Guaranteed to Bleed

by Mulhern, Julie

“I don’t have one. I’ll figure things out as I go along.”

  Normally I enjoy the drive north to my folks’ farm—the hilly landscape, the breathtaking vistas and, in the fall, the splashes of brilliant color from maples and ash and sumac flaming amidst the brown of countless oaks.

  This drive, the trees could have worn amethyst leaves with chartreuse polka dots. I wouldn’t have noticed. I sped toward Grace. Neither trees, nor landscape, nor color mattered.

  While the weight of my foot on the gas pedal was as heavy and unchanging as lead, my emotions swung from fury to euphoria. Half of me wanted to yell until I was hoarse or Grace was deaf, whichever came first. The other half wanted to hold her forever. Decisions, decisions.

  I couldn’t return Donna to a home with Jonathan Hess in it. Would India see her daughter’s drawings and realize her husband was a monster? Would she leave him?

  Denial was a comfortable place to live. I knew firsthand. It was safe. It was easy. The storm clouds on the horizon were easy to ignore, plus they added a certain vibrancy to sunsets. I’d known my husband was a heel, but if someone had told me what Henry was up to, I would have laughed in their face. What Jonathan Hess did to Donna was worse than anything Henry ever considered—and he’d considered just about everything.

  No way was India going to believe me.

  Thanks to my lead foot, the miles sped by, bringing me closer to Grace, Donna and the need for a plan.

  What the hell was I going to do?

  I pulled into the long driveway to Mother and Daddy’s country house without an answer. I parked the car without an answer. I got out of the car without an answer. The front door opened and Mr. Smith stepped outside. I looked up into his weather-tanned face without an answer.

  “They’re still out at the hunting cabin.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been.”

  He offered me a sympathetic grimace. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s a good girl.” The Smiths have adored Grace since her first toddling steps.

  I made no promises. “You’re sure they’re still there?”

  A smile cracked his face and his wrinkles radiated like starbursts. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  “Oh?”

  “I disconnected the battery in Grace’s car.”

  Mr. Smith was an evil genius. Good thing he was on my side.

  “I won’t tell her,” I promised.

  “She’s a good girl,” he repeated, as if saying it twice might convince me to go easy, to hug not throttle.

  I thanked him then climbed back into Henry’s Cadillac and drove down the rutted dirt lane that led to the hunting cabin.

  Grace might well be a good girl, but she’d left home without a word. I’d never been so worried in my life. The desire to gather her in my arms and wrap my hands around her teenage neck warred within me.

  Hug or throttle? Hug or throttle?

  My hands gripped the steering wheel and I guided the car around a particularly deep pothole.

  Hug or throttle?

  Maybe both?

  And what about Donna?

  I had no answers.

  I parked the car in front of Daddy’s cabin and drew clean country air deep into my lungs.

  Grace must have heard the car. She opened the door to the cabin, her face a study in busted.

  At least one answer was easy. The need to hold Grace in my arms far outweighed my desire to choke the life out of her.

  I was halfway to the cabin before I even knew I’d opened the car door.

  Whatever resentment Grace harbored toward me must have sailed away on the rough waves of sleeping in a cabin without fine linen or hot water. She ran toward me. We hugged.

  Who knew the scent of Tame crème rinse in my daughter’s hair was sweeter than the purest country air? I tightened my hold around her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  My shoulder muffled her words but not their impact. I hugged tighter. “It’s all right.” I rubbed circles on her back. “We’ll figure this mess out. Together.”

  She stiffened. “You know?”

  “About Jonathan Hess?” I nodded and my chin bounced against her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  For running away? For not trusting me enough to tell me about Donna’s problem? For putting me through hell?

  Now that Grace was safe, now that I could smell her hair, feel the softness of her cheek against mine, hear the quaver in her voice—now I wanted to throttle her.

  I didn’t let on. One of my hands kept rubbing circles on her back, the other wiped a tear from her face. “You know you’re grounded, right?”

  Her shoulders shook and she hiccupped a sob. “I didn’t think about what would happen after we left. I just knew we needed to get away.”

  The fabric of her t-shirt felt rough beneath my fingers. I abandoned rubbing circles and smoothed the silky length of her hair.

  Grace pulled away and looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. “We can’t send her back there.”

  “We won’t,” I promised.

  “How?”

  “We’ll figure it out. Hunter will help. Maybe we can get Donna’s grandmother named guardian. Anarchy—” I reached out and wiped another tear from the perfect plane of her cheek. “I mean, Detective Jones will help if I ask him.”

  Donna appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were enormous and her skin looked loose, draped over her bird-like bones. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Russell.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  I should have been angry with her. I could have blamed her for every moment of worry I’d endured. But—poor kid.

  Turns out, I wanted to hug her too.

  We sniffled and hugged and wiped our eyes for longer than was strictly necessary.

  Then we walked over to the picnic table and benches and sat beneath a stand of sumac with leaves just beginning to flame. Grace sat next to me. Donna sat across.

  “You want to tell me about it?” I asked.

  The two girls stared at each other, communicating in some silent teenage language I had no hope of comprehending.

