Page 93 of Grace

“You touched her… and not kindly.”

“I didn’t hurt her, I just…” he mumbles. “Cyrus is a good man. He deserves better than that slut who can’t decide whose dick she wants.”

I keep twisting his broken fingers. Sweat drenches his cream-colored shirt. I keep my composure and don’t kill him, even though the temptation is strong. It pulses under my skin.

“I’ve set up a game for you.” My lips twist into a cold smile as I shove the crossword puzzle under his nose.

“If you can solve it, you’ll find your son. If you can’t, he’ll fall into a container and drown. The timer is precise.”

“Fuck you!” he spits.

My right hand clenches into a fist, and I swing it into his freckled face. Blood spurts from his nose and split lip. He spits one of his front teeth onto the disposable plastic plate.

“Hurry up. The clock started before I even sat down.”

“What?” His face goes blank—pale.

“It’s more fun this way.”

Grace

I drop my beer bottle when the pretty news anchor on TV breaks the news that Ortíz’s son has been kidnapped.

Something must’ve happened to him after he left me, because he’s wearing the same cream-colored shirt he had on this morning. The only difference is that now it’s spattered with blood. And his index and middle fingers are wrapped in bandages.

All eyes are on the TV. Even the girls stop their graceful writhing on the poles. Ortíz is babbling about a crossword puzzle, which the techs are analyzing already. But I have a feeling they won’t be able to crack it. If it’s Chase, it’s personal—then Ortíz has to find the answers himself.

How can I tell Chase that what he saw this morning wasn’t what he thought it was? I must go to the station and talk to the Chief of Police.

A crazy, dark thought is twirling through my head as I pick up the sharp shards. If Chase wants me, why hasn’t he kidnapped me again? He could do it any moment—instead, he’s turning the town into a deadly playground. Because of me. But this is no game. A little boy’s life is at stake. And I can barely stomach it. What if they don’t find him in time? Would Chase really let the kid drown? No matter how cruel he can be, how much physical and emotional damage he’s done to me, I can’t believe that. Chase wouldn’t hurt innocents. At least, he hasn’t hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it—yet.

Then I remember Poppy. Poppy did nothing wrong. He used her as a tool to hurt me. And now he’s doing the same thing, using Jason to hurt his father.

“Grace!” Cameron shouts, making me jump and slice my thumb. He holds his phone up, inviting me into the storeroom with his eyes.

I cross the bar with my eyes down, because I can feel the withering looks burning into my back. My body tenses. I bite my lower lip. Pain shudders through me—at least it’s a distraction.

Cameron looks me up and down, then notices blood dripping from my thumb onto the gray tiles. I slip past him and rummage through my bag.

“What’s this ugly thing?” he asks in disgust. The teddy bear has fallen on his foot.

“A memory,” I babble, snatching it up. My fingertips throb with the urge to wipe the dirt off, but I resist. It wouldn’t make it look any better anyway. I cram it back into the bag and bandage my bleeding finger.

“Cyrus wants to talk to you.” He hands me his phone. “He says he can’t get ahold of you.”

“I left my phone in my bag…” I open it and dump its contents onto the table, but my phone is nowhere in there. There is a note, though. I carefully unfold it so Cameron can’t read it.

This is not your business. Don’t get involved!

The man towering three heads over me watches me suspiciously. There’s no pity in his dark irises—only accusation. Cameron is Cherokee. He’s strong and imposing, with hard features and stern eyes. He’s strong and athletic. He wears his long black hair in a braid that falls down his back. His bronze skin is covered in tribal tattoos. I often hear him talk about his ancestors to guests—people who’ve never seen a Native American in the flesh, only in movies and history books, and think of them as mythical creatures.

I hurriedly cram my things into my bag and hand the phone back to Cameron. “I have to go.”

His unfriendly eyes and cold expression tell me he finds my behavior very unusual.

I storm out of the storeroom.

“Should I walk you out?”