Caia’s perfume hits Grace’s nose, pulling her back to the present. The middle Caldwell child is standing just in front of Bellamy now; she’s practically toe-to-toe with the bastard, and though she is a little shorter, she towers over him in every way that matters. She folds her arms over her chest as she appraises him, nostrils flaring as her eyes make their way back up his old, run-down form. She tilts her head, considers for a beat, then says, “I thought you’d be bigger.”
Bellamy grits his teeth. “You must be the daughter,” he spits, echoing Caia’s look with one of his own. “How’s Mommy doin’, by the way?”
A growl rumbles in Crew’s chest—Grace can feel the vibration of it against her skin. She peeks up at him to find him enraged, a murderous look on his face. She burrows farther into his arms on instinct; she doesn’t want him to give Bellamy the satisfaction of knowing he’s pushed the right button. Cooper, equally as furious, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet like a coiling spring, ready to be unleashed.
Caia is less affected by Bellamy’s question—or, rather, she’s better at hiding it than her brothers. A smile blooms on her lips as she says, “Actually, you’ll be relieved to know she’s recovering quite well. Out of the ICU in record time, considering her injuries.”
He’s quiet for a half second too long, clearly surprised by the update. “Isn’t that just the sweetest blessing,” he says darkly.
Caia nods, her expression even. “My mother is very dear to me and my family. She’s very special to a lot of people, actually.So, yes—it’s a blessing that an entirely preventable accident didn’t take her from us. And you know what else is a blessing, Mr. Whitlock?” Bellamy jerks his head upward, keeping his chin high. He grunts in acknowledgment. The smile on Caia’s face shifts into something more sardonic, something slightly more terrifying. “My mother’s social circle.” A silence settles throughout the swaths of people gathered around them, all enraptured by Caia’s speech. “Growing up, I thought it was the pointiest, sharpest thorn in my side. Always getting stopped at the grocery store, the mall, the playground. Thegynecologist, for crying out loud.” The theatricality of it all—the dramatic shake of her head, the huff of indignant laughter—is masterful. All eyes are glued to her; everyone around them is enamored with the way this spider of a woman is spinning,trappingBellamy in her web. “Everybody wanted to talk to Renata Caldwell. It didn’t matter that I was tugging on her arm and begging her to stop. She never did.” Caia smiles, a little wistful, a little mischievous. “She never cut anyone off. She never lied and said she had to run. She greeted everyone like an old friend, even if she didn’t remember meeting them in the first place.”
Something dark and fast-moving breaks through the westward thicket of trees, and once Grace realizes what it is, her breath shudders in her throat. The entrance is less dramatic than the local police had been—their entire battalion could be counted on one hand—but some things clearly need no ceremony or introduction. Black SUVs roll onto the field in a neat, methodical line. They hum as they close in, and murmurs begin to echo throughout the crowd. Caia has yet to look over her shoulder, but she doesn’t have to. She knows exactly what’s unfolding behind her.
“She’s always been great at listening.Networking, as the fancier kind would say. And you want to know what makes her so good at it? It’s not some big secret, I’ll tell you that. It’s not about the money, or the name, or the legacy.”
Bellamy’s eyes are wide as he watches men in bulletproof vests and blue raid jackets begin to climb out of the vehicles. Twenty or more, all armed to the teeth.
“It’s about kindness,” Caia says, firm and unmoving. “Generosity. Community.” With this statement, she takes a step forward, and all pretense of decorum slips out of her expression. She wears the same face as her brothers now—icy and cutting and battle ready. “Things you know nothing about. You abuse people, lie to them, cheat and steal from them. It’s all you’ve ever done.” Her lip curls, as if she’s letting all of the disgust she feels for this monster of a man finally come to the surface. “You’ll rot behind bars for the rest of your life for what you did to my mother, and what you did to the thousands of people you scammed.” She lets that sink in, and her tone is darker and more scathing when she adds, “But if I had a vote, I’d put you in front of a firing squad for what you did to that girl.” Caia doesn’t look at Grace as she says this, but she points to her with a stiff, exacting finger. “What you made her believe. What youstolefrom her.”
Crew holds Grace tighter, but something about Caia’s words ignites a vestige of strength Grace must’ve been holding on to, because she wiggles in his arms, and he seems to understand—seems to get that she wants to be on her own two feet for this. To face it standing up. When her boots hit the ground, she is slightly wobbly, but Crew’s already there, straightening her up, and then lacing his fingers with her own.
