Free Broken Grace by E.C. Diskin Page B

door.
    The snow-covered landscape appeared like a painting, frozen in time; her breath, visible in the cold air, wafted into her sightline. But the picture was tilting—or was it she who was tilting? She wrapped her arms around the closest porch post, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly, trying not to upset her rib cage while inhaling the cold air—the life—into her body to get clear, to lift the fog.
    After a few minutes, she opened her eyes. The spinning had stopped. She walked around toward the back of the house and spotted a small white shed off to the right, closer to the woods. She peeked into its windowed door at the fertilizer, garden tools, and a red, rusted wheelbarrow propped up against the wall.
    Then, like a flash or a dream, she was sitting in the wheelbarrow. Riding in it. Laughing. But she was young. She looked back at the large, open yard behind her and saw a young girl, squealing with delight. The sun was shining on the little girl’s long brown hair, and the green grass was covered with fallen autumn leaves. The girl was holding on tightly, looking back and giggling at the man pushing her around the yard. Dad? He was tall, thin, fair, with freckles and a red beard. She blinked and the sunshine, grass, and leaves disappeared. The world went back to white.
    Something was unlocking inside her mind. She walked from the shed toward the tree line and looked into the woods at the underbrush, the bent twigs, coated in thorns. The lightness and joy left her. Tension crept up her spine. A single gunshot echoed loudly in the distance. She turned around to locate it, but there was no other sound. Was the shot real? She heard a scream—a little girl, crying. Grace spun toward the sound, but there was no one. She spun around again and again, until she lost her balance and fell to her knees in the snow. “What’s happening?” she screamed to the sky. Her voice echoed through the woods.

    Wesley Flynn strolled into the station with the faint smell of stale beer on him, a travel mug of coffee in hand. His unlaced Timberlands, unbuttoned flannel shirt, and beard stubble suggested a quick and recent dressing, despite the afternoon hour. Hackett thanked him for coming in on such short notice and brought him into the interrogation room where Bishop was waiting. Flynn pulled off his knit cap, brushing through his disheveled hair. Bishop told him to take a seat.
    “What’s going on, fellas? Am I in trouble or something?”
    “No,” Bishop said. “We were just hoping you could help us piece together Michael Cahill’s last days. You said you saw him last Sunday, a week before the murder, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Was that at The Rack, after work?”
    “That’s right.”
    Bishop shared what they’d learned from the bartender, but Flynn didn’t recall the blonde. “Doesn’t mean much though,” he said. “I was playing pool most of the night.”
    “Do you recall Cahill talking about getting engaged?”
    Flynn swallowed visibly. “I don’t remember. Honestly, we were both there, but I was playing pool most of the time.” He grinned at them, as if his easygoing smile could be a substitute for real information.
    “Can you tell us the names of the other guys who were there?”
    Flynn thought for a second and shared the names of a few other construction workers. Hackett took notes before pulling up the Facebook post. “Do you recognize this woman?”
    Flynn scrutinized the picture. “No.”
    “It was apparently taken at the Four Winds Casino. It was posted on Friday before the murder.”
    Flynn shook his head, but frowned.
    “What?” Bishop asked.
    “We swore that place off. I mean, my wife absolutely forbids me from going anymore. We lost far too many paychecks after a few too many. I thought Mikey was done with it too.” He stared at the photo. “What do you think it means?”
    “We’re not sure yet,” Bishop said. “And you didn’t see Cahill again until you found him the following