  “Donna was upset when you told us her stepfather was coming home and I asked her why. She told me he…”

  Donna, her eyes still large enough to do a bush baby proud, covered her mouth with her hands.

  Speak no evil?

  “Donna.” I reached across the table, pried one of her hands away from her face and held it. “We’re going to have to tell the police.”

  “No!” Her voice was louder than the last of the crickets. It startled a nearby bird. “We can’t,” she whispered.

  “Why not?”

  Her gaze fell to her lap and a flush rose to her cheeks. “He’ll tell Mom it’s my fault. I’ll lose her, too.”

  She lifted her gaze. Tears overflowed her lashes and streamed down her face. She shook her head. “I didn’t start it.”

  “Of course not.” India would believe that. Wouldn’t she?

  Donna swiped at a tear. “He was nice at first. Whenever he came to pick up Mom, he’d talk to me.” She closed her eyes and seconds ticked by—an eon’s worth of them. “It seemed like he made Mom happy and she’d been so sad ever since my dad died.”

  Under the table, Grace took my other hand in hers and squeezed.

  “And then?”

  “They got married. Jonathan brought her flowers all the time. Whenever he brought some for her, he brought some for me too. Pink roses.” Donna wiped her eyes again. “Mom started living again. She went out with her friends. She even got a volunteer job at the hospital on Tuesday mornings. Someone asked if she could switch to Tuesday nights. We had a family meeting about it.” With her free hand, Donna rubbed her eyes. “She’d leave something for us to heat up for dinner but Jonathan would scrape it do
wn the disposal, make me promise not to tell, then take me out to nice restaurants.”

  Nearby a crow cawed.

  “He told me how pretty I was and that I was too good for the boys at my high school and that I deserved someone who cherished me.”

  “How old were you?”

  Grace squeezed my hand.

  I squeezed back.

  “Fifteen.” Her voice held no emotion. Either she didn’t understand the violation of her childhood or she understood it too well.

  My stomach churned.

  “One night when he brought me home, he kissed me.” She covered her mouth again, paused, let more seconds tick by. “I should have told Mom. I should have. But we’d been lying about the dinners and it was just one kiss and he was so nice.”

  No one said a word.

  The leaves rustled.

  The birds called.

  The crickets sang.

  Bile rose in my throat.

  Donna pulled her hand free of mine and crossed her arms. Her shoulders hunched. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks and splashed against the table.

  “The next Tuesday he kissed me again.” Her body shrank with the memory. “He said he knew I wanted him because I’d kept our secret. Because I hadn’t told Mom.”

  Grace squeezed my hand so hard the bones crunched.

  In the sun-dappled light, shadows created a death’s head where Donna’s face should be. “After that, things…escalated. He told me I’d seduced him. He told me that I’d asked for—” she drew an audible breath, “—his attentions. He told me I wanted it. That I belonged to him. He said Mom would never believe me. If I told anyone about what he did to me, they’d know I was a slut. My life would be hell.”

  Her life had already been hell. No wonder she ran away.

  “I thought when we moved here things would change.” She drew another breath—a fractured breath. “They changed all right. Mom was gone more. That gave him more time to…” She shook her head. “It gave him more time. I dreamt about killing him—or myself.”

  The birds still sang, the sky was still a brilliant blue, and the leaves still looked like jewels, but the day seemed darker, the rustling in the woods full of menace.

  “Then I met Kim,” she said.

  “Kim?”

  Donna nodded. “She was cheating on her boyfriend and needed an excuse to go out. I was the excuse. That’s how I met Bobby.”

  “Who was Kim cheating with?”

  “One of Bobby’s friends.” Donna shifted her gaze to her lap. “I didn’t like him. He sold drugs.”

  So Kim had stepped out on Mr. All-American with a bad boy and hidden behind Donna. She’d known about Bobby and Donna all along and said nothing. I could have delivered Bobby’s message days ago if only she’d been a bit more forthcoming.

  “Bobby loved you.”

  Donna stared at me.

  “The last thing he said was ‘Tell her I love her.’” I prepared for a storm of tears.

  Donna surprised me. She looked up into the canopy of branches and whispered, “I loved him too.”

  Twenty-One

  No way could I take the girls back to town, not until India understood the monster she married and either kicked him out or left him.

  But a cabin in the woods was not an ideal place to leave two teenage girls. “You can’t stay here.”

  Donna’s chin wobbled and Grace tensed.

  “I’ll take you to stay at the farmhouse until we get this sorted.”

  Donna’s chin firmed but Grace squeaked, “Now?”

  “Do you want to spend another night in those bunk beds?” The cabin was designed for hunters; describing the accommodations as rustic was kind.

  Grace held up her hands, fingers spread, as if a mere gesture could keep me at the table. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes to pack and pick up?”

  “I’ll help.” I stood.

  “Really, Mom, it’s okay. We’ll do it.”

  What was she hiding? I stood, marched across the clearing and yanked open the door.

  Holy Mother of God.

  I tiptoed through a minefield of discarded shoes. I gawped at clothes draped over the backs of chairs and the couch. Jeans joined the shoes on the floor. A bra hung from a light fixture.

