Page 18 of Grace

You’d think that in small, middle-of-nowhere communities—like Willow Creek, Oklahoma—nothing truly horrible could happen. When kids disappear, people usually assume they just ran off to live in a big city. Because only losers and sissies stay here. What could possibly happen in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

I remember riding the new bike I’d gotten for my fifteenth birthday down the street. The neighborhood was nice: small but neat houses, white fences, and apple trees in the backyards, their branches heavy with fruit. On the other side of the road stretched a gray, stubby field—the fall wheat had already been harvested.

The sun was at its highest point, and the air around me simmered with heat. Sweat trickled down the side and nape of my head, making my scalp itch. My thin cotton dress stuck to my body, clinging to me in places where it was completely soaked through, my sweat leaving wet patches on the fabric. My thighs trembled from the exertion—I was going as fast as I could because I wanted to get home as soon as possible. I needed to get rid of this suffocating feeling. I tried to focus on my breathing—in through my nose, out through my mouth—but the hot air, smelling of pancakes, pie, and sticky maple syrup, burned my nostrils.

As I glanced around nervously, I almost rode straight into glittering shards of glass scattered across the road. I yanked the handlebars to the right, then left—and hit the wheel against the curb despite my efforts to regain control. I saw my wounds before I even hit the ground. I knew they would hurt like hell, but there was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable.

My bike tilted and went down with me. I hit the ground with a loud thump. I’d only scraped my elbow, but my knee wasn’t as lucky: a sharp stone tore a deep gash into it. The burning wound seeped blood, grass and dirt stuck inside it. I bit my lower lip to keep myself from screaming in pain.

Salty tears ran down my face, mixing with thick, odorless sweat.

I’m going to look gorgeous on this date, wrapped in bandages… The curse I swallowed stung my tongue.

I stood up, lifted my bike, and started pushing it. Every movement tugged at the gash on my knee.

When I imagined how much the warm water would make the wound burn, a chill ran down my spine. Still, I knew it had to be cleaned—otherwise it would turn into something like last year’s injury, the one that smelled and oozed pus. This wasn’t the first time I’d fallen. I always did. Either off my bike or from the willow tree at the end of our backyard.

I stopped for a moment and looked around. Again, I felt like someone was watching me, but I didn’t see anyone on the street. Everyone was inside, where it was cool—I was the only idiot outside in that scorching heat. I shrugged and kept going, slowly. Even though I felt on edge, I turned into a street that was even emptier. I was almost home—I could already see the old willow tree at the back of our yard.

Only a few more steps. I calmed myself and forced myself not to look down at my wound—the sight of blood would only make it hurt more. Instead, I steeled myself and walked on.

Run, Grace! Run! Something inside shouted at me, but my legs didn’t obey my command. The cut skin on my knee pulled with every step. I needed to be careful—hasty movements could make the wound even worse… and I couldn’t leave my bike behind just because I had a bad feeling. This part of our town was peaceful, there hadn’t been any break-ins in the past nineteen years. This was part of the reason why my family had moved here when Jamie got four, when Nikky was still in Mom’s belly.

But I wasn’t in our street, but on the other side of the houses, behind the backyards, on the dirt road where there was not a car or soul to be seen.

Wheels screeched, smoke billowed, and the smell of burned rubber hit my nose. That kind of braking had to have left a black streak on the gray asphalt. Then I saw the huge cloud of dust the van kicked up as it veered off the road onto the dirt shoulder.

I saw a shabby cargo van with flaking gray paint, and my heart slammed against my ribcage. I let go of the handlebars, and my bike clattered to the ground as I broke into a run. I was far slower than usual. I didn’t look back, but I could feel him behind me. Sweat and tears streamed down my face, dark red blood soaking my shin.

A sharp pain stabbed my knee. My foot caught in a tuft of grass, and I went down. I threw my hands out to break the fall and keep my face from slamming into the ground.

I blinked dust and tears from my eyes, pushed the strands of hair out of my face, and saw his shadow stretching in front of me. I was shaking with fear—I had no chance of escaping. I started to cry desperately, and buried my face in the crook of my arm.

“I didn’t want to scare you, Grace.” His dark, deeply resonant voice seeped into my mind. I looked up and saw Chase’s towering figure. He reached a hand toward me—I took it without thinking and struggled to my feet.

“I’m fine, it’s just…” I glanced around uneasily, but there was no one else—only the two of us. I wiped the wetness from my face while Chase crouched down beside me and inspected my wound. I was distraught. My heart was racing, and I started to worry that I had become paranoid.

“We need to clean your wound. Come on,” he said, nodding toward his ride. He picked up my bike as if it weighed nothing and slid it into the back of the van. I was surprised by how calm he seemed. I knew it would be crazy to accept his offer—our house was really close. Still, I felt safe with him. Peaceful.

Chase turned the light on inside, helped me climb in and sit down. He pulled the doors almost close, then grabbed a box filled with gauze, bandages, disinfectant, and painkillers.

“Whose van is it?”

“Mine,” he said. “The other one’s at the mechanic.”

“Why do you have all this stuff in here?”

“I get hurt a lot.”

“I thought it was because of the weed.”

Chase didn’t take the bait. Instead, he wiped the blood and dirt from my leg with precise movements, cleaned the wound, and bandaged it.

When he was finished, he took my ankle in his hand and gently rotated it from side to side, his eyes constantly scanning my face. I felt uncomfortable—not because of the pain, but because his gaze stirred up pleasant sensations in me. I clenched my thighs together.

“I’ll take you home,” he said.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” I protested—but my leg throbbed like hell. I tried to stand up and collapsed. I tried again, but my body gave out before my mind did.