The house is too silent. Too still. The weight of it crushes me. Grace’s laughter used to be a constant melody. Now only ghostly whispers linger in the dusty corners.
I should smell enchiladas, tamales, or grilled cheese and tomato soup. Instead, it’s nothing but stale air and burnt tots.
Reaching under my shirt, I curl my fingers around her wedding ring. She never wore it running, and I found it in her jewelry box two days after she disappeared. I’ve worn it on a chain ever since.
Her favorite mug sits on the counter, waiting for her. The only coffee I drink at home now is Cafe Vienna. But it tastes like shit when she’s not here to share it with me.
How much longer can I do this? Keep pretending that one day, she’ll come home.
My legs give out and I’m on my ass on the floor, the back of my head slamming into the cabinet for good measure. A raw, guttural scream escapes, and my eyes start to burn.
The neighbors are too far away to hear—I think. But I wouldn’t care even if they did.
I’m broken. Without Grace, there’s nothing left of me to fix.
“Please come back to me,” I beg the universe. Or God. Or maybe Grace.
But only silence answers, and it’s louder than any words.
Chapter Nine
Grace
The inky blackness of a moonless night stretches for miles beyond the small window over the desk.
Sometimes, I watch the stars or the rain long enough, I can almost convince myself AJ is seeing the same sky. That he’s caught in the same storm.
Other times, the darkness swallows me whole.
After months of pious devotion—Zeke’s term for complete and total acceptance of my fate—he moved me into this slightly larger room where I can see the sky.
His bedroom is down the hall, with my former cell in the middle—a reminder that he can take away what little I have in an instant. His four wives and nine children have their own house next door. Each night, he brings a different wife into his bed. None of them complain. Some even look eager. But I can’t be sure if that’s devotion or survival.
I’m rarely allowed to speak to them. Even in the greenhouses, where we tend to herbs and vegetables, or endless rows of oleander bushes, their blooms so sickly sweet, the scent is permanently etched on my skin, the men stand watch.
The only time I talk to anyone is in the dining hall. The women and children all eat together, but most of them talk about me, not to me. I don’t say much more than, “Blessed day,” or “Please pass the potatoes.”
Zeke tests me on the Doctrine every week. If I answer correctly, I’m rewarded. A second pillow. A heavier blanket for winter. But never any semblance of freedom. I’m watched, always. And at the end of the day, Zeke or Malone lock me back in this room.
I press my ear to the door, holding my breath. Silence. No footsteps, no murmurs. Nothing but the thrum of my own pulse and the faint whistle of the winter wind threading through the boards.
Though I don’t have any way to tell time, it’s been hours since Zeke bade me a blessed night.
Turning on the lamp would be too dangerous, so I feel my way back to the bed. Weeks ago, while scattering feed for the chickens, I spotted two thin scraps of wire. I pocketed them like contraband, tucked them under my mattress, and prayed no one would search my room.
AJ taught me how to pick locks one weekend when a winter storm left us snowed in. It was a fun diversion. I never thought the knowledge might save my life.
The mere thought of my husband makes my chest ache. Is he still looking for me? Or has he given up?
For a while, I tried to keep track of the days, but now…I only count the moons. Eight times, Zeke has gathered everyone around the altar in the center of the compound, forced a crown of oleander blooms onto my head, and made me lie on the hard stone—no matter what the weather—so he could rehearse my death.
The box was hell, but at least it’s over. This…this is a promise of what’s to come. Only at the end, he won’t stop the knife an inch away from my skin. He’ll drive it deep into my side so my blood “purifies them all.”
“Stop it, Nova.”
My legs give out, and I collapse onto the thin mattress. Silent tears tumble down my cheeks. Despite Zeke’s constant repetition of Nova, Nova, Nova, my inner voice has never forgotten who I am. Until now.
I dig my fingers into my thighs hard enough to leave bruises. “No. I’m Grace. Grace Stone. I have a husband, a father, a dog, and friends back in Austin. A job I love. A whole life.”
