I needed to clean up, but the shock of what I had done was finally setting in. I did what I did because I had to. I never had a choice. I brought the knife with me to the kitchen sink, running hot water and bleach over it again and again. It was like cleaning a fillet knife after gutting a fish—the pieces of blood and viscera that had already dried clinging for dear life to the edge of the steel, not wanting to disappear into the black hole at the center of the sink basin.
The process was long and tedious with lots of cleaners and chemicals and even more double-and triple-checking every detail. No fingerprints, no strands of hair, no threads of clothing. Nothing that is or ever was part of Grace Evans could remain in the ranch. But then again, did that really matter?
I tossed the empty hair dye box into a garbage bag beside the bathroom sink. My hair was swooped up into a bun, covered in brunette hair dye, my natural color. I looked at my bloodstained face in the mirror. Leaning closer toward my reflection, I pressed a finger to my eye and pulled out a blue contact from one and then the other—revealing my caramel-colored irises. Just as the timer on my phone went off, I undressed completely. Steam rose from the shower, and I let the water burn my skin. It felt good. The hot liquid turned pink as it removed Calvin from me, swirling down the drain. I rinsed the hair dye, careful to get all of it out.
After drying off and getting dressed, I did a once-over around the house and grabbed a canister of gasoline from the garage. Returning to Calvin’s room to finish up, I threw several items on the bed beside him, things I needed to get rid of and things to help him burn. There was so much blood, so I knew more kindling was required. I threw open his closet doors, expecting clothes, but it was nothing like that. Startled, I screamed and nearly fell backward. Three motion lights flicked on, each one lighting up a mounted head. But they weren’t animals. Their faces were frozen in the fear they experienced just before their last moments. Small wooden plaques hung below them, each one with a name carved into it—Cristina, Kayla, Amber. I closed my eyes for a moment. You were sicker than I thought you were, Calvin. I shook my head, noticing two plaques hung on the wall beside the others. No mounts were above them, just a white wall, a blank canvas for his vile art. The names carved into them were Briana and Grace. I slammed the closet doors closed and turned back toward Calvin’s lifeless body.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I seethed as I doused him with gasoline, using up the entire canister. I wanted to make sure he burned. One flick of the match, and he was up in flames.
Outside, I repacked my items, putting them in Calvin’s truck, and looked out at the woods, deciding whether or not I should check on the missing girl. Was she even alive? Was it worth the risk?
Sliding on a pair of Chanel sunglasses, I headed toward the apiary with my new knife in hand. The horses neighed and the ducks quacked as I passed them. The dry grass crunched under my tennis shoes. As I got closer, I could hear a low hum of buzzing from the bees. I entered the woods, pushing aside branches and stepping over fallen trees. Just as Calvin had said, a small wooden shed sat around forty yards back. In death, he had finally told the truth. The windows were boarded up and a large padlock was on the front door. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair and went to work on the lock.
“Hello,” a voice called from inside the shed.
I didn’t respond. The lock clicked, and I threw open the door. Light flooded the dark room, revealing the woman I had seen in the police photo. She had lost her vibrancy. Her skin was dull and dry and covered in dirt. Her greasy hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. A rope bound her wrists together. One of her legs was tied to a post, giving her about four feet of room to roam. Tears streamed down her face as she looked up at me.
Her face crumbled, and she seemed to laugh and cry at the same time. “Are you Grace?” Her voice croaked.
I tilted my head. “Yeah. How did you know that?”
She let out a howl of a cry, a mix of relief and sadness. “Calvin told me about you. You were going to replace me just like I replaced the last girl.”
I glanced around the shed. A couple of empty cans of Coca-Cola and a bowl of rotten brussels sprouts sat near her. Calvin had been keeping her alive out here like she was one of his ranch animals. Of course, he was feeding her my brussels sprouts.
Her eyes darted all around me. “Where is he?” she panicked.
“He’s dead.”
A relieved smile spread across her face, revealing the dimples I had noticed in her photo.
“Please help me,” she said, holding up her bound wrists.
I hesitated for a moment. Holding out the knife, I nodded and walked toward the bound girl. Her bottom lip trembled, and she cried harder.
“Don’t worry, Bri. You’re safe now.”
50.
Grace
Briana rubbed at her wrists, walking beside me through the pasture. They were covered in rope burns, angry red and raw skin. She was wobbly on her feet—thanks to being bound for at least ten days—and she struggled to keep up. But I wasn’t slowing down. I needed to get out of here.
“How did he die?” she asked.
“Slowly,” I said as I continued toward the truck.
Her mouth dropped open but she quickly closed it and eyed me cautiously.
“Did you call the police?”
I stopped and turned, facing her suddenly. Her reflexes were slow, and she nearly fell backward. “No, and I’m leaving.”
The whites of her eyes shined. “Can I come with you?”
Up close I could see fingerprint-shaped bruises around her neck and popped blood vessels surrounding her eyes. Her lips were dried and cracked, peeling in several places. She was obviously dehydrated. I turned from her and kept marching forward.
“No,” I said over my shoulder.
I pulled open the driver’s side door and hopped into the truck. Bri sprinted toward me, but it was more like fast stumbling. She was so weak.
“Wait, you’re just going to leave me?” she said in disbelief, thrusting her hand in front of the door. “You can’t leave me.”
I let out a sigh. Where was my thank-you? I rescued her, and she doesn’t even have the courtesy to express her gratitude. She would have been dead by nightfall if it weren’t for me.
I brought my foot up and kicked her square in the chest. “Yes, I can.” She gasped, reeling backward and landing on her ass. Bri let out a painful moan.
“You’re welcome.” I slammed the door, turned the ignition, and pulled out of the driveway.
Glancing back in the mirror, I watched her slowly get to her feet and dust herself off.
She’d be fine, thanks to me.
51.
Grace There it was. Gunslinger 66, the same gas station I had stopped at ten days prior. It was still Ope, not Open. I pulled the truck up to the side of the pump and got out of the vehicle. Once again, I was the only customer—nothing in both directions for miles and miles. I already knew it was cash only, so I started across the parking lot. I tied my long brown hair back into a low ponytail and entered the station. The door squeaked as I pulled it open. That same fan buzzed in the corner, oscillating the smell of beef jerky and gasoline throughout. The man with the lazy eye stood at the counter. I could tell he recognized me right away because he raised his brows, deepening the lines across his forehead.