Praefatio: A Novel (2 page)

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.” I pushed away thoughts I couldn’t possibly share.

“You can trust us, Grace.”

“I’ll just wait for my mom, if that’s okay.”

I know what I am
. Memories came flooding back, not all of them good.

Earlier, news had broken of the biggest story Peak, Missouri, had ever seen: the arrest of a rock star for unspeakable things. A statement from the alleged victim of Gavin Vault, lead singer of Venus Unearthed, would put our little town on the map even more so than when Mom’s Broadway career took off. Poor Officer Bladen was sent to babysit me. If successful in getting me to talk, she might finally make detective—the first female on the force to achieve that rank—and make her Army vet dad proud.

Sarah Bladen’s life flashed before my mind’s eye.
Wow
.

“It’s not gonna happen, your promotion,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Officer Bladen quickly scribbled “psych eval” on her little pad. I didn’t actually see the words. I just knew it, the same way I knew about the
Auktionsverk
auction house. News about her relationship with a married officer on the force was about to surface. But that scandal would have to wait until this one died down.

Officer Sarah Bladen sighed heavily. “When you’re ready to talk, let me know. In the meantime, I’ll go see if your mom’s here. We can’t seem to reach the Larsons.” She threw the newspaper