Hadley & Grace(16)

Before Hadley can puzzle it out, Grace is done, the bag so full the last bundles are stuffed in the outer pockets.

“Hand it over,” Hadley says, holding out her left hand while keeping the gun trained on Grace with her right.

Grace rolls her eyes, shakes her head like Hadley’s an idiot, then hoists the bag onto her shoulder and walks toward the door.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Hadley says, following her with the gun.

Grace turns and, without an ounce of fear, snatches the gun from Hadley’s hand and jams it into the diaper bag. The butt sticks up through the bundles of cash.

“Next time, check the safety,” she says, and she turns again for the door.

Before she can take a step, Hadley lunges and gets hold of one of the straps of the bag, spinning Grace around with so much force she nearly yanks her off her feet. With catlike reflexes, Grace recovers and grabs hold of the other strap.

Money flies everywhere as they pull against each other, threads popping as the bag stretches between them.

Hadley wishes she had thought to change her shoes. The Jimmy Choos slip on the slick tiles and make it impossible to get traction. The good news is Hadley outweighs Grace by at least fifty pounds. Finally an advantage to being fat. Loading up with everything she has, she puts all her weight into a final colossal pull, only realizing her mistake after it’s too late, when she is already flying backward, the bag flying with her and money tumbling everywhere.

Her shoulder slams into the wall first; then she crumbles to the floor, her ankle twisting painfully beneath her.

Grace picks up the gun, then begins to collect the money. And all Hadley can do is watch as her and Mattie’s future is gathered up in front of her.

Her chin quivers as she thinks of Mattie in the car and the hope in her voice when she asked if they were going back. Now it is only a few short hours later, and already, before they’ve even begun, she has failed.

When Grace is done collecting the money, she closes the safe and puts the lid back on the tank.

At the door, she stops. “I was actually trying to be fair,” she says. “Offering to share. I could have just waited for you to leave, then taken it all.”

“The money isn’t yours,” Hadley spits, the words trembling with her misery and rage.

Grace pats the bag. “It is now.”

She opens the door, starts to walk through, then stops. She shakes her head, then looks up at the ceiling as if thinking about something.

When she turns back, there’s a look of irritation on her face.

“What?” Hadley snarls, pain shooting through her ankle.

Grace sighs heavily and walks back to where she is. She squats down. “Put your arm around my shoulder. Come on, I’ll help you up.”





12





GRACE


Grace helps Mrs. Torelli out the back door, then locks it behind them. As they hobble toward her SUV, parked in the loading zone, her ears strain for the sound of Miles crying, and she is relieved to hear nothing but night noises and the slight rustling of the wind.

The diaper bag clunks against her thigh, heavy and bloated with far more money than Grace ever could have imagined. She tries not to think about it. She came to get what Frank owed her, but he didn’t owe her this much—not even close.

The problem is she’s not sure what to do about it. Leave it? Give it to Mrs. Torelli?

The woman pulled a gun on her. If the situation had been reversed, Grace knows that Mrs. Torelli wouldn’t have hesitated to take all the money and leave her with nothing.

Beside her, Mrs. Torelli hops on her bare left foot, her heels held in her free hand.

Grace stops.

“What?” Mrs. Torelli says. “You planning on stealing my car now?”

Grace sighs through her nose. She didn’t steal anything. She made a deal, and just like her deadbeat husband, Mrs. Torelli tried to renege on it. But this is a lot of money. Her brain spins as she tries to figure out the right thing to do.

Mrs. Torelli unwraps her arm from Grace’s shoulder. “I’ve got it from here.”

“You’re not going to be able to drive,” Grace says.

“I’ll be fine.” As if to prove it, Mrs. Torelli takes a step that nearly buckles her; then she takes another and ends up on the ground, her face twisted in pain as she hugs her injured leg to her chest.

“Like I said,” Grace says, “you’re not going to be able to drive.”

Mrs. Torelli glares. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly on my Christmas list either.”

Mrs. Torelli’s face drops, and though she’s at least ten years older than Grace, at the moment, sitting barefoot on the pavement, holding her leg, she looks like an oversize toddler whose favorite toy has been broken.

“Come on,” Grace says, crouching beside her. “Upsy-daisy. I’ll drive you where you need to go.”

Mrs. Torelli doesn’t move; instead she continues to hold her leg and look hopeless.

“Look, Mrs. Torelli, you don’t have a lot of options here. Either you let me help you, or you call an Uber and invite someone to pick you up at a crime scene.”

Mrs. Torelli tilts her head, then tilts it the other way, her eyes narrowing before growing wide, as if she’s just realized she might be in trouble for what she’s done. Then she looks at the ground, shakes her head, and starts to cry.