Free Broken Grace by E.C. Diskin Page A

thinking?” Hackett asked.
    “This girl he hooked up with, it sounds like the girl in the naked photos. Also sounds kinda like that girl in the Facebook post.”
    “True. And the ‘Congratulations’ comment on her post—you think that’s about the engagement?”
    “Maybe. But that’s kinda weird, right? If that girl is the one in the photos, would she be saying ‘congratulations’ about marrying someone else?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “We don’t know if they’re the same woman. Cahill had a lot of Facebook friends, and many were women. He may have been quite the player.”
    Hackett’s thoughts turned back to Grace. Why was she ever involved with this guy?
    “You know what else,” Bishop said. “Think about those naked photos. You know what’s odd about them?”
    “What?”
    “Who took them? They only capture the girl from the back, like someone was at the foot of the bed.”
    “You think someone else is involved?”
    Bishop shoved some tobacco inside his lower lip before answering. “Don’t know. But the photos were taken somewhere other than Cahill’s house. It wasn’t his bed; it wasn’t their bedroom.”
    “What about a webcam? Maybe it was part of some kinky sex-tape-type stuff.”
    Bishop spit out the window and continued. “But if I’m gonna cheat on my girlfriend, why would I have photos of another woman and me in the bedside table, where Grace would easily find them?”
    Hackett wondered if Grace had found them or if she’d suspected Cahill was cheating. It would be a couple of days before the crime lab would know if her prints were on the photos.
    “What if I wanted to blackmail someone?” Bishop said. “We now know Cahill took five thousand in cash out of the bank a week before he died.”
    “True. But we also know he had bought a ring by Sunday—a week before the murder. Maybe that’s what the money was for.”
    “Also true.”
    “But you’re thinking maybe this blonde girl was trying to break up Michael and Grace? Maybe she’s the one we should be looking for?” He spoke disinterestedly, to avoid betraying his hope.
    “I don’t know,” Bishop said before spitting into his cup. Then he laughed. “What if the blonde was Grace? Like some kinky game, like she’s wearing a wig and they’re spicing up the love life—playacting? Showing up at the bar in a wig, pretending to be a stranger.”
    Hackett faked indifference. “It’s possible, I guess.” It wasn’t possible.
    “Can’t imagine my wife doing crazy shit like that, but maybe Cahill was a lucky bastard.”
    Until Saturday anyway.

SEVEN
    W HEN G RACE OPENED HER EYES, she looked up at the water-stained ceiling, trying to figure out how long she’d been sleeping. After Lisa had dropped her at the house, she’d poured more coffee and made toast. The dry, crusty bread had crunched in her mouth, but the flavor of the jam and the cream cheese she’d smeared atop it was nonexistent, as if her taste buds had fallen out of her head with everything else. All she got was an amplified crunch in her ears and the useless chewing of flavorless, day-old gum. Nauseated and dizzy, she brought her coffee and meds to the living room, turned on the television, and sank into the couch, trying to focus on the screen. But her vision blurred. Her lids felt weighted. Eventually, she closed her eyes and the cushions swallowed her up as she fell deeper and deeper into a semiconscious state, able to hear things but unable to move.
    Now a new program was on and the sun had fallen. She stood and leaned on the frame of a nearby chair to get her bearings. She felt drunk, definitely worse than before.
    She sat back down, holding her head, reviewing what she knew. The days were blending into one another. Someone’s dead, she remembered. Police station. Driving with Lisa. A wave of nausea returned. She had to get outside and breathe fresh air. She grabbed the coat hanging in the hall, slipped on a pair of boots, and walked out the front