  I glanced from the brassiere to Grace and raised a brow.

  “I washed it,” she said. “I needed a place to hang it while it dried.”

  Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? I’d been underutilizing the crystal chandelier in the dining room for years.

  I returned my attention to the cabin. In the course of their time on the run, Grace and Donna had filled the place with empty Tab cans. A forgotten plate of flower-shaped butter cookies half hid beneath the couch. On the oak table sat opened bags of cheese puffs, and one, two, three, four boxes of lemon coolers. I tiptoed through the wreckage and picked up a box. We never had that particular cookie at home; it had to be Donna’s favorite.

  Given the amount of powdered sugar dusting the furniture, the counters and even the floor, she’d already enjoyed a box or three.

  Maybe I should have throttled Grace. Maybe she guessed the direction of my thoughts. She stood in the doorway, gnawing on her lip, waiting for the storm.

  “I—” I sealed my lips. As a teenager, if I’d let my room reach this state, Mother’s anger would have melted the varnish of the furniture. This wasn’t even Grace’s room. She was squatting in a cabin that didn’t belong to her. But anything I said now would just start another argument.

  I opened the tiny supply closet, grabbed a broom and shoved it into Grace’s hands. I gave Donna a trashbag and waved at the sea of cans and wrappers. I claimed a rag and a can of furniture polish that promised to dust, clean, shine and protect. Getting rid of the lemon-scented sugar coating most every surface was my goal.

  We worked in silence. What was there to say? I’d raised a savage? True. But she was my savage and I loved her.

  When the cabin was passably neat, the girls stuffed their clothes into their suitcases and their shoes onto their feet.

  I helped them heft their bulging bags into the trunk of Henry’s car and drove them to the farmhouse. At least there the possibility existed they might ingest a vegetable. More importantly, Mr. and Mrs. Smith would keep a weather eye on the both of them.

  They dragged their suitcases inside then joined me on the front porch.

  “Donna, I’m supposed to meet with your mother this afternoon. I’ll call you after.”

  Her eyes filled. Perhaps she suspected as I did that India Hess liked living in denial. Then again, maybe she missed her mother.

  “You’re safe here. Do not leave.” I shifted my gaze between the two girls and repeated, “Do not leave. Promise me.”

  They both nodded and mumbled their assent. Was crossing their hearts and hoping to die too much to ask?

  “I mean it.” I treated them to my version of Mother’s most severe look.

  Grace giggled.

  Perfect.

  If Grace left the safe harbor I’d found them, I would throttle her.

  Aggie stood at the kitchen counter, silver candelabra and blackened cloth in hand. She looked up when I entered. “Did you find them?”

  I answered with a relieved smile.

  “There’s a mercy. You didn’t bring them back?”

  I explained my reasoning.

  Aggie rubbed the tarnish off heirloom silver. “You did the right thing.”

  “I hope so. I bet I broke some law—aiding and abetting in the delinquency of a minor or kidnapping or something.”

  “That reminds me. Detective Jones called.”

  All my organs screeched to a halt. Lungs stopped breathing. Heart stopped beating. Brain went blank. “Why did he call? What did he want?”

  “He
just asked for you to call him as soon as you got in.”

  I picked up the phone. “Did he leave a number?”

  “It’s on the pad.”

  I squinted at Aggie’s tiny writing, dialed, waited, then said, “Detective Jones, it’s Ellison Russell returning your call.”

  “I heard about Grace. Are you all right?”

  How to answer? I swallowed and searched for the right words. Seconds ticked by.

  “Ellison.” The way he said my name felt like a caress.

  No man should say my name that way. Ever. I almost blabbed everything. Only the sudden tightness in my throat saved me.

  “May I count on your discretion?” he asked.

  As long as he never, ever used that tone and Ellison in conjunction again. “You may.”

  “Not a word, Ellison.” Thank God he’d switched back to cop mode. “Not a whisper.”

  “I promise.” What had happened?

  “The only reason you can know is because your daughter is missing.”

  “Who told you about that?” I’d reported a missing car, not a missing daughter.

  “I spoke with India Hess. She told me.” Clipped, cool, cop-like, no extraneous information, no emotion, yet somehow his unspoken disappointment with me spoke louder than words.

  I let a few seconds pass looking for a response.

  “You could have called me.” His tone was softer, more human, too close to the purr that had nearly melted my bones.

  “You’re homicide, not missing persons.”

  “True, but I wasn’t talking about me with a badge.”

  Anarchy as a man, one willing to step in and help me, was overwhelming. “I don’t like asking for help.”

  He chuckled.

  The sound reverberated down my spine, all the way to my toes. They curled.

  “No one likes asking for help,” he said. “But life is like that Bill Withers’ song.”

  “What song?” I asked. Anarchy was quoting song lyrics?

  “Lean on me. No one can fill the needs you don’t let show.”

  A far too graphic image of Anarchy Jones filling my needs flashed across my brain. I gulped air, choked, waved at Aggie for a glass of water. When my body stopped trying to expel my lungs and I regained the power of speech, I said, “The next time Grace goes missing, I’ll call you first.”