Keep Her Safe(46)

I groan. Maybe I should go and warn Gracie. I check the path. The guy has stopped to talk to a gray-haired woman four doors down, out watering a planter. With a shaky hand, she points back my way. She’s probably telling him that Cyclops was just here, gnawing on a bone beside my truck.

If it’s not one thing with Gracie, it’s another. I feel like I’ve been in danger every turn since meeting her. Granted, a fire and a knife to my stomach are a hell of a lot more serious than a fifteen-pound dog, but acknowledging that doesn’t settle my nerves.

“Okay, okay.” I head over to the back and pop open my tailgate. As soon as the guy’s not looking, I whisper halfheartedly, “Come on, get in!” and cross my fingers that the dog stays put and I can say I tried.

Cyclops darts out from his hiding spot and leaps in without trouble. Awesome.

“Stay back here,” I order, shutting the gate.

I look over in time to see Vilma’s smile of satisfaction. She wanders back to her chair to resume her watch.





CHAPTER 17


Grace

I ignore the voices outside, focusing on the melted tip of the screwdriver as I bring down the hammer for what feels like the hundredth time.

The flimsy lock remains intact. “Dammit!” I toss the tools to the side and simply glare at the small, gunmetal-gray box I found beneath sodden, charred memories and a layer of old carpet, next to a baby milk snake. Exactly where my mom said it would be hiding. It’s about eight inches long by four inches wide, and secured by a small padlock.

I’ve never seen it before.

And there is no way in hell I’m going to hand this over to her without finding out what’s in it first.

Luckily, my grandma’s old metal tools withstood the fire, though the plastic handles are distorted. That’s okay; I can grip the hammer well enough. Brushing the springs of hair off my forehead, I line up the flat metal end and swing, this time putting real force behind it.

The lock falls to the floor with a dull thud.

Satisfaction fills me as I pry open the box with my sooty hands, my stomach tight with anticipation.





CHAPTER 18


Noah

“Come on.” I tap the steering wheel with my fingers at a furious tempo, my gaze darting between the trailer, the laneway, and my rearview mirror. Cyclops has made himself comfortable in my backseat, his tail thumping rhythmically, dozens of dirty footprints all over the leather. The smell of his hot, rank breath and filthy fur makes my nose crinkle.

Toothpick Guy smacks the side of the Animal Control van and begins marching back toward us, his free hand hovering over his dart gun, hard determination splayed all over his face.

“What trouble are you gonna get me into now, Gracie?” I murmur under my breath, cranking my engine and tapping the horn with my fist in warning, hoping she hears it. Does this guy have jurisdiction over an attempted dog rescue?

To my relief, Gracie appears in the doorway then, a box tucked under her arm. She’s covered in soot. It streaks her arms, her shirt, and her cheeks.

She’s beautiful.

I pull up closer and she climbs into the passenger side. Cyclops barks excitedly, as if announcing, “Hey, I’m here!” She eyes him, and then me, but doesn’t say a word, her stony face revealing nothing. This girl would be a proficient poker player.

I do a quick three-point turn and speed away, leaving nothing but a dust cloud for that nut job to shoot. “Some lady called Animal Control.”

“Mrs. Hubbard. Cyclops keeps trying to kill her cat.” She pauses. “Why’d you take him?”

“Your neighbor insisted. She was worried you’d be upset if they got him.”

Gracie lets out a derisive snort. “That cat pees on Vilma’s tomato plants. She just wants Cyclops to live another day so he’ll finally do away with it.”

“So, should I leave him here to—”

“No.” The answer comes quick enough to tell me that Vilma was right, and it’s not just about saving the tomato plants. But Gracie won’t admit to caring.

A metal box sits on her lap, covered in soot. “What’s that?”

“A box.”

I roll my eyes. She’s about as delightful as that Animal Control guy. “What’s in it?”

“Did you call those rehabs?” She smoothly diverts.

“Desert Oaks can take her in tomorrow, but you need to call them to confirm.”

She points to the street ahead. “Turn here. We’re going back to the hospital.”

I make a sharp right, sending Cyclops tumbling against the backseat. I grimace, picturing the scratched leather from his nails.

Just like the fresh, silvery gouges along the side of that box, where a lock might have hung.

Now I know what that metal-clanking sound was.

Silence lingers the few minutes it takes to reach St. Bart’s, Gracie’s mind elsewhere, deep in thought.

Finally, I try again. “So . . . anything important in there?”

“Important enough to hide under the trailer and never tell me about it,” she mutters. After a pause, she asks, “Are you sure your mother didn’t tell you where that money came from?”

“You saw the note she left me.” I frown. “Why? What did you find?”

“The truth, maybe? And things I can’t make sense of.”