You Shouldn't Have Come Here(68)

She was dressed in a white T-shirt and black leggings. Her hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. Her makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under her eyes.

“Good afternoon,” I said with a smile.

She gave a tight smile back. “Hey.”

Grace walked to the coffee pot, not making eye contact with me. I turned around and watched her pour herself a cup.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded and took a sip. Grace slid a piece of bread into the toaster and collected everything she needed to make peanut butter toast. Her back was to me while she waited for her toast to be done.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Grace didn’t turn around. She just nodded again. The bread shot out of the toaster like a jack-in-the-box. She jumped a little. Her muscles tensed, and she took a moment to compose herself. Grace pulled the toast out and slathered it with butter and peanut butter. She was acting strange, but could I blame her? Joe really shook her up, and I wondered what he had said. She opted to stand at the counter to eat her toast and drink her coffee, rather than sit with me.

“Betty’s coming over today to replace the drapes,” I said, trying to get her to talk to me.

Grace just stood there, chewing on her toast—not saying a word.

“Joe spent the night in county jail. They’re charging him with arson. He just can’t stay outta trouble. I told him not to come around here no more.” I sipped my water and set the glass back down on the table.

Grace drank the rest of her coffee and then topped it off. She returned to her half-eaten piece of toast.

“Have you seen Albert?” I asked.

She shook her head and crossed one leg in front of the other.

“Ummmph. I haven’t seen him since last night when the police showed up. Must have spooked him.”

Grace said nothing.

I gestured to a chair. “You know you can sit at the table and eat.”

She shoved the rest of the toast into her mouth and rinsed off her plate. Grace was a feisty one. Picking up her coffee mug, she started toward her bedroom but stopped before venturing down the hallway. Slowly, she turned around.

“The lock you put on my door.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed in an accusatory way. “You installed it the wrong way.” She raised her chin and put her free hand on her hip. “Was that intentional? Are you trying to keep me here?” Her voice had a tinge of frustration in it—mixed with something else. It was fear. Grace was afraid of me.

“No, of course not.” I stood too quickly. The chair reeled backward and hit the floor with a thud.

Grace took a step back. Her eyes went to the porch door and then back to me.

I bent down slowly and picked up the chair. Shaking my head, I looked over at her. The whites of her eyes were on full display.

“It was an honest mistake. I’ll fix it, okay?”

She pursed her lips together. “An honest mistake? Honest? You sure about that?” she asked, cocking her head.

Grace was hiding something, but what was it? What did Joe tell her? What did she find? She was treating me like a stranger—no, worse than that, like I was a danger to her.

“Yes, honest. Like I said, I’ll fix it.”

“You do whatever you want. I’m going for a run.” She stomped toward her bedroom. “One of the guys from the auto shop is swinging by to fix your car tonight,” I called out.

“Good,” Grace yelled over her shoulder.

I let out a deep breath. How had things gotten so bad so quickly? The more time I spent with Grace, the less I seemed to know about her. She was a peculiar woman, and she was clearly hiding something. I suppose we all were. But living alone on a ranch with only animals to talk to, you learn what the animal will do before it does it. And at the core, we’re all animals.





43.

Grace


I stomped across the porch, past my broken car, and down the driveway. I had to get away and clear my head. How far could I get from this place on foot? Could I make it back into town? My head was a foggy mess thanks to a night of no sleep. It felt like someone was in my room watching me. There was a presence. The house creaked all night long, and I could hear someone on the other side of my bedroom door most of the evening. I wasn’t sure if it was Albert or Calvin standing outside my room, listening to me sleep. At one point, I even grabbed the knife, clutching it all night. I shook out my left hand, trying to expel the achiness. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go.

I kicked at the gravel while I walked. My brain swirled with thoughts. I didn’t buy that installing the lock the wrong way was an honest mistake. Calvin’s a fricking handyman. How could he screw something that simple up? Unless he did it on purpose. And Albert, his fake Airbnb guest. Why was he lying about that? Then, the most damning of it all. The guest book with Briana Becker’s name. Calvin lied to Sheriff Almond. She was here. Had he done something to her? Heck, maybe Charlotte did. She was clearly obsessed with Calvin. She hadn’t been around in two days, but I still felt like she was around—just waiting for me to leave. Then there was Joe. Was he the only one telling the truth, or was he lying too?

I wanted to scream, and I wanted to be as far away from this place as possible. Halfway down the driveway, I quickened my pace from a fast walk to a full-on sprint. As soon as my stride hit, I stepped onto a large uneven rock and came crashing to the ground at the end of the driveway. My ankle nearly folded under itself. The gravel scraped my knees and the palms of my hands. I screamed out in pain.