Meet Me in Barcelona (22 page)

Grace held the piece of paper with the little dashes clutched in her hand. On it she had written the clues.

Skirt. Person. The true victim.

“Do you have any idea what we're looking for?” Jean Sebastian said. “A painting of a woman in a skirt?” They stood in the Palau Aguilar, the first of a series of courtyards connecting the townhouses that made up the Museu Picasso. After the incident in the viaducts, Grace found Jean Sebastian waiting for her on the Serpentine Bench. She had promised Jean Sebastian that she wouldn't try and go it alone anymore. It wasn't safe. Seeing the fear on Jake's and Carrie Ann's faces convinced her of that.

“I have no idea,” Grace said. “But look at this place. I read that it dates back to the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries.”

“The architecture is stunning.”

“It's a mutt,” Grace said.

“What does this mean, ‘mutt?' ” Jean Sebastian said.

“It's a mix of medieval, Renaissance, and baroque styles.”

“You've always had your nose in a book,” Jean Sebastian said, pointing at her as if he had her pegged.

“How did you know that?”

“I just have this theory about people.” He didn't tell her what it was. Instead, he took in their surroundings. Grace watched him as he looked around and found herself wondering what he had been like as a boy. Had he ridden his bike up and down cobblestone streets? She imagined he had been active, and friendly, and charming. Just like now. She'd better stop thinking about him like that. Silently they headed up the grand staircase that led to the first-floor balcony. The windows adorning the beautiful stone palace were also from various time periods, but Grace had already said enough. She could have spent an entire day in the first courtyard alone. She felt a spasm of anger. She should be enjoying the architecture. With Jake. This was supposed to be a holiday, and instead she was on some kind of demented scavenger hunt. It took everything she had to keep her emotions under control. Throwing a fit would not help her find Jake any faster.

Jean Sebastian touched her elbow as they entered the museum. “What's your theory?” Grace finally asked. She was dying to know.

“That we are born with our personalities,” Jean Sebastian said. “If you read a lot now, you read a lot as a kid. A mean old lady was a mean little girl. We cannot hide who we are. Oh, we can change the outside, maybe, like this museum has done, but inside, we are who we are. I find that comforting.”

We are who we are.

The true victim.
So what did that mean? Who was to say which one of them had endured the most torture?
Torture.
Did the clue refer to some masochistic piece of art? That sounded more like Salvador Dalí than Picasso. “I honestly have no idea what we're looking for,” Grace said after they paid for their tickets.

“Did Stan Gale used to play word games with you?”

“No. Then he would have actually had to speak to me. And I would have had to look at him.”

“You mean he was shy?”

“Not exactly. He was just—awkward. He'd stare and stare at me without any kind of awareness that he was being rude.”

“Sounds like he had a crush on you.”

“That's what Carrie Ann said. But at the time I didn't know that. I just thought he was creepy.”

“So you wouldn't look at him?”

“I know it sounds awful.”

“I'm not judging. I'm just curious.”

“Stan didn't win the looks lottery. He was overweight. He had acne. He had these greasy, floppy bangs that hid his eyes—which frankly were his best feature. I felt bad for him. But he just had this intensity that gave me the creeps. I'm not proud of it now, but I could barely make eye contact with him.”

“It seems as if he's definitely trying to communicate now. I'd say it would be well worth your while to try and figure out exactly what he has to say.” Grace shook her head, not because she disagreed with Jean Sebastian, but because she had no idea how to figure out what Stan was trying to say. She still wasn't even a hundred percent convinced it was really him. She had yet to look up a phone number for Lydia Gale, because she was still the last person Grace wanted to disturb. Or face. Who knew what hearing from Grace might do to her. Grace's family had been the one that foisted Carrie Ann off on the Gales. It had been Grace's tears that had moved Lydia to invite Carrie Ann into her home. Grace would only contact Lydia if she had no other choice. If this was all just a big lie, if Stan had nothing to do with this, Grace wasn't going to be the one to stir up a hornet's nest.

