“I don’t really remember what happened after that. From what I’ve read on the internet, it was some kind of trauma response. My brain’s way of protecting me. But I remember coming to and holding a knife of my own, and my dad lying on the ground next to my mom, holding his neck. Staring at me. There was so much blood. It was—it was everywhere. He died in less than a minute. His eyes were wide open, just like hers.”
“Grace—”
Grace shakes her head firmly. “No—you don’t—no. I’m telling you this because Bellamy took me out of that house and made sure that I didn’t get picked up by the police. He said they’d be able to tell from the forensics, or whatever, that my mom was already dead by the time I stabbed my dad, so that would make it premeditated murder, which means first-degree. And because I was sixteen, they’d probably try me as an adult, maybe even give me the death penalty, since we’re in Texas.”
She hears something that sounds likeJesus Christfrom under Crew’s breath, and she finally lets herself look down, letting the weight of it all rest atop her head.
“He promised me if I ever did him wrong, he’d out me. Your mom could tell when those TDA guys showed up that therewas more to the story than animal abuse—she saw me lose my shit, and I— Rather than telling her the whole truth, I told her I’d been scared they were coming to question me, and that’s when she started looking into Bellamy’s dealings. I don’t know how he got my number, but he did—and he texted me about a week later, saying he knew I’d been the one to send her sniffing around. He asked if I really thought I’d be safe here.” Despair seeps into her voice, breaking it into warbles, but she catches her breath and soldiers on. “And three days after that, the horses got sick.”
The realization begins to dawn on Crew’s face, and any pieces of Grace’s heart that remain intact shatter completely. Anger, shock, disbelief—it all builds in his eyes, his mouth, the set of his jaw, and she knows, right then, that this is it. This is the moment she loses Crew forever.
“When they said it was probably just a bad batch of alfalfa, I didn’t argue with them.” Her sobs become hysterical then, as the reality of the current situation comes tumbling back. “I didn’t think it was him. Logistically speaking, it didn’t make sense. I didn’t think he’d hurt—”
Crew’s voice is firm, unflinching when he cuts her off. “Who did he hurt?”
Grace stares at him, takes a brief second to memorize his face. She tries to burn it into her brain so she can always remember how beautiful it is. After this, she’ll never see it and all its loveliness again. “Your parents—they were in a car accident—I think he made one of his ranch hands run them off the road on Highway 46.”
Crew’s launching into action before she can even finish her sentence. He’s turning away from her, reaching into his pocketfor his phone, and then he takes off, running at full speed toward his house. Boone is right next to him, and only the dog spares Grace a backward glance as they go.
She follows, unsure of what she’s trying to accomplish, but something in her makes her go—forces her to get to him, even if it’s the last thing he wants. The front door is wide open when she reaches the porch, and Crew’s pacing frantically around the living room on the phone with someone. His hand is at his brow, covering his eyes, but his mouth is twisted in anguish. “Where are they now?” he asks, switching directions so his back is to Grace. He stomps into the kitchen, unaware that she’s even in the same room. “Get the fucking chopper out there right now, Martin. The only trauma center worth its salt is in Victoria and that’s an hour away.Right now. Call me back.” He hangs up, then turns and spots her in the foyer. He freezes, and a look of fury and disgust flickers over his face. It feels like a punch directly to Grace’s gut. He says nothing as he walks out of the kitchen, doesn’t stop to acknowledge her at all as he walks toward his bedroom. She follows him once more, standing in his doorway with splotchy cheeks and swollen eyes, watching as he begins haphazardly throwing clothes into a duffel bag. He yanks his phone charger out of the wall by his bedside table and shoves it in, then disappears into the bathroom and does the same with his toothbrush. Zipping up the duffel, he flings it over his shoulder and then makes to leave. She doesn’t know why she does it, isn’t remotely sure what her end goal is, but she moves into the middle of the doorway, blocking his exit.