“Isavedthat ungrateful brat,” Bellamy argues, flecks of spit flinging from his lips. “Without me, she would’ve wound up in foster care. Think she would’ve had some normal, apple-pie kind of life then? She would’ve gotten it a lot worse than she ever got it here.”
Caia huffs out a mirthless laugh. “Of course. How noble of you to pull a child out of school and turn her into your own personal slave. They should give out medals for such selflessness. I’m sure the check you collected every month had nothing to do with it.”
With a snarl, Bellamy lunges forward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, bitch.”
Caia is unmoved. Unfazed completely by this act of hobbled aggression. “I do, actually.” She pulls the folders from under her arm and holds them up. “You see,thisis a highlight reel of your greatest hits, Mr. Whitlock. Spanning all across our lovely state, from Saracen County to the Rio Grande. There’s enough in here to put you away for five lifetimes. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.” She takes a step closer, not caring at all for the way Bellamy is practically heaving now, a pathetic excuse for a growl sounding on his every exhale. “There’s not a single thing in here about a little girl in Graywood murdering anyone. But we kept digging and digging andfinallyfound a dusty case file in an abandoned file cabinet at GCPD.” Caia swallows, then looks directly at Grace. She holds her eyes as she says, even and clear, “Warren Underwood’s death was ruled accidental nine years ago. No suspects, no investigation. Case closed.”
An onslaught of emotion races through Grace’s ragged body at the words. The declaration that would’ve changed the entire trajectory of her life. She doesn’t look at Bellamy, sees only fromthe corner of her eye as his head begins to bow, his chin dipping to his chest. Whether in shame or embarrassment, she doesn’t know—doesn’t care. What hetookfrom her, what he planted in her young, trusting, vulnerable mind—she can’t see straight through the vermillion that seeps into her vision. The red rage of indignation, of horror and understanding. Her lips tremble with all the words she wants to say, all the loathing she wants to unleash. But she stays silent, breathing roughly through gritted teeth, and Caia seems to understand. On some molecular level, she seems toget it.
And so, she takes it home. For Grace, for Renata, for every woman and girl who has been taken advantage of by a cruel man. By a cruel world.
“You’re going to die in Everlake County,” she promises. “And you’ll be forgotten. Just like this place will be. No obituary. No legacy.” With one final look of detestation, of lip-curling abhorrence, Caia Caldwell makes her kill shot. “And when they incinerate your rotting corpse, not a single soul on this planet will mourn.”
Chapter 30
The image of Bellamy Whitlock on his knees and in handcuffs stays with Grace for a long time after she leaves Braxton. Even as she weaves in and out of consciousness, wrapped up in a blanket in the back of an ambulance, the outline of it forms behind her eyes. It echoes into the dream she has on the way to the hospital—she’s standing in the front yard of the house where her mother was killed. Dark, syrupy blood drips from the eaves, creating red puddles across the rickety porch. Bellamy’s there, but he’s standing outside, staring through a window, pressed against the glass with his hands cupped around his face. Satisfied with whatever he sees, he tries to walk toward the front door, but his left leg yanks him back. Grace, in whatever shapeless, nonbeing form she’s taken in this dream, an observer and not a participant, looks down at the same time he does to find a thick, rusty shackle at his ankle, secured tight enough that it will cut off his circulation if he struggles against it. He shakes his leg once, twice, then pulls it with all of his might. A futile effort, because the chain doesn’t seem to have an end. It goes beneath the porch, and when Grace crouches down to follow it, she sees that its start is underground. Deep within the earth, too deep to ever dig out. This, she knows, somehow.
Bellamy starts to scream, starts to bang his fists against the house, but no one comes to his aid. He pulls at the shackle hard enough that he breaks into a sweat, and only when he is too exhausted to continue does he finally look up into the yard. He seethes when he spots her, starts to spit vitriolic remarks, vehement enough that he’s nearly foaming at the mouth. He points at her, lunges for her, but he remains rooted to the same spot. And though he shouts, though he seems to take deep breaths in between bouts of screaming, Grace cannot hear him. She stares for another minute, watching him crumble in a kingdom of his own making, and then she turns around. She walks away from her father’s house, a house she lived in but never called home, and she doesn’t look back. She leaves Bellamy Whitlock chained up in the past, where he should’ve always stayed.