So for now Grace and Jean Sebastian hurried through the museum, feeling totally lost. There were so many stunning works. Picasso had such a range. There were so many variations, starting with his work at nineteen, which was very realistic, all the way through his Blue Period, and Rose Period, and Cubist works. Grace wished she could just enjoy the experience, pretend she was a tourist strolling through the masterpieces with her boyfriend before dinner. Jake should have been at her side. What were they doing to him? Was he all right? This was insane. Why was she wandering through this museum without a clue as to what she should be looking for besides “female” and “skirt.” Picasso had too many paintings of females, and mistresses, and yes, most of them were wearing skirts. In the few seconds she wasn't panicking, Grace had to marvel at how unbelievably beautiful some of his simplest sketches were—just curving lines, a brief sketch of an owl, a goat, or the famous bouquet of flowers. How was it possible to sketch a line so beautiful that everyone stopped to stare?

Grace stopped and turned to Jean Sebastian. “I love his works,” she said. “But I don't understand this game. Or the puzzle. We could be in here for days and still not have a clue.”

“Why don't we buy the catalogue with all his works. We can go sit somewhere, have a drink, and go through it.”

“But why are we even playing this game? I think I made a mistake. I should have gone to the police.”

“Whatever you say. If you want to go, we will go.”

He was being so reasonable. She was starting to feel like she wanted to just lose it, have a complete mental breakdown. Call her dad and tell him what was going on. Go to the police. But she'd heard it directly from Jake's mouth.
Just do what he says
. “I agree. We'll buy a catalogue. But if we go through it and don't understand the clue—it's straight to the police station.”

Grace usually loved taking her time in museum gift shops. This time, she went straight to the counter and asked for their most recent catalogue. It was beautiful and thick. Even this would take time. She went to pay cash for the catalogue, then stopped. The saleslady watched Grace as she clutched her euros. She should save her cash. She didn't have her ATM card and wouldn't be able to get more. She'd also forgotten to cancel her credit cards and call her bank. There was just too much going on. She took out Carrie Ann's credit card and handed it to the saleslady with a smile. “Better save my cash.”

The lady smiled back, although Grace could tell she was only being polite. She swiped the credit card and slid it back to Grace. Then, the saleslady looked at her computer screen and frowned.

“May I see your card again?”

“Of course.” Grace slid the credit card back and the woman snatched it up. Keeping it aloft in her left hand, the woman opened a drawer with her right. Grace was a little slow. In the second it took her to think—
why is the saleslady holding up a pair of scissors?
—the lady had already snipped Carrie Ann's credit card in two. “Go,” Jean Sebastian whispered in her ear. He took out his wallet and gently shoved Grace. Without looking back she quickly headed out to the courtyard. By the time she reached it, she was breathing hard. Why had she run? Obviously the card had been canceled, but she didn't need to behave like a criminal. Of course she was using someone else's credit card. Stan, or Carrie Ann, or whoever had kidnapped Jake wanted her to run out of money. Jean Sebastian was going at a fast clip when he tucked his arm around Grace's shoulder, and together they hurried out to the street.

“This way,” he said, plunging them into the most crowded spot.

“Don't tell me she's chasing us,” Grace said. “I hardly think a canceled credit card—”

Jean Sebastian stopped, and Grace bumped into him. His cologne was incredible. She felt a shot of desire. How could she? With Jake in trouble. She jerked away from him. “You replaced your wallet,” she said to Jean Sebastian.

Jean Sebastian patted his pocket. “Yes. I bought a new one. And I always keep extra credit cards back in my room.”

“Smart. Jake tried to tell me not to keep all my belongings in one place.”

“You can never be too careful.” He handed her the catalogue.

“Thank you,” she said. “I'll pay you back.”

“It's the least thing on my mind.”

“It's getting too complicated,” Grace said. “I think we have to go to the police station. Now.”

“Stan or Carrie Ann must have reported the credit card stolen,” Jean Sebastian said. “I don't think you should go to the police.”

