Grace Doll (18 page)

Flicking on the left hand turn signal, she navigates the car through snow-buried streets. After a moment, she says, “Jonathan knew Rufus would suspect something if we all disappeared at once.”

“We?”

“They,” she stammers. ‘They’
jumps in my head, sending off warning bells. “Jonathan had a high profile job at the studio. Oscar, on the other hand, wouldn’t be missed.”

“So, Solomon refused to believe the police findings in spite of the investigation?”

She nods. “You saw Rufus,” she says, wary curiosity in her voice. ”Tell me about your meeting.”

“He had me come to his place. The house is pimped out like a shrine to Grace Doll. Pictures everywhere—I even saw my drawing.”

Her eyes widen. I’m not sure I should keep going, but she doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “The man looked like he had on a Halloween costume. Seriously grotesque. Scarred, he said, for trying to save his wife.”

I watch her closely for—what? I’m not sure. Her lips pinch when I say the word, ‘wife.’

“Anyway, he told me the typical ‘sorry for your loss’ b.s. then asked if Dad had bequeathed me anything.” I snort. “Like I’d tell him. He kept asking how close I was to Dad. He wanted to buy me. Even though things sucked between Dad and me, I’m not—I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know Jonathan loved you,” she says. How can she know that? But her eyes glisten—and the mood in the air shifts from uncertainty to what feels like truth.

“Anyway.” I clear my tight throat. “I told him to get off my back and then I left. He was so mad I thought he’d claw my face off. Then he had someone tail me. You wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go to, to get out of town. And, still, he managed to have someone follow me.”

She grips the steering wheel.“Someone followed you…here?”

Damn.
“Well, to Utah, yes. But not to your house.”As my explanation rushes out, her pallor whitens. She steers the car with one hand, the other covers her mouth. “I grabbed a cab, and, when we took off from the airport nobody had picked the guy up.

“It’s okay.” I reach across the cab and lay my hand on her shoulder. “You’re okay. She’s not in danger anymore, remember?”

Her body trembles. Her eyelashes flutter, like she’s going to lose consciousness. The car swerves. Instinctively, I grab the wheel, try to steady it. We’re alone on the street, but the car fishtails and slides out of control.

Chapter Twenty-One

~Grace~

“Are you okay?” His hand—on my shoulder now, then on my face, checking for injury. His body snugs next to mine with an urgency to check for safety, but my body betrays me, wanting, fantasizing something else.

Idiot. You could have killed us.
Panic sears my nerves. But Brenden’s nearness—his touch—sends that tornado of fire through me. Pulse pounding, I suck in a breath. My mind flashes an image of me wrapping my arms around him.

Stop this.

He’s so close. To kiss his lips…to become a part of him. ”Yes, I’m fine. I didn’t mean to—I don’t know what happened.”

What must he think?
You should have stopped yourself back at looking at him. This is out of control now.

“You sure you’re okay?”he asks.

I nod.

Scraping his hands down his face, Brenden lets out a low sigh and eases back, sliding to the passenger’s seat. “You want me to drive?”

“No.” I lock my hands on the wheel, press my foot on the gas. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t know how you drive in this stuff. Scares me.”

When will this voracious flow ebb?
Don’t look at him. Something else, something else.
I turn on the radio. Music has always soothed me, and I’m relieved that one of my favorite singers is on the satellite station. As the lyrics float in the air, the melody irons out my crimped anxiety.

Out the corner of my eye, Brenden watches me, a half grin on his lips. “What?” I ask.

“Frank Sinatra?”

“You know Frank?”

“Not personally,” he laughs.

My cheeks heat. “Frank Sinatra relaxes me.”

“Whatever works while we’re driving.”

Lyrics about longing seem ironically apropos and I find myself smiling. The song melts the space between us, questions besiege me: what kind of music does he like? Is he a romantic? Does he like to dance? Take long strolls? I know so little about him.
He’s right here, don’t be afraid—ask.
“What kind of music do you like?”

He scrubs his jaw—now starting to shadow with dark stubble, accentuating the sharpness of his jaw. “A lot of different kinds. There’s a place for everything, in my opinion. Except maybe this.” He grins. “Kidding. Dad loved him.”

“Jonathan had excellent taste in music. But I never understood his interest in Simon and Garfunkle.” I realize how familiar my comment sounds, and a thick awkwardness clogs the air.

He eyes me. “Between him and Mom, I got a pretty broad exposure to the arts.”

“Diversity is always good,” I say, neutralizing the subject because I don’t want to dampen the mood. “I need to fly to Los Angeles.” I pull onto our street. “As soon as the airport is open.”

“What about Oscar?”

“He’s in good hands, and he knows I’m going. Since you’ll be returning to Los Angeles, maybe we can… fly down…together.”

I shouldn’t try to read anything into what he might be feeling. But I can’t deny that the look of pleasure in his eyes excites me.

“Yeah,” his voice is rough. “We can do that. I should call the airport, see what they’re doing with my flight—rescheduling and stuff.” He pulls the cell phone out of his pocket. His jaw twitches.

“Something wrong?”

“Solomon won’t leave me alone.” His eyes skim my face, as if dissecting every inch. Heat builds beneath my cheeks.“The man’s out of his mind—literally.” He pauses, and the air tenses with something heavy. “He thinks you’re Grace Doll.”

Breath stalls in my lungs.
Keep driving, you’re almost home.

“I told him—and—maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe it wasn’t my place, but you deserve to grieve in peace.”

