Broken Grace Read Online Free Page B

the house that evening. He found the body. After questioning the witness and a few others, we began looking for Grace.”
    “What happened to him?” she asked.
    “He was killed,” Bishop said.
    “What do you mean?” Lisa asked. “Like murder?”
    “Yes.”
    Lisa’s hand covered her mouth. Grace watched her face, trying to read it like a new language.
    “We believe he’d been dead a few days.”
    “How? Why? What do you think happened?”
    Grace sat back, watching their discussion like they were actors in a play—like some sort of interactive theater in which she was supposed to participate. But they were strangers and she didn’t know the story.
    Bishop leaned forward more, as if proximity would make them friends. “We were hoping we might find out more from you, Grace. When we investigated the crime scene, it was pretty obvious from the bills and the clothes that you lived there. So when we couldn’t locate you, we were concerned.”
    “I can’t believe it,” said Lisa, rubbing her face with her hands. She patted Grace’s knee. “Oh my God, Grace, thank God you were here, what if you hadn’t . . . ?” She didn’t finish the thought, her eyes watering.
    Hackett sat forward, his voice soft. “Grace, do you remember Vicki Flynn?”
    She shook her head.
    “She got a text from you last Friday evening around nine o’clock saying that you had big news and that you’d stop by in the morning after your run. She lives a block from Cahill’s house.”
    Grace looked at Hackett, her mouth open, ready to speak, but she realized she had nothing to add.
    “You don’t have any idea what that might have been about?” Hackett asked.
    She could barely keep up; this whole conversation was like a book she’d never read. “I don’t know who Vicki is. I don’t know anything.”
    “Did someone break in?” Lisa asked.
    “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Bishop said. “There’s no evidence of a break-in, but of course we’re a bit hampered by the delayed discovery of the body and the snow that blanketed the area by midday Saturday.”
    “What can we do?” asked Lisa.
    “Just help us if you can in piecing together Mr. Cahill’s days before the crime. Our team is running down several leads from the crime scene. We’ll be looking into everything about his life.”
    “Of course,” Lisa said.
    Grace turned to the younger cop but hesitated. “How was he killed?”
    “Shotgun. He was in bed at the time.”
    Lisa covered her mouth and shook her head. Grace pictured a generic man in a pool of blood—like a character in a movie, about whom she knew nothing.
    Bishop tilted his chin toward Lisa. “Since Grace is unable to remember, perhaps you can help us?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Whatever you need.”
    “Any idea where Grace might have been going when she got in the accident last Saturday morning?”
    Lisa repositioned herself on the sofa, even closer, and looked at Grace before responding. “I wish I could tell you.” She put her arm around Grace. “I slept in and then got the call from the hospital about the accident. But Grace is a runner. She always does her big runs on Saturday mornings. Maybe she wanted to go for a run in those trails by the dunes. Maybe she went out for coffee.”
    Hackett took notes. Bishop’s attention shifted back to Grace who was staring at the shag carpeting.
    “You can’t think that Grace could have done this,” Lisa said, her arm still wrapped around Grace, now pulling her closer. Grace leaned back and away from Lisa, mumbling about her headache. She needed to catch her breath; Lisa’s smothering felt like a bag over her head.
    “We simply need to establish alibis for everyone who knew Mr. Cahill well.” To Grace, Bishop said, “Given the fact that you lived there, when we couldn’t locate you for several days . . .”
    “You thought it was Grace?” Lisa’s voice rose. “That’s ridiculous.”
    Bishop held up a palm in Lisa’s