowed my “potty break,” before he closed the door on me again.

I kept banging my fists against the door and the walls. I shouted for help as long as my vocal cords could manage, then fell asleep from all the crying and exhaustion.

When he was home, I cried quietly and thought about my parents. Their smiles and their love—and I couldn’t fathom the pain they must have been going through while I was locked in an underground room with a lunatic.

Because Chase was a lunatic. He was crazy. A normal twenty-year-old doesn’t kidnap fifteen-year-old girls. And unfortunately, I have to talk about his appearance…

He wasn’t old or ugly. My sister was crazy about him. A lot of girls at my school were crazy about him. He could’ve had any of them… Still, he wanted me.

The little grey mouse. The Samaritan.

Every evening, he came in and just watched me. He looked at me as if I were a work of art commissioned solely for him.

“You are mine.”