Saving Grace

41

"Come on," I said, helping Grace through the front door. "Let's get you to bed."

She nodded, trembled as she inched up the stairs, eyes swollen and smeared black. I leaned down, slid my arm around her waist to keep her steady. We got to bedroom. The door opened. She collapsed into the sheets.

"Could you stay, Richie?" She asked as I untied her shoes. "I don't want to be alone."

I smiled, slid the shoes off her feet, left them by the door.

"Let me get the bags first," I said. "I'll be up soon."

Grace offered a small, fragile smile. She took my hand.

"It's over," she said. "It's really over."

I nodded.

"Yeah," I squeezed her hand. "It's really over."

Her smile grew but soon faded, snuffed out by sheer exhaustion. She rolled over and I pulled the covers to her chin.

"Don't be too long," she murmured.

I jogged down the stairs, the sun seeping in through the windows. Already, it was setting again – a whole day gone, spent in a car driving home. I grabbed the bags out of the boot and locked the doors, could barely see over the mountain of luggage sitting in my shaking hands. I sucked in a sharp breath, tasted the cool night air mixed with faint smoke, billowing out of some chimney three blocks away. I cleared my throat, found the porch steps.

A loud, obnoxious shrill pierced the air and I jolted, nearly falling off the porch step. My brother, calling me to make sure I was okay. I sighed, lowered the bags onto the step, pulled out my phone only for it to buzz one last time with the message: missed call from Scott. I rolled my eyes, checked my credit. I couldn't even call him back.

I sighed, leaned down and gathered up the heavy bags in my arms once again. However, when I looked back at the porch, I was struck with a memory: that glorious November evening where I'd knocked on Grace's door and was met by a bounding, excited puppy who almost bowled me over. I smiled, looked at the door, wide open. Danica. Where was Danica?

My phone rang again and I ignored it, instead falling into the house and dumping the bags on the couch. Scott hung up again and I barely noticed, my eyes focused on the room, scanning, looking for the excited puppy. I went to the backyard, peered through the clear glass doors at the pool and the grass and Sebastian's makeshift bar. The world was silent, still. A heavy feeling began to set in my stomach, sinking like cement.

The keys rattled when I grabbed them and burst out into the street. Toward the setting sun, I wandered from yard to yard until the fiery colours in the vast sky faded into a deep purple, and eventually, the darkest blue. The streetlights flickered on. The world was sickly orange. My phone rang again and I groaned.

"What?"

"Richie," Scott exclaimed. "God, it's so good to hear your voice. Are you alright?"

"Yes, why?"

"I saw Jack Russo on the news. He committed suicide."

I lowered my eyes, focused on the cold, hard concrete beneath me.

"Yeah, I know."

"He was the guy who beat you up, right?"

"The very same."

"That's so strange. And sad."

"Yeah," I mumbled. "It is."

We both fell silent for a long moment. I passed under a streetlight; saw my breath fog in the amber light.

"Richie," Scott hesitated. "Won't you... will you consider coming home? I haven't seen you in days."

I sighed, pressed my lips together and looked up at the damp street.

"I can't. Not yet."

"Why not?"

"I promised Grace I'd stay the night. She's all torn up about Russo."

"Torn up? I thought he was stalking her?"

"It's a long story," I said. "And I think something might have happened to her dog while we were away."

Scott paused.

"Away?" He asked. "Where did you go?"

"Another long story," I said. "Meet me at the pub on Plymouth tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I'll explain everything."

Scott cleared his throat.

"That sounds like a good idea."

I turned the corner into a narrow street, wedged between two enormous, dilapidated apartment buildings. There was one dim light flickering in the middle of the stretch, illuminating the dumpsters and debris lining either side of the asphalt. Then I saw it – something in the road. Big, bulky, motionless. The light flickered again and I frowned.

"I have to go," I whispered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up, tucked the phone in my pocket without ever looking away from whatever it was. I bit my lip, inched closer as the terrible feeling sunk deeper, coiled in my bones. Soon, in the flickering dark I distinguished her jaw, hanging open. Then her legs, snapped and twisted up. Her insides leaking into the asphalt...

"Dani," I whispered.

I ran to her, collapsed at her side.

"Dani!"

I reached out to grab her, but she'd been ripped open, torn apart. Her blood had dried against the bitumen and her carcass had been left to rot in the lingering sun. The chain was still around her neck from where He'd dragged her. I rocked back on my heels, clutched my stomach and threw up as the tears blurred my vision. She was dead – very, very dead.

And that was the first time I saw what He was truly capable of.

© A.G. Travers 2018