“They won't know I had her credit card,” Grace said. “I don't have it anymore.” Grace headed toward the metro. “Besides, maybe it was just at its max. We don't know it was reported stolen.”

“It's a good guess,” Jean Sebastian said. “Especially if someone is playing games. Think about it. Don't you think they've anticipated your going to the police?”

“I think they're trying to scare me off going to the police, which means they don't want me to go to the police, which means I should go to the police.”

“I don't like it. I think they're three steps ahead of us.”

“You don't have to come with me.”

“But I'm a witness.”

Grace stopped, and Jean Sebastian bumped into her. He put his hand on her hip to steady himself. Peered down at her with those intense light brown eyes. She backed away. Another three seconds and she would have kissed him.
I'm sorry, Jake. It's just chemical. And it's so unbelievably strong. But I love you. I love you
. Grace looked away from Jean Sebastian as she spoke. “You'll tell them you were drugged too?”

“Of course. Although there's no telling if they'll believe us. It's not like we have proof.”

“You said you passed out after one drink. That's not proof?”

“The drugs are no longer in our system. We don't have the glasses we drank from—and we didn't see anyone put anything in our drinks. Even if they thought we were telling the truth, police need evidence.”

“It doesn't matter. We have to get it on the record anyway.” As they neared the police station on La Rambla, Grace could see a line winding halfway down the block. “Oh my God,” she said.

“There is a lot of theft in Barcelona,” Jean Sebastian said.

“And we forgot a picture of Jake. Again.”

“Ayayay.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm reporting it anyway. I'll bring a picture later.” Grace watched the people in line, wondering what had happened to them. Most likely here to report stolen wallets and passports. What she wouldn't give to have just that problem. Although her passport was gone too, and she was going to need a police report to be able to fly home. Home. She ached for it. But she wasn't leaving without Jake. No matter what.

As Grace stood in line, thinking, worrying, she came to a conclusion. Carrie Ann wasn't married to Stan. Carrie Ann had upped her game. Rafael was helping her, and that was it. Carrie Ann was the one who liked to drop clues like a demented tale of Hansel and Gretel. There was no other explanation as to why Carrie Ann and Jake were handcuffed together and why Jake seemed so afraid. The long silences, the way he had looked at her. He'd been trying to tell her something. Was it—
Open your eyes, she's doing it again! . . . ?

Unless Jake had bought Carrie Ann's victim routine. Grace hated the thought of Jake's falling prey to Carrie Ann. Just look at the way he had held her hand. Comforting her crocodile tears. What other lies was she feeding him? Normally, Jake was very astute. Analytical. But he was probably exhausted. Drugged. Handcuffed. He might not be thinking clearly. Especially if Carrie Ann was spinning a tale. About Grace. About their past. Everything according to Carrie Ann. It was a terrifying thought.

They had barely moved in line. Was she even in the right line? It seemed to her that drugged, identity stolen, and boyfriend kidnapped should trump lost wallet, but there didn't seem to be any weeding out. Jean Sebastian must have sensed she didn't want to talk, for he stayed silently by her side with his arms crossed. Once again, she realized how lucky she was that she had him. Even if Jake wouldn't be happy.

“I need to find a restroom,” Jean Sebastian said when they were finally moving up.

“I'll be here,” Grace said.

“If I don't see you, I'll meet you by the chairs.” He pointed to a waiting area where those who had made it through the first portion of the line were filling out paperwork.

“Great,” Grace said. When she got up to the desk, the policewoman spoke to her in Spanish. “Do you speak English?” Grace asked.

“Yes. What can we do for you?”

“I don't know where to start. Okay. Last night I was drugged.” Was it really just last night?

“What drugs did you take?”

“I didn't take drugs. I was drugged. Somebody put something in my drink.”

“Did you wake up somewhere you didn't recognize? Were you a victim of sexual assault?”

“No. I mean I kissed a guy without remembering it, but—no—I woke up in the bathroom of a club—”

The woman handed her a clipboard. “Fill this out. We will need the name of the club—”