Page 90 of Grace

My breath gets stuck in my chest. No sound leaves my mouth—I just nod, dazed. As soon as Dylan drags Bruce out of our yard, I shut off the tap. I’m drenched in ice-cold water, shaking with cold. I walk toward the animal on the cold, dew-soaked lawn and crouch down. My mind floods with memories, and my eyes fill with tears.

The kitten is dead. It couldn’t survive the attack. Its tiny tongue sticks out between its white teeth. Its eyes are open, but its body is twisted into an unnatural position. Every bone must be broken. I drop to my knees. I sit back on my heels, my bare ass against them, and carefully stroke the bloody ginger fur soaked in saliva. My lips tremble because its fur is the same color as… My gaze slides to the tiny red collar, torn from the kitten’s neck. I fall to all fours, reach for it, grab it, then read the name engraved on the golden-colored tag. Thick, bitter bile rises in my throat.

Poppy.

Of all the gifts he’s sent me, this one is the cruelest. My memories hit me with such unstoppable, primal force that they completely overwhelm me. I stumble into the house, trembling and crying, pull on shorts, then take my garden tools from under the kitchen sink. I tear up a few patches of lawn and loosen the soil. I wrap Poppy in a cloth and put her in a metal tin so Bruce won’t dig her up the next time he’s here. I bury the poor kitten in what used to be my flowerbed.

“Quite the morning.”

My blood freezes in my veins, and an icy pain spreads through my chest. I look at Ortíz through bleary eyes. His ginger hair and beard are even more striking in the golden sunshine.

“Are… are you in charge of me today?”

“No,” he replies, his voice grave.

My throat is dry.

“I’m here to tell you my men won’t be babysitting you anymore.”

Tears flood my eyes. Anger tingles under my skin, trying to claw its way free.

Ortíz crouches in front of me and looks me up and down. I pour all my repressed hate into the look I give him. My pissed-off expression draws a dark smile across his face. The muscles around my eyes tighten, but I steel myself. I won’t cry in front of him.

“This situation is like quicksand. You’ll only sink deeper if you resist,” he says, digging his meaty fingers into the wet soil, then tossing a handful of clumped dirt into his other palm. The clump lands against his pale, freckled skin.

“Are you telling me to give up? To kill myself to end everyone’s suffering?” I’m completely serious. I look into his light eyes, determined. For a second, shock flashes across his face—for a second, I can see behind his mask. There’s pain and anger behind his pity.

“No.” He rubs his hands together to get rid of the dirt, then stands up. “I’m telling you to finally accept your fate,” he says in a monotone.

“What?” I stare up at the man towering over me, stunned. The protective walls in my mind crumble. “Why?” I challenge him. “Why didn’t you press charges against him? Why didn’t you take my statement?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

My brows knit in anger. I jump to my feet. “You know damn well,” I hiss.

He grabs my arm and yanks me closer. Our bodies don’t touch, but his grip is iron.

“Don’t make a scene. Believe me, it’d be bad for both of us. Now we’re going into your house.”

Ortíz presses his gun into my ribs. My body tenses, my hands curling into fists. I stumble toward the door while the Chief of Police keeps scanning the neighborhood, twitchy and alert. But the street is empty now—our neighbors have already left for school and work.

His thick fingers bite into my skin. Fear and anger choke my chest. After we step inside, he shuts the door and locks it. He pulls out a chair, sets his gun in the middle of the table, and wipes the sweat from his brow.

“Give me something to drink!” he hisses. His voice has that harsh fizz, like a soda can cracking open.

He’s gasping for air, his lungs wheezing, like he’s just run a marathon.

I take a bottle of flat mineral water from the fridge and set it in front of him. He slowly twists off the cap and drinks half of it in one swallow. He sets the bottle down beside his gun. Tiny beads of condensation slide down the plastic. His fingers drum against the weapon.

“Why do you need a gun?”

Ortíz tugs at his shirt. Fat drops of sweat roll down his forehead. “Better safe than sorry,” he says solemnly, staring into nothing.

“What do you know about him?”

“You mean, about them?” He looks at me.

“He has a brother.”