When Grace wakes up, the first thing she sees is a window with open blinds. Wherever she is, it’s nighttime. The glow of streetlights coalesces with black and gray clouds, gilding the sky in tinges of gold. Grace blinks, clearing her vision more each time, until the heaviness of sleep no longer threatens to pull her back under. She swallows and quickly notices how dry her mouth is, how horrible it tastes. Grimacing, she looks around, hoping for water, but what she finds instead sends a pleasant warmth swooping in her belly. Her heart squeezes and seems to double in size with all the love that immediately overtakes her as she absorbs the sight of Crew, fast asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair right next to her bed. His cheek rests on the palm of his hand, and his lips are parted slightly. His hair is a mess—he’s probably been running his hands through it nonstop. He looks paler than usual, like he hasn’t been outside in a couple of days, and his skin has already started to retreat to its naturalfairness. His other hand is beneath her own on the bed, and though he is completely asleep, his thumb strokes back and forth over her palm, unconsciously rubbing random, gentle semicircles into her skin.
Grace takes a moment before waking him to take in her surroundings—a dimly lit, private hospital room, bigger than her last apartment by a wide margin. A mauve, vinyl love seat up against the farthest wall, with duffel bags strewn across its stiff-looking cushions. A collection of flowers sit on various flat surfaces throughout the room, some arranged elegantly in beautiful, bow-laden vases, and others—well, the green plastic pitcher with sunflowers haphazardly sticking out of the mouth looks a lot like the one they use in the Halcyon bunkhouse for sweet tea. Tears well in her eyes at the thought of the guys being here, and she wishes she’d been awake to see them, wishes she could’ve squeezed each one of them until it hurt.
As for herself, she’s hooked up to an IV, and the steady beep of a monitor sounds beside her. There are oxygen prongs attached to her nostrils, though she isn’t sure why. The pain she was in before—that searing, brain-altering pain—is dull and manageable now, but still present. Lingering in a way that lets her know it isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, despite the fact that she’s probably on some high-dose meds. As the memory of it all begins to seep back into her consciousness, Grace’s gaze darts to her hand, and the desert of her mouth goes somehow dryer at what she sees. It’s stiff and unmoving in a thick cast that stretches halfway up her forearm and elevated on a firm pillow. She tries to move her fingers from within, but is met with a blinding ache that sends a roil of nausea through her gut. Grace lets out a harsh exhale as she stares at her hand, andmemories begin to come back in flashes—unnaturally bent fingers, a hand hanging limp and immobile, the crackling sound and sensation of knuckles being dislocated beneath cruel, brutish thumbs. She isn’t breathing normally anymore; she’s hyperventilating as the picture becomes clearer. The past four days spent withering away in that rock field, certain she would die out there, alone and left for the coyotes to feast upon. It’s impossible in thenowto forget thethen, to rationalize with her body and mind that she is no longer coughing up blood from inhaling the dust, no longer refraining from tears to conserve water. No longer fading away beneath that blinding sun. The only thing Grace is capable of, in this moment, is panic.
The beeping of the monitor at her bedside has picked up, and the commotion of Grace waking and starting to spiral must’ve been enough to wake Crew, because before she can utter a single word, or cry, or whimper, he is there. Standing, pushing his hands into her hair, holding her cheeks between his warm palms and leaning down until he’s staring her directly in the eye. It’s reminiscent of the way he found her on that field, and again, he knows on some instinctive level that he has to get her toseehim. To understand, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is here. He is real. He is with her. “Hey, hey, it’s all right,” he says, and the soothing lilt of his voice is an instant balm to the turmoil raging through her. He moves in slowly, carefully, giving her time to recognize what he’s doing, and then presses his lips to her cheekbone. He lingers there, just a hint of contact, further reinforcing the notion that he ishere.
Grace crumbles. The heat of the panic, the fear, the devastating resolve of a woman who had given up—it rushes out of her in a gust so heavy and thick that her body actually seems todeflate. She starts to cry, responding to his instincts with her own and leaning her face into his touch, craving more of it. All of it. Crew gets it—he always has. Within seconds, he’s sitting at her side, pressing kisses against her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids. And in between each one, she can hear his reassuring words, spoken with a voice more wrecked than before but no less comforting. He kisses her brow.
“Grace. Sweetheart.” The tip of her nose. “Breathe.” The apple of one cheek. “You’re all right.” And then the other. “You’re safe.” The corner of her mouth. “I’m here.” And finally, her lips. “I love you.”
Grace’s voice is raspy and slightly wheezing when she finally finds it. “Crew,” she manages, and with her good hand, she reaches up to hold his face. His eyes flutter shut, and he leans into her touch before pressing a quick kiss to her palm. “You’re here,” she repeats, the statement laced with tears, but no longer of despair or panic. Now, there is awe; there is disbelief and joy and safety flowing in rivers down her cheeks. “You came.”
A watery chuckle sounds in his throat. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“Your parents—”
