Page 100 of Graciously His

I smile. “You cuff me, and my formal complaint against your department will turn into a fucking civil suit against you, personally. But yeah, I’ll come with you nice and quiet if you let me talk to my lawyer while we walk.”

I walk next to him, the other officers falling into place at my back. They don’t touch me and they don’t stop me when I put my phone to my ear. I give Watson a quick summary of where I’m at, wishing like hell that Grace had left behind the documents that prompted her flight south. Sasha told me something about an envelope with a hand-written address. I’m not quite sure how the Munchausen bitch has set me up, but Watson will have to figure it out fast. I don’t want Grace alone with her for one second longer than it takes to sort this out.

I ring off as we arrive at the cop car and try calling Grace yet again. No answer. She’s probably back in that mouldy townhouse. I can only hope my wife is strong enough to handle the psychopathic bitch on her own while I deal with the crap I’ve stepped in.

Seated in the car, I flick a few texts to Graves, my PI. I ask him to collate our evidence against Constance alongside Dr Gowan’s findings, and email it all through to me. And to Grace. At the very least, it’ll provide us with the means to have the bitch arrested in her own damn turn. I’m just texting Watson to confirm how long the cops can hold me legally—no more than a few hours—when we arrive at the station.

Constable Baby-Face insists on helping me out of the car this time and I grin inwardly, knowing the coward feels braver now that we’re on his turf. We head inside, past the main office, then down a hall of interrogation rooms. Tim waits behind a table, his hands folded, the picture of calm.

“Long time no talk,” I say, dropping into the chair opposite. “How you been, man?”

“So-so, if I’m honest.” He gives me a cool stare. “This case has been keeping me up at night. Too many loose ends in too many directions and no logical centre.”

I lean back and spread my legs. “I know just what you mean. I’m happy to lay down some explanations for you once my lawyer arrives. Shall we have a catch-up until then? How’s the wife? I hope she’s doing better than mine is right now.”

My prodding lands the way I expect: Tim’s jaw clenches, and I see that he’s followed my line of thinking. Which means he knows about my marriage to Grace. I wonder if the Munchausen bitch’s case hinges on the public record of the wedding last month. If Constance has somehow found something more incriminating—well, Watson will handle it.

“Is Grace all right?” Tim asks, flipping a notebook open. “Last we spoke, you mentioned long-standing abuse at the hands of her mother, and you gave some evidence on that front. Not enough to warrant her arrest, but plenty to keep an eye out.” He thumbs through some pages. “That was before Constance Reid came forward with evidence against you, of course.”

“Well, Grace is most likely at Constance’s house,” I say, ignoring his confirmation of the conflict between the Munchausen bitch and me, “which means her well-being is at imminent risk. Maybe you should go over there and do your job.”

Tim’s eyes shift to something behind me—his baby-faced partner.

“Get Grace Hadley on the phone,” he commands, and I hear the door into the interrogation room open and close. We’re alone before he speaks again. “Mr Hadley, this situation is out of order. One party accusing another of abuse was one thing, especially given what my partner and I witnessed when we first met Grace. But now, with Constance building a case against you after you married her daughter the same day your brother—said daughter’s original spouse—was killed in an accident… Well, you see how strange it all looks.”

“Sure. But strange-looking circumstances are rarely counted as fraud. Or am I mistaken?”

His cold smile is back. “Like you, Constance Reid has given us documentation. Unlike you, she’s willing to nail things down for an arrest.”

He pulls a folder out from beneath the desk and opens it. I recognise the page on top: it’s the very marriage license application Watson cautioned me about, filled out almost exactly two months before I forced Grace to marry me. Back then, the plan was still to wait until she graduated with her degree, then find a way to lure her up to the North Island. Having the license ready was my way of assuaging my own eagerness. Watson said it was stupid. He was right.

Tim keeps speaking, inexorable now that he’s started. “Shall we talk about how strange it is when a man makes arrangements to marry his brother’s widow before said brother is dead? Very strange, when the brother then dies suddenly, leaving his wife a widow without access to an inheritance, which swapped over to you just a few weeks before.”

I grit my teeth, realising that the Munchausen bitch must have hired a PI of her own. She’s found everything I did, all that careful planning, and she’s used it in the worst possible way. None of my intentions were based on Nick’s demise; in fact, his death made it so that I had to move forward much faster than I would have wanted to. And now I might lose Grace altogether.

I realise Tim is waiting for my answer. I like the guy. I like how he handled Constance after Nick died. I like how he comforted my wife. So I give him one last piece of information.

“What can I say, Tim. I’m a motherfucking romantic.”

Then I shut my damn mouth.

Chapter 41

Grace

Ihesitate on the threshold of the old house. In the month since I left, the place has changed. Or maybe it always looked like this, but I was too close to notice. Star jasmine overtakes the stair rail, the front door is swollen with mid-spring dampness, and the windows look like clouded eyes peering out from an asylum. My own front door, only a metre from Mother’s, is locked tight, but I’d rather go to the scene of my dead marriage than return to the prison of my childhood.

“Let’s go to mine,” I say, fumbling with my keys. “I never got to check how the movers managed everything.”

“And sit where—on the floor?” Mother scoffs, shaking her head. “No, Graciously. We’ll go to our house and sit in comfort.”

I’m quiet as Mother unlocks her door. The smell that clings to her clothes, almost but not quite hidden by her perfume, is the cloying scent of a house so colonised with mould that it's been eating itself for years. I grip my keys, reminding myself that I’ve got a way out. I can leave anytime.

So I step inside, my breath stopping short as Mother closes us in.

“There, now. It’s always good to be home, isn’t it, Graciously?”

“No.” I meet her liquid eyes in the half-light of the entryway. “Mother, I need to know right now: do you really think Nate was involved in Nick’s death? Do you have proof?”