Page 115 of Quiet Beautiful Things

Sierra: It’ll take me at least a day to fly back, and that’s assuming I catch a flight out today. I feel so helpless just sitting here. I caused this. I may have messed everything up. And I can’t do a damn thing.

Me: You might be overreacting. It’s been a while. Maybe he’s given up on finding her.

Sierra: He hasn’t. He’s still reading the fake texts I send every week. He responds as if he’s her. And I can see he read the accidental one shortly after I sent it.

Me: Okay. Don’t panic. He’s a long way away.

Sierra: It was 2 days ago. I made it to Chicago in half a day, remember?

Me: I’ll leave right now. I’m sure everything will be fine. Text me when you get a flight. I promise to let you know when I find her.

I stash my phone in my pocket and replace my dress shoes with sneakers. It’ll be faster to run to the school than to wait for an Uber. I open the door and freeze because someone is blocking the way. Relief courses through me when my brain processes that it’s Tara.

Then relief turns to terror as Grant steps behind her, pushes her through my doorway, and locks the door behind them.

Chapter Forty-one

41

Ellie

I don’t even hesitate. He’s holding onto Tara, so I run into my bedroom, lock the door behind me, and go for the gun in my closet.

Something hits the back of my leg. It’s part of my door. Grant kicked it down. I’m fumbling with the code when I’m slammed to the floor. My head hits something and I see stars. When my eyes regain focus, Grant is standing over me, a fistful of Tara’s shirt in one hand and his gun in the other.

He’s yelling, but I can’t make any of it out.

He kicks my foot and yells again.

He turns to Tara and I see her say, “She’s deaf,” as if he didn’t already know. But it’s like he doesn’t know, because he continues to yell.At me.

“I can’t hear you,” I sign, knowing good and well he doesn’t understand, but those basic signs are fairly intuitive.

“Stop doing that,” he says, as I’m finally able to read his lips now that he’s not yelling. He looks at my hands in disgust. I think he says, “You look ridiculous.”

“What do you expect me to do, you idiot? This is how I communicate.” I keep signing all the shit I’ve wanted to tell him even though I know it’s only for me.

He strides forward and kicks my right hand with his boot. I wince in pain as I look at my hand, fairly sure he dislocated my forefinger.

“I said stop it!” he shouts, nostrils flaring.

It pisses me off that I have to keep looking at him to assess the situation. His face is red, his temple pulses in anger, and his jaw is clenched in fury. He towers over me, tall and buff. His dress shirt is soaked with sweat stains, and he’s sporting a police badge on his belt, as if he’d left work the second he saw Sierra’s text. Another gun is holstered to his side. He has two guns now.What am I going to do?

Behind him, Tara looks ashen. And it’s now that I see a bruise forming on her cheek.

“You monster,” I sign with my left hand.

He tries to kick that hand too, but I pull away.

He goes for my arm, and I swat him away until he gets purchase on my bicep and hauls me up, about pulling my shoulder out of the socket.

He forces Tara and me into the other room and onto the couch, then he paces the floor, occasionally hitting himself on the forehead with the barrel of his gun in frustration. I silently wish for it to go off and shoot him.

Tara is frozen to the couch. She’s stoic. She’s not going to fight. I’m the one who has to get us out of this. But how can I if I can’t talk to him?

He yells something at Tara and waves the gun around recklessly. He’s acting like a maniac, and I wonder if he’s high on drugs.

There’s only one thing I can think of to do. “Grant!” I say in what I think is a shout.

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