The Price of Grace

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  She described seeing the candidate to the door, beginning to say goodbye, feeling fuzzy. She’d mumbled, tried to grab the door handle for stability, and the world had gone dark.

  Though her heart ached on hearing these details, the logical part of Gracie could see how this tape could’ve been altered to have the questioner ask different things, making it look like her mother was speaking about a different man. The questions were very leading. The interviewer doing her best to make it easy on her mother.

  Thirty years ago, it might’ve been difficult to alter the tape, but nowadays, video was easily manipulated. The interviewer asked questions like a talk show host, leading the narrative, filling in blanks.

  But Gracie could see the honesty of it. There wasn’t a question in her mind what her father, Senator Rush, had done.

  On screen the corners of Sheila’s eyes tensed as she paused her story, obviously trying to keep control of her emotions. She fiddled with her necklace, whisking the cross back and forth along the chain. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Are you okay?” the questioner asked. Sheila’s hand stopped and her cheeks grew pink. She nodded, swallowed, then shook her head.

  The interviewer changed her line of questioning. “Are you okay to go on?”

  Sheila’s caramel-brown eyes lifted. She drew up her shoulders. So young. She nodded.

  “Can you tell me what happened to you next?”

  She dropped the cross as if it burned, balled her hands into fists on her lap as the tears slipped from her eyes.

  Gracie could feel Momma and Leland across from her, ready to pounce forward and rescue her from this truth. Dusty put his hand on her knee, squeezed. It steadied her.

  Sheila remembered nothing else of the night. She’d woken up the next morning on the couch. Alone. Her body hurt.

  Not just her “front part,” she said, wiping the tears, “but the back too.”

  Gracie tensed. The interviewer very gently asked, “Were you a virgin?”

  Sheila lowered her head, nodded again, and broke into sobs. The tape winked to black. When it started again, Sheila had a tissue balled up in her right hand.

  “I didn’t go to the police. It’d be him against me. I didn’t even have citizenship. I wouldn’t matter.”

  “You matter,” Dusty told the girl on the screen.

  Gracie’s heart opened even more to him. She did matter. All of the women and girls who were discounted and not believed, who were taught playing a role or playing by the rules would keep them safe. And then had those rules, that very role—the one that didn’t let them question a senator or act rudely toward him—be the thing that doomed them. She mattered.

  Gracie stopped the playback. The rest Momma had explained to her. Her mother had made friends with one of the Parish girls, a sister Gracie saw more on TV than in real life. She was an international reporter. Back then, she’d just been starting out and had been reporting on the campaign.

  Sheila had confided in her. Maybe hoping this reporter would believe her. She had. But she hadn’t taken it to the police. She’d taken it and news of the pregnancy to Momma.

  And Momma had done what Momma did. She’d sought justice. Gracie didn’t even hold that blackmail against her.

  She delighted in it.

  She hoped Rush had squirmed all these years, fearful. She hoped that he’d doubted his safety, doubted his choices, regretted his decisions. She hoped he’d spent years looking over his shoulder, checking the locks on his home, years terrified of what might happen.

  Just as her mother had done.

  Momma turned from the screen and focused on Gracie. Her dark eyes were wary. Maybe sad. “Do you have any questions, daughter?”

  She had a thousand questions. About why she’d never been told. About who else in the family knew. About all the different ways Rush had been blackmailed. About…a thousand useless things. Because right now the important question was…

  “How do we take Rush down? Not just stop him or whoever is after me, but stop that creep from becoming president.”

  She saw Leland smile a that’s-my-girl smile. Darn tootin’. Questions could come later. When she could go back to fixing her club, making it up to the injured, perfecting her creeper detection software, expanding the underground railroad, protecting any women who might think, like her mother had thought, they didn’t matter.

  Then she would ask her questions. And make it up to Momma for sending that email.

  Momma looked to Dusty. “And what of you? Are you interested in joining us?”

  Her heart in her throat, Gracie swiveled in her seat to look at Dusty. She flinched at the uncertainty on his face. She tried not to feel the sharp ache in her chest. After all, he’d come to take down their vigilante organization, not to join it.

  Leland made a disparaging sound. “We can’t trust him.”

  Dusty met Leland’s straight stare with one of his own then squared his broad shoulders. Gracie wondered if Dusty knew just how intimidating that looked.

  “I appreciate your concern, Leland, I do,” Dusty said, crossing his arms and making himself look even bigger. “But if I wasn’t already all-in, I wouldn’t be here, revealing company secrets, breaking the law. I’m hesitating because I’m not sure you will let me do my job.”

  “Your job as an agent investigating my family?” Leland said in a tone that had as much bite as growl.

  Dusty’s legs were flung out in front of him and crossed at his ankles. Casual. Except for his crossed arms and the storm in his eyes. “That’s the issue, ain’t it?” He was laying the Southern on thick. “I’m gonna need in on everything you got information-wise on Rush. On the blackmail. Anything that will help me identify the real threat and work with you to figure out how to end it. Something tells me y’all aren’t prepared to give me what I need.”

