Keep Her Safe(37)

It’s a long while before her head bobs in an almost imperceptible nod. She’s going to take the money. She’s not stupid.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She brushes my concern away with an unconvincing, “Yeah. Of course.”

“Listen, I’m gonna grab a few hours of sleep before I have to drive home tomorrow.” I haul my weary body out of the chair, tossing my napkins and cans in the trash can beside the small desk. I’m ready for today to be over.

I make it all the way to the adjoining door, my palm on the handle. Almost home free.

And then Gracie asks the one thing I hoped she wouldn’t.

“Did your mom ever talk to you about what happened to my dad?”

My shoulders sag. I don’t owe her anything, and yet I hate lying to her about this.

“She said something, didn’t she?”

Take the money and run, Gracie. Forget about the past.

The bed creaks behind me. I’m half-expecting to feel the sharp edge of her blade poking into my flesh, but instead cool fingers settle on my forearm in a gentle way I didn’t think her capable of. “What did she tell you about my dad?”

Another long pause and then her touch slips away. “He was guilty, wasn’t he?” Her voice cracks and when I gather the nerve to turn around and face her, she’s blinking away tears. “It doesn’t matter. I already knew he was. This doesn’t change anything.”

I can’t handle the sight of any girl crying. But for some reason, it’s worse with Gracie. Before I can stop myself, I reach for a tear slipping down her cheek, brushing it away with the pad of my thumb.

She turns away with the slightest flinch, and I let my hand drop. I’ve noticed that about her—she recoils anytime anyone goes near her. The only time she didn’t was when she was brandishing her knife against that piece-of-shit Sims guy.

“You’re right, it doesn’t. Take the money and move on with your life.”

“It’s just . . .” Her jaw tightens. “My mother never did drugs before; she didn’t even drink. What he did? That’s what turned her into this. He ruined our lives, and she will swear that he’s innocent, right to her last breath, and I can’t stand—” Those full lips press into a tight line. “I hate him so much for it.”

Dammit. I can’t let her believe this. “She didn’t say that he was guilty, Gracie.”

She peers up at me from behind a thick fringe of lashes, the eight-inch-or-so height difference forcing her head back to meet my eyes. “What did she say?”

“Not much, after he died. And then near the end, she was drinking a lot.” I sigh. “But she said that your dad was a good man.”

“Right. Who was also a drug dealer?” A skeptical frown furrows her brow.

“That’s all I know.” I start for my side of the suite, hoping she’s not going to follow. She doesn’t move a muscle, a dazed look filling her face. “The money is yours, Gracie. A decorated police officer and chief of the Austin Police Department, and an old friend of the family, left it for you, to help you through a hard time, and that’s all you need to know.” That sounds like something Silas would tell me to say. “I’m going to shut this door. Knock if you need anything.” I’ve already seen what this girl is capable of when she’s angry. I don’t want to wake up to a blade against my nuts after she’s been stewing in bed for three hours and decides that what I’ve told her isn’t good enough.

My body sinks with relief the moment the latch clicks. Hoping that she doesn’t knock, that she doesn’t want a rehash of the night my mom died in hopes of finding clues. Reasons for the money, and for my mother’s words.

I peel my clothes off and slide under the cool, crisp covers, waiting for that feeling of relief and accomplishment to hit me. I’ve done what my mother asked of me. Gracie has her money, and I’ve told her that Abe was a good man. She’s going to be okay.

And yet a suffocating weight still bears down on my chest.





CHAPTER 14


Grace

I’m woken from a dead sleep by my phone.

“Uh-huh?” My greeting comes out more like a sigh.

“Grace Richards?” a woman asks, low voices buzzing in the background.

“Yeah?”

“Dr. Coppa wanted me to let you know that a bed became available in our rehab facility this morning, so we’ve moved your mother. She’s doing well, and she’d like to see you. Visiting hours will begin shortly.”

I doubt everyone gets personal calls like this from the hospital, but I also doubt everyone has a doctor bending over time and time again for them. I’m aware that I have Dr. Coppa’s full pity. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be there . . .” I glance at the clock to see that it’s already ten thirty a.m. “. . . soon.”

It’s a good thing I called in sick for this morning’s shift. Dealing with gas station customers is the last thing I can face right now, as I try to pull my life back together and make sense of Noah’s surprise visit.

The low hum of a TV sportscaster’s voice carries through the wall between his room and mine. He’s probably packing up, eager to get on the road for that long drive back to Austin.

Thoughts of him getting dressed make me groan into my pillow. I’m mortified about barging in on him in the shower last night. Granted, he should have locked the door, but that’s no excuse. And then he stood there, not swearing or yelling at me to get the hell out. Instead, trying to calm me down.