Hadley & Grace(76)

Ice prickled Hadley’s spine, and she hugged Skipper tighter against her.

“Did you really think you could steal from me?” he asked, almost as if amused. “Take my money, my daughter?”

She reached her arm back to shield Mattie, a wasted gesture more instinct than anything real.

He leaned in close, his lips against her ear. “Bad move, babe. You should know better than to screw with me. If you come anywhere near Mattie again, even so much as breathe in her direction, I will hunt you down and squash you like the traitorous roach you are.”

She reached back again, but it was too late. Mattie was already gone, being pulled away. Then Grace was holding Hadley back, and Mark was running after them.

And now, here they are, in the courtyard of a church. Mattie, gone. Mark, gone. Her and Skipper, Grace and Miles, here.

A grate being lowered on a storefront makes a great clanging noise, and Hadley startles. Skipper jolts with her, his arms gripping her tight. “It’s okay, Champ,” she lies.

Miles fusses. It is getting seriously cold now. She wraps his blanket tighter around him as she hugs Skipper closer and shudders away her own chills. A hundred yards away, Grace paces on the sidewalk, the phone no longer held to her ear.





53





GRACE


The phone is tight in her grip. She hung up with Jimmy’s brother, Brad, a few minutes ago. He was very calm. She supposes for an ex-marine with shrapnel in his hip and a Bronze Star, a little sister-in-law fugitive action is no big deal. He took down her number, repeated it back, then told her to sit tight.

She’s been pacing nonstop since, her arms goose skinned with the cold and the thought of how she’s going to explain everything that’s happened to Jimmy. Until this moment, none of it felt embarrassing. Horrible as it was, she wasn’t really all that conscious of how awful it would be to have to confess what she has done and to own up to the calamity she’s made of her life, their life, and Miles’s future.

The phone buzzes, and she jumps.

“Jimmy?”

“Grace?”

And with that single utterance, she loses it, all the emotions she’s held in check for the past four days spilling out to stream from her eyes and down her face faster than she can wipe the tears away.

“Grace? Please . . . babe . . . tell me you’re okay.” His voice is frantic, and she feels bad for the panic she is causing him, but there’s nothing to be done. Her voice is lost, swallowed by the gulping breaths she’s taking in an effort to calm herself.

“Grace, where are you? Tell me where you are.” His distress vibrates through the line. “I’m on my way.”

“No,” she manages, more a grunt than a word. She swallows air and uses her arm to blot away the tears as she pushes down the emotions deep as they will go, burying them in that dark place where all her other demons are tightly locked away. With a shuddering breath, she says, “Jimmy, I need your help.”

“Babe, where are you?” he repeats.

“Jimmy, please, just listen, and do as I ask.”

“Anything.”

“Whose phone are you using?”

“I borrowed it from a trucker who’s at the diner where I’m at.”

She blinks several times. “You’re not in Afghanistan?”

“No, babe. I came home. As soon as the FBI called, I took an emergency leave and came home.”

She closes her eyes to process what he’s saying. Of course the FBI contacted him, which means he knows most of the story, same as the rest of the world. A wave of relief and humiliation washes over her. At least she no longer needs to explain it.

He says, “I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry. I screwed up—”

She cuts him off. “Jimmy, stop.”

He stops, and she can see his face—his mouth clamped shut over the words he desperately wants to say, his gold eyes frantic as they dart around, hoping for an idea, some spark of inspiration that will change things, fix what he has done and everything that’s come after as a result.

“Is the FBI following you?” she says.

“I don’t think so. Though you were smart not to call me on my phone.”

“Where are you?”

“Chicago.”

She nods. Chicago is where a lot of soldiers fly into when they return.

“I need you to wire me some money,” she says.

“I’ll bring it to you.”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than she intended. She softens her tone. “Jimmy, you need to stay out of this. For Miles. You understand?”

“But—”

“No buts. Please, just wire me what you can. Send it to the Western Union on Broadway in Denver. Use the name Blaire Butz. B-U-T-Z. You got that?”

“I got Blaire Butz and I cannot lie,” he raps to the “Baby Got Back” tune, the humor falling flat, their old repartee of singsonging to each other like salt in an open wound.

After a long empty pause, she says, “Can you get some money?” Then, not intending to be cruel, but the remark brutal nonetheless, she adds, “Our account is empty.”

“I know, babe, I—”

She cuts him off. “I just need to know if you can get some money and send it to me.”