  Gracie fisted her hands, dug her nails into her palms. Dusty had basically asked for proof of the family’s vigilante activities and the blackmail. He’d asked them to trust him, take him not just into this house, but into the inner circle. The exact thing he’d explained to her that he’d wanted when he’d first contacted Tony.

  Leland nodded as if this confirmed his suspicions. “We have a whole organization here. Trained people who’ve been on hiatus and are itching for work. We don’t need you.”

  Gracie took a deep breath. Let it out. “You’re wrong.”

  Momma and Leland gave her their attention. She held her head high and took the leap of faith. “We need him. He has valuable information, and more than that, I trust him.”

  A brick of silence crashed into the room. It thudded down, kicked up dust, and sent Momma’s and Leland’s eyes rapidly blinking.

  She chanced a peek at Dusty. He smiled at her, smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. His heart, as the saying goes, in his eyes.

  “See there,” Dusty said. “Always knew you had good instincts.” He addressed Leland and Momma. “And I think a good family. So if you can’t offer me the same trust, maybe you can trust the facts. Facts are, I got no reason to go against you right now. I’m off the case. Punched out my boss. Sleeping with the enemy.”

  He winked at Gracie. She shook her head, bit back her smile.

  Leland and Momma exchanged another long look. And though it was subtle, Gracie saw a signal pass between them, a tip of Leland’s chin, an acceptance.

  Momma clasped her hands together. All business. Except for the jingle of the bracelets on her arm. “What do we know so far?”

  For the next forty minutes the group exchanged information. The flow of ideas and facts set the energy in the room buzzing. It reminded Gracie why she needed a team. Why no one person could do this on their own. And she was genuinely grateful to them, her team. For seeing the things she couldn’t, for using their talents and skills to aid her.

  Though, of course, that didn’t
mean they’d always say things she wanted to hear.

  “Although I dearly respect Victor,” Momma said, after Gracie told her that he’d been helping her on the case, “how focused could his investigation be when still recovering from severe injuries and simultaneously picking up the slack for his partner—now overseas with Justice.”

  The implication was obvious. He isn’t Superman. We need to reevaluate his research on the Rush family.

  Leland, as was so often the case, picked up the ball Momma had started rolling and ran with it. “Tell me what you’ve learned about Rush’s family. All of them, including the wife.”

  Another long discussion of the facts, in which Dusty added that the odd coincidences around John and El couldn’t be discounted, but his money was on Porter.

  Momma nodded. “Porter is a good place to focus our attention.” She fiddled with the series of gold bangles on her wrist. “But not just him.”

  She looked at Leland. “I don’t know, but the attempts on Gracie’s life, they feel…personal.”

  Leland cocked his head to the side. They stared at each other and simultaneously said, “The sister.”

  “Layla?” Gracie said, the shock in her voice obvious. That was not where she’d thought this was headed.

  Dusty whistled like he’d had an epiphany. “She has multiple degrees in computer engineering, including as an artificial intelligence programmer,” he said. “Would’ve been able to mess with the security at the club, allowing those guys who broke in access through the tunnel.”

  True. But how would she have known about the tunnel?

  “She could have altered the video,” Momma added. “Maybe her brother gave her the copied video, the one we sent to Andrew years ago. Maybe they are working together.”

  Layla? Could it be? Could she want her father to be president that badly? Or was this something else, anger over being ousted from her role as the one and only Rush girl?

  “She’s rich, too,” Gracie said. “And Victor says she has millions of Twitter followers.”

  “No one easier to manipulate than someone with a bit of hero worship,” Dusty said.

  As soon as the idea was out there, they began to build on it, on how Porter and Layla had conspired. The ease with which they tossed out different hypotheses drove home the fact that the group had grown comfortable with each other in the last hour, if not certain of each other.

  In the end, Gracie’s head was swimming. “So we have some theories here, but not anything concrete. If Layla did set fire to the club in order to get information, she made a big mistake. The servers dump anything incriminating automatically when 911 is called. But I’ll take a closer look at Layla. And if it’s her, I’ll find her weakness, a point of attack.”

  If Layla thought she could out-hack her, she was dead wrong. Emphasis on dead.

  Leland, who’d taken out his iPad and was typing madly on it, said, “Evidence that she doctored those videos would come in handy.”

  So would a confession. Sheesh. “Is it possible for me to use the computers down in internal security?”

  Leland eyed Dusty, shook his head. “No. Much too risky right now. Not only because of the FBI investigation, but we have reason to believe the NSA is directing satellites toward the house. We can do nothing that will send a signal from that area.”

  That made it harder. “Fine. I’ll head back to the club tonight—”

  “Tonight?” Momma said. “But what of dinner?”

  “Tomorrow then. The upstairs wasn’t damaged and my computers will more than do the job.”

  “And since they’re eager for the work, I’ll assign someone from internal to do a thorough investigation of the other Rush children just so we are certain.”

  “I’m going to take a closer look at John and El,” Dusty said. “Something is definitely not right there. Too many coincidences.”

  And like that, the group had their marching orders. Find proof of who was after them and stop them. Hard.