“
What
did you tell him?”

“I told him she was dead. That she’d died two weeks ago.”

Oh god no.
Light headed, I press on the gas pedal, the car surges up the driveway, kicking back snow. At the house, I slam on the brakes and the car halts. I shove the gear in park. My hands lock around the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have, but you looked so scared…I thought if he knew he’d back off.”

My heart scrambles in my chest. “You’ve made this worse.”

“How?” His tone is defensive. “You want that man hounding you? He’s out of his mind. Someone needs to lock him up and throw away the key. Or better yet, he needs to just die.”

It seems hours drag by, though it’s only seconds before I can take a breath into my lungs.
This really is going to happen. I am going to see Rufus face to face.
Brenden’s expression is hurt, tentative, waiting for my response.

“If I even thought there was a chance of compromising Grace and Oscar,” he leans close as if he might jump out of his skin, “I wouldn’t have said anything.”

I’ve wounded him. He thought he was helping me, but he doesn’t know the truth. This is my fault. “I know you wouldn’t. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”

My gaze shifts to the front window of the car, the driveway with fresh footprints to our porch. The front door is wide open. “Oh no.”

Brenden opens the car door and jumps out, slogging through snow, his gaze intently on the ground.

I leave the engine running and exit, wrapping myself in a hug. My body’s shaking.

“Call the police. I’ll check it out.” Brenden hikes through the imprints left in the snow and disappears inside. I make the call to 911. My head reels. I close my eyes against horrific scenarios invading my mind.

The sound of feet thudding causes me to open my eyes. Brenden’s face is pale, taut against the cold. He comes right to me. I prepare myself for a physical assault when he touches me. His breath clouds the air between us. “It’s a mess in there.”

Rufus.

I turn and vomit into the white snow at my side. Bent over, I heave until the muscles in my stomach cramp.

Brenden’s touch on my back sends soothing warmth through my troubles. I suck in a deep breath, stand upright and meet his concerned gaze.

“I’m going inside,” I say, passing him. He follows me.

The furniture’s intact, but every drawer has been opened and dumped. I wade through files and papers littering the floor. Photographs are gone from the shelves. In the kitchen, every drawer that had any paperwork has also been emptied.

Behind me, Brenden picks up the house phone and calls the police.

Without touching anything, I start down the hall. The bathrooms are untouched, so are the linen closets. Oscar’s room has been turned upside down, so has my office. Every bolt of fabric has been unraveled. Each handmade blouse, jacket, skirt and dress has been ripped from the hanger and tossed. Oscar and I had never gotten lazy about anything that would identify us. Every time we moved I opened a safe deposit box for storing important files or paperwork.

My heart skips when I enter the wreck of my bedroom. Anger roars through me. I’m more certain now that I have to confront Rufus and get him off my back.

Sirens boom outside. After a few minutes I hear the voices of the police officers mingle with Brenden’s as they come down the hall toward the bedroom. They ask questions. I answer, all the while my blood charges with the need to put all of this to a stop.

It seems to take forever to fill out papers. They check out every inch inside and outside the house.

I tell the officers I’m leaving town and they inform me they will check on the property while I’m away and continue the investigation. Then they leave.

“Do you want me to help—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I can’t take the time to do this now. Something else is more pressing.” I start toward the front door.

“You still want to leave?”

I’m more determined now than ever. “Yes.”

He grabs my shoulders. Craving sears my blood, soaring through muscles and bone, melting me.

“Maybe you should take some time and —what’s wrong?” Panic breaks his voice. He gathers me up—sending another disabling wave of desire crashing through me. I long for this. And more. Even as my heart beats with terror.

He carries me to the couch and gently lays me down. His palms frame my face, the contact paralyzing my lips, the paralysis racing down my throat, neck, spreading with abandon until my hands and feet are prisoners.

“We have to leave,” I rasp. “Right now.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No! No, I’m all right. I promise.”

“But you almost passed out—twice now. You should be looked at.”

“I’m fine, really. Please, this is not about my health. I’m certain it’s just shock. I need to get to Los Angeles as soon as possible. Once I do that, everything will fall into place.”

He seems to weigh my fears. Ponder my words. His gaze makes a cautious sweep of the living room before stopping on me again. “If you say so. Don’t you want to pack some clothes?”

I shake my head. “I have a panic bag in the trunk.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

~Grace~

We drive in silence. My hands, locked in a white-knuckle grip on the wheel, refuse to relax. My head suffocates with anticipation. I can’t pretend that confronting Rufus, speaking to him after all this time, won’t be the most difficult moment of my life. Any fantasy I’ve had of relishing revenge is blacked out by this reality: I’m going to see him in the flesh.

My gaze flicks out the back window, at the side mirrors to see if we’re being followed.

“Why do you have a panic bag?” Brenden’s voice is quiet.

“We all had them.”

He scrubs his jaw. “I guess I just don’t get the reason for it. Grace and Oscar were hardly in the position to pick up and take off. Wasn’t mobility an issue? Age? Health? What did you guys think would happen if Solomon found her?”

“Years of habit are hard to let go of, Brenden, and our privacy was something we guarded, literally, with our lives.”

“Yeah, but you make it sound like there’s still some real threat. Grace is gone. Solomon’s an invalid. He might bark loud, but what can he really do? Tell the world that she really, really is dead? Everyone already thinks that. He’ll just wind up on the cover of the
STAR
sounding like the psycho he is.”