Crew stops, but his eyes remain straight ahead. The only outward sign that he’s even aware of her presence is the way his jaw flexes hard and stays taut. He’s breathing heavily, and the handthat isn’t wrapped around the duffel bag’s strap is balled into a white-knuckled fist at his side.
Grace is almost trembling with the panic and anxiety and desperation of the moment, and the words escape her mouth before she can stop them. Her heart, it seems, has different plans than her brain. “Crew, you have to know that I—”
Upon hearing her voice, his eyes fall shut.
“Get out of my way, Grace,” he says, and it’s so quiet, so devastatingly emotionless that Grace feels her knees threatening to buckle once more.
“Please, just let me say—”
“I can’t even look at you right now,” he says, and when he opens his eyes, he makes good on that statement, keeping them on the wall behind her.
She doesn’t fight him anymore after that. She moves, and he leaves, the door slamming behind him. Grace remains in the empty hallway, and when the rumbling sound of his truck engine fades into the distance, she slides down a wall and buries her head between her knees. She cries harder than she has in years, hard enough that she makes herself sick and throws up undigested kernels of popcorn on the hardwood.
One glance at the clock on Crew’s bedside table—that same clock she counted his heartbeats against—tells her it’s almost eleven thirty.
It’s almost time to leave.
It’s almost time to walk away from Halcyon, from Crew. From this life that was so painfully beautiful but never really hers to begin with.
Chapter 21
An ancient black pickup rumbles and groans as it waits for Grace on the gravel shoulder of the highway bordering Halcyon’s left quadrant. It’s parked less than a mile from the entrance, and it takes her only fifteen minutes to reach it. A thousand steps between heaven and hell.
With her backpack slung over her shoulder and her eyes on the toes of her boots, she approaches the truck’s passenger side and finds its window down. Bellamy Whitlock sits behind the wheel, wearing his standard uniform—black felt hat; once-black, now-gray jeans; and a crisp, salmon pearl snap, so stiff from being overly starched that it forms right angles at his shoulders. Since she’s now seen firsthand what old Texas money looks like, it’s never been more evident to Grace that her uncle is anything but. He reeks of newness, of try-hards and wannabes; he is a shade of green that is reserved only for snakes in the grass. The thick, sweet scent of his cologne assaults her nose, and she suppresses the urge to gag.
A cigarette hangs from between his teeth, and he jerks an impatient nod toward the passenger door. “Well, look who finally came to her senses. Let’s go.” Grace tosses her backpack into the bed and opens the door, which greets her with a painful-soundingcreak. Across the seats, there are rips in the leather and stuffing threatening to spill out, and the whole cabin smells like cigarettes and mildew. Grace folds her arms tightly over her chest as she scoots as close to the door as she can—putting as much space between her and Bellamy as is physically possible.
He says nothing as he shifts the truck into gear and sets off down the road. With every mile driven, darkness envelops them. Out here, there are no streetlights to guide the way—there is no reprieve from the unforgiving night. Grace stares out at the void, face-to-face with oblivion. Right here, in this moment, she wishes it would swallow her whole. It looks almost peaceful in its endlessness—as if, perhaps, it stretches into a place where light can thrive—where things are better. Happier.
Bellamy’s throaty voice cuts through the rattling hum of the truck’s engine, reminding Grace exactly where she is—and also that better, happier things have never been within her reach. There’s no use in trying to grab on to them now.
“You’ll thank me for this later,” he drawls. “One day, you will.”
The urge to laugh in his face at the absurdity of the statement is overwhelming. Instead, Grace turns to pin him with a glare. “Enlighten me, please. Because I can’t fathom a future where I do anything but despise you.”
A dark, rumbling chuckle is his reply, and it quickly turns into an ugly, loud cough. He has to roll the window down to spit, and Grace’s lip curls at the sight. There is not a single iota of this man that doesn’t disgust her. When he’s sufficiently cleared out, he sighs. “Think about this rationally for a second, honey. Did you think you were gonna live out the rest of your days happily ever after at Halcyon Ranch?” He elongates each syllable, disdain dripping off his tongue.