  And now that she was focused on it, and not on keeping secrets from Dusty and Momma, now that she had a team, she knew everything would fall quickly into place. As long as whoever was after her, betting money still on Layla and Porter, didn’t have anything else up their sleeves.

  Chapter 49

  Wearing a borrowed suit from what Leland called “stock,” Dusty took in the immense dining room. It was dominated by a giant table long enough to bowl on. Above, gnarled wood beams crossed the fifty-foot high vaulted ceilings, graced with a shiny row of assorted chandeliers.

  The table was set with blue crystal goblets, gleaming blue plates, and vases of blue roses running down the center.

  Swanky didn’t cover it. The same little girl he’d seen earlier ran past him and into the dining room, shouting, “Gracie’s here!”

  His heart echoed her shout as he spun to greet her.

  Good Lord, that wasn’t fair.

  Blood exploded through his body like a hot, painful grenade.

  Grace. Had dressed up.

  She wore an off-the shoulder sapphire dress that swathed around her hips like a second skin. Her hair was down, kissing those bare shoulders. The swing of her stride, in heels that showed off every sleek muscle, set his heart racing and dried his tongue.

  She came to a stop before him. Her eyes traveled down his body. “You look handsome all dressed up.”

  This was the point where he knew language should come out of his mouth, something spectacular that let her know exactly how positively gorgeous she looked—and how he’d worship every inch of her later tonight. And every single night thereafter.

  All he could manage was a restraining hand to his chest, because she’d shot him dead center.

  Her face warmed with heat. “You like?”

  He liked. If only he knew sign language, he’d tell her just how much he liked.

  Aw, hell. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her so close the heat of contact drew a hiss from his mouth. And then he kissed her, a slow torture that spoke every phrase he really wished he could say.

  He drew back, and she, as if she’d heard every word, whispered to him, “I hope that’s a promise.”

  He found his voice. “It’s the start of a promise.” A bit rough, but he’d found it. “You get the rest later. So eat up now. You’ll need nourishment.”

  She blushed a heart-revving red, and they turned to find seats at the table—the giant dining table where every eye was now turned on them.

  Including her mother’s and Leland’s.

  Aw, damn, he’d forgotten where he was.

  Completely unfair.

  * * *

  After giving him the sibling tour, Gracie led him to the head of the table where they sat near Leland and Mukta. Much to his surprise, Leland and Mukta spent dinner acting like regular parents. Talking with kids. Telling others to take a seat. Keeping people in line. Helping Bella, the little Russian kid, cut her steak.

  Bella had made a good choice with the steak. His was damn good. The whole night, so far, had been damn good.

  And although Dusty had been around two other Parish kids, being with a whole bunch of them was a totally different experience. The thing he noticed most, besides the sense of unity and inside jokes, was the swearing.

  Though Momma had reprimanded a few people close to the head of the table for swearing at dinner, in general it was allowed. He supposed raising kids from shit situations all over the world, getting them to heal, feel trust, was probably higher on the agenda than etiquette. Not to mention raising proper ladies was probably at odds with raising vigilantes. So he had to know.

  Swallowing a sip of water—seemed a sin to wash down even the memory of that steak—he leaned over and whispered to Gracie, “Seems like your whole family cusses.” He nodded toward Bella. “Pretty sure I heard that five-year-old swear in Russian. So what giv
es, why don’t you ever cuss?”

  She scooped up a forkful of potatoes. “Growing up, I was a multilingual curser.” She lowered her voice. “Except for the b-word, of course.”

  Did she mean bitch? Wasn’t that the girl word? They all used it. “Help me understand that ‘of course.’”

  She swallowed the potatoes. “That word…it’s like, I guess, a trigger. A lot of my sisters came from situations where that word labeled them. It described their femaleness as lesser. A wrongness. It’s taboo. Hurtful.”

  He looked around the room at the kids eating and laughing. Decided right there and then he’d never use that word again. “So you used to cuss, but not that word.”

  “Yep. Until I had a baby. John hated my cursing. He wouldn’t let a damn pass without comment. And really, he was right. I mean, who curses around a baby, even if it is in another language?”

  Practically every adult he’d ever met. “So I get why you stopped, but you still don’t swear.”

  She looked down at her nearly finished plate. “Yeah. Well, it’s my way of still being a mom. And my penance for letting Tyler go.”

  She meant her way of never forgiving herself. Damn. Hurt his heart. “Remember that story I told you about me getting sick and my uncle coming into my dad’s ministry to get me out?”

  She put down her fork. “Yeah.”

  “My mom called him. She called him to come get me and take me out, even though she knew if she’d tried to go with me, my dad never would’ve let me go.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Yep. She gave me up, so my life would be better. That’s what you did for Ty. Given the choice, you sacrificed yourself to keep someone you love safe.”

  A tear slid down her face. She let it sit there, exposed and raw. He brushed it away for her. “I know you wish you could take back that time you weren’t there,” he said. “But you have to realize you did what you did out of love.”

  More tears. This time, she wiped them aside. Then tipped up her head and kissed him on the lips.

  Dusty jolted. Not just from the kiss. At the pinch. He adjusted himself and looked down at Bella. The corners of her dark eyes squinted in anger. “Don’t make Gracie cry.”