Page 67 of Grace

“Calm down, Grace. Grace. Calm down!” Cyrus says, shaking me gently.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Chase. He’s escaped!”

“That’s impossible, Grace. We both know that—”

“I don’t get it either, but he’s here, Cyrus. I’m not lying to you!”

“Okay, okay… I have to take care of this. Sit in the car until we’re done. We’re going to talk about everything at home.”

“No.” I shake my head crying. He softens and draws me in an embrace.

I love his huge body. His arms cover half my torso. The warmth and protection radiating from him engulf my whole being. I inhale his characteristic cedarwood scent deeply. His chin rests on top of my head. I relax. This embrace is like opium—it sedates me and starts pulling me toward a deep, painless sleep. His dark eyes are always alight with warmth and love. My pink lips curl into a silly, childish smile because his hot skin is balm against mine. I feel as if I were dying, and someone had fulfilled my last wish before pain swallowed me.

“Grace McCarty. Why am I not surprised?” Chief of Police Ortíz grumbles, raising his thick ginger eyebrows. My stomach twists into a knot. Cyrus’s body tightens beneath my touch, and he looks at his superior with narrowing eyes.

“Are you hurt, madam?” A young officer steps to us. Cyrus starts to swear in a low voice, drawing a weak smile from me.

“Fuck. I haven’t even asked if you were hurt.”

“I basically jumped on you,” I remind him. “It’s not your fault. Only my palm is injured, and it’s nothing serious.”

“Can someone tell me what the actual fuck happened here?” Ortíz yells, throwing both hands in the air.

“It might have been murder,” a cop answers dryly, making the others—including Cyrus—snort into their hands.

“Go, get it checked out. It can’t hurt to disinfect and bandage it. Perry’s going to stay with you until I’m done.”

“Okay.”

He strokes my back and kisses my brow.

“Can you tell me what’s so funny about this, Nesh? And why is it that wherever this girl appears, something grisly happens?”

The sweet, easy feeling I had is gone, sliced away as if by a sharp knife. All eyes are on me, making me uncomfortable in my own skin. The bitterness in my soul tastes like sour lemon. I’m stuck between the present and the past—one foot here, the other there. Their eyes brand the horrors I went through into my skin.

Ortíz shakes his head and kneels beside Bo’s corpse. He pulls a cloth handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat and grips Bo’s slack jaw.

“Someone got him good. Who’s this guy?”

“Bobby Delgado. A real son of a bitch.”

“Bobby Delgado… Sounds familiar.” Ortíz looks at me with narrowed eyes. I meet his gaze.

“Someone got to him before us.” He stands up with difficulty, wipes his fingers and hands the bloody handkerchief to an officer nearby. He plants his hands on his hips and motions Cyrus over with a tilt of his head.

Irritated, Cyrus rakes his fingers through his hair, wet and bushy from the rain, his dark locks falling on his shoulders in disarray. The cops cast a glance at me, then move a little farther away. Ortíz points at the bodies. The fresh wrinkles on his pale face deepen even more. He fiddles with his walrus mustache, streaked with gray among the ginger.

On the outside, he looks like Cyrus: tall and imposing, his medium-length ginger hair pulled into a tight ponytail, sagging skin inked with tattoos. The only difference is how they dress—Ortíz is old-school. He’s wearing a pinstriped shirt and thin beige pants that are easy to move in.

I watch their conversation eagerly, so absorbed in their intense yet quiet disagreement that I barely notice Perry disinfecting my hand and putting a plaster on it.

Ortíz pats Cyrus on the back, then reaches into his pocket, where I can see his phone flashing through the thin fabric. He starts walking toward his service car at an unhurried pace.

“I’ll leave writing the report to you. I want it on my desk by noon tomorrow.” He points at Cyrus. “Ortíz,” he adds, lifting the phone.

Cyrus walks over to me with sagging shoulders and an expressionless face.