Grace Doll (9 page)

Judy stands in the door, arms crossed over her chest. She shakes her head. “I knew this would happen someday.”

I pick up the innards of my pillow.“How could you know this would happen? Are you clairvoyant?”

“Your father and his secrets. That’s what this is all about.”

I snort. She cocks her head. “I’m right. You watch. This is about him.” She turns, stops. “Keep the window closed and locked.”

“I never opened it.”

“You might be able to lie to the police, but you can’t lie to me.” Her critical gaze tries to puncture my face.

She leaves. No offer to sleep in one of the other rooms, a pillow to replace the shredded one in my hands, nothing like that.
Dad, how did you live with her?

I slam the door.

“And don’t slam my doors!” she shouts from somewhere. I pull out my cell phone and dial Solomon.

“Brenden. It’s late.”

“You ransacked my room.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lucky I don’t tell the police.”

“Tell them what? That you had a conversation with an old friend of your father’s? After you insulted him, you suspect him of ransacking your bedroom?”

He was right. Even if he was the only possible explanation, I didn’t have any proof except what my gut told me.

“Go to hell.” I click off the phone, ready to smash it against a wall. I stop myself. After blowing out a breath I dig into my pocket and pull out the letter from Dad. I stumble through the mess to my bed and sit.

My blood shivers. I retrieve the photo, bent now from being stuffed in my pocket. Grace Doll stares at me. Is that invitation I see in her eyes? Another emotion radiates from her face, but I can’t put a word to it.

Timing? I go there. Give her the box. What more is there to it? And what the hell is in the damned box that’s so important? I turn the paper over, but it’s blank on the other side. My free hand skims the front pocket of my jeans where the key protrudes.

Thankfully the box was in my backpack.

Robotically, I begin cleaning. Drawers have been emptied. Lamp shades dented. Profanity pours out of my mouth.

Judy bangs on the door. “Stop swearing.”

Like I haven’t heard her drop a few f-bombs—even in French. Though the door’s closed, I flip her off. Everything’s ruined. It’s like someone wants to make sure I’m left with absolutely nothing.

As the hours pass, the haze of anger and frustration quivers into dread. Soloman. No way will I tell him Grace Doll is alive.

Her face—those paintings and photographs hanging in Solomon’s house, including my sketch—stick in my head.
She’s alive.
Even though the world thinks she’s dead.

I tug out the photo. She’s not like the girls at school, the ones who know how to pose, who eat up every inch of frame being their own subjects. Grace was aware she was being watched, but I get the feeling she didn’t like it—like she was waiting for something to happen. There’s guardedness in her eyes.

And I want in. But I’m not sure why.

Lying in bed is torture. I’m surrounded by night but I can’t sleep. I pluck the photo of Grace from my side table.

I stare at Grace’s face.

When I close my eyes her image is burned in my retinas.

Chapter Eight

I wake seeing Grace’s eyes in my mind.

Dude, you’ve got a problem. Dreaming about an old lady is disgusting. She’s gray-haired and decrepit now.

A clock on the side table says it’s five-forty-five a.m. Did I sleep? I drag my limbs from bed and into a standing stretch. The room looks like a dump.

I slip on jeans and pull my phone out of the front pocket, ready to call the lawyer and ask him about getting my hands on the trust money until I remember the hour. He’s not going to be in the office at this time of day.

Sliding the phone back into my pocket I glance out the window. The black Bentley without license plates is parked across the street, its parking lights on. Again? My pulse skips. I’m paranoid. Lots of people in Bel Air have drivers. He’s probably waiting for one of the neighbors.
At five-forty five? It’s possible. People go to work at this hour.
But the car’s the same and parked in exactly the same place as the one before.

I pull on a shirt and open the bedroom door. Down the hall, Judy’s door is closed. I slip out the backdoor and jog, barefoot, around the side of the house until I’m at the gate. Chilly winter air nips at my skin, sending shivers through me.

I take the paved driveway at a full run, meaning to surprise the sucker. If it is Solomon, I can give him a taste of his own medicine. If it’s a neighbor—I’m moving out anyway, who cares what happens. I sprint to the driver’s side, try to open the door. The black windows send a shudder down my spine. I can’t see the driver, can’t see the backseat. The sedan jerks away from the curb. I have to leap back so my toes don’t get run over.

What. The. Hell.

My nerves prickle. Last night and now this? I cross dewy grass to the house, unable to stop my body from shaking.

Inside, I lock the door. I can’t concentrate. Is this how it’s going to be? Being watched. Followed. Sweat breaks out over my skin. When I get in my bedroom, the site of carnage causes my stomach to lurch. It has to be Solomon.

I dial him.“This is harassment.”

“I could say the same to you, calling me at this hour.”

“That was one of your goons out front just now.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your Bentley—the one with no license plates and black windows to hide your hideous face.”

Silence.

“I realize your inexcusable behavior is a result of your father’s negligence.”

“Shut up. Come near me again and I’ll call the cops.”

“You said that already. I believe you know more than you’re letting on about my wife. I’ll double my offer. Four hundred dollars.”

I click off the phone. That’s all he’s willing to pay to know where Grace Doll is? She’s alive, living less than a thousand miles from here. The impact of this twilight-zone reality smacks me in the chest.

I dig through my wallet for Mr. Ridgeway’s card. It’s six a.m. now. So what if it’s early? I’m desperate. He picks up after three rings.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Ridgeway, it’s Brenden Lane.”

“Brenden. Everything all right?”

No.
“Yeah. How do I get ahold of the trust Dad set up?”

“You and I will have to make arrangements so you can sign the paperwork.”

“I need to do that as soon as possible.”

We plan to meet at his office. That gives me two hours to check out travel options. I turn on my laptop and begin the process of making a flight reservation, but I don’t have a credit card. I’m going to need that trust fund money if I’m going anywhere.

The last thing I want to do is face questions from Judy. I shower, dress, and pack a change of shirts and boxers into my backpack. I slide my sketchbook, and drawing pencils inside, grab my keys and am on the road with an hour to kill. Cuppa Joe’s is near the freeway entrance. I pick up a coffee and get on the 405. Toluca Lake is just over the hill. Traffic crawls in the morning through the pass.

Dick Ridgeway’s corner office on Riverside Drive is easy to find. I park in the back and jog to the double glass doors in front. A blond receptionist smiles and leads me down a hall. The place smells like Dad’s chair: a mix of cologne and leather.

My nerves rattle to get this whole strange thing over with. I feel like a clock has been wound tight inside of me and it’s ready to spring. Dick explains that I have access to three thousand dollars for travel expenses. Once the package is delivered the entire amount—$150,000 goes to me, with the provision that the contents of the security deposit box remains in Grace Doll’s possession. Stunned, I can’t speak.

He hands me a leather checkbook and a credit card. He eyes me. “Whatever Jon wants you to do, he considered it his number one priority. It’s all he talked about the last time I spoke to him. He also told me over and over again that this needs to remain private. ”

I nod.

Dazed from the news, my stride back to my car is slow. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Why didn’t Dad tell me about this? A stab of guilt thrusts through my gut. All of my anger and frustration—things I’ve said—I could have avoided all of that, if he’d told me. Why did he wait until he was gone?

Because this is about her, not you.
I hate that my head reverts to his neglect, that I can’t accept and enjoy what might be a gift.
No gift. This is him, thinking of only him. Using you.

“This is effed up,” I mutter, starting up the engine. Just what does he expect from me? Loyalty? He must have viewed our relationship as something he was okay with, to ask this of me. The suggestion surprises me, but at the same time Dad, with his casual, easy-going nature might have come to that conclusion.
Get this errand over with so you can get on with your life.
I snort and pull into traffic. What life? At least I will have some money once I get the old lady her box.

Grace’s face drifts into my head. What was so special about her that Solomon and Dad were willing to do anything for her? If anybody found out she was still alive—the tabloids would explode with the news. I have a momentary fantasy play out in my head again: me telling the world that, yes, Grace Doll really is alive.

I’m going to see her.
With my own eyes, I’m going to see Grace Doll—Hollywood icon and love goddess. Vengeance shoots through my veins. I’m going to tell the old crone how she ruined my life, Mom’s life, because Dad couldn’t let go of her.

My mind is locked on Grace while I drive home. And as far as I’m aware, I’m the only person on earth who knows she’s still alive. That’s trippy. What’s her life been like? I can’t imagine all that she’s gotten to do. The places she’s lived. Has she married? Does she have kids? Dad could have told me more.

Your father and his secrets.