Page 4 of Saving Grace

The phone.

“Sweet Jesus, who rings at this hour?” he grumbles, pushing to his feet and heading toward the office. I follow on tender steps.

Ring. Ring.

He clears his throat.

Ring.

The clack of the plastic handset rustling from the phone base sounds so loud.

“Harry Rawlins speakin’.”

The silence of the early morning crashes in. The faint trill of the sun-woke birds filters through the windows.

I press my hands over my mouth, not daring to breathe. Somehow, I make it halfway down the hall and lean on the wall.

“Hold on,” Harry says, knowing I’m by the door. He hits a button on the phone. Static and breathing pour from the receiver. I listen, eyes closed and arms hugging my body tight.

“Mr. Rawlins, this is CNO Sergeant Miller. I’m ringing in regard to your son Mackinlay. Sir, I’m sorry to inform you...”

Chapter One

GRACE

THREE MONTHS LATER . . .

The morning paper slaps down beside my coffee cup, and I flinch. Protesting, the worn wooden dining seat creaks with the sudden movement.

I wish . . . I was invisible.

“How long does it take to have a cup of coffee, Grace?” Joel snaps. He drops into the seat opposite me at the small round dining table, the morning sun beaming in through crystal clear windows behind him. A thrift store find, the old table looks how I feel. Scarred, weathered, and all the while standing on wobbly legs, one of my feet sometimes not touching the floor. “You have errands today. And we need more toilet paper, don’t forget itagain.”

I nod and sip my coffee. It burns my throat. But I like the pain, it reminds me this isn’t some passing nightmare. These here are my waking hours. Between mouthfuls, I fidget with the charm on my bracelet. The one Mama gave me, before she cut me from her life. My fingers rub the smooth shine from the tiny silver painter’s palette.

“You need to write that down or something?” He swipes the newspaper, theClarion-Ledger, up from where he dropped it. The malice that’s lined his eyes for the past eighteen monthsis strong today, darkening them. It isn’t going to be a good day for me. Who in Mississippi reads the newspaper anymore? Apparently, the people of Raymond do. At least this Raymond-dweller. I stare at Joel and his paper, letting my hate sear into the back of the creased ink and pressed pulp between us.

I should have left the first time.

I have nothing. Literally. Not a cent to my name. If eighteen-year-old me could see me now, she would be horrified. I thought I was making a smart decision, getting the chance to paint and not have to work. We’d had a plan. I paint. He works. Then in a few years, I could start selling the art I create. And things were fine for a while. While Joel had a job. But like everything else this monster of a man does, he ruined that, too.

Lost his temper at work. Never saw a paycheck from then on. Benefits aren’t conducive to a happy life. Or a happy relationship. We have been living on them for almost eighteen months to the day. I begged and pleaded for him to let me get a job. Every time, he took that to mean he was less in my eyes, weak, and I wore those bruises for a week. As if that would show me how strong a man he is.

Today, on my birthday, if I had a candle to blow out, freedom would be what I’d wish for.

Nothing else.

“Pick up a carton on the way home. Timmy’s gonna be over tonight for cards.”

“But—”

“Just fucking do it. God, no wonder your parents disowned you.”

He turns the page on the paper. Pretty sure he can’t even read. Big man in a small town. I tamp down the smile that threatens to push up on my lips. Thinks he’s smart. What I wouldn’t do to tell him otherwise. But I don’t want to startanother fight, one I know I won’t come out on top of. So, I down the last of my coffee and take the plates to the sink.

“You better be out of whatever this female mood is of yours when Timmy rocks up, Grace.”

I look over my shoulder. His eyes hover above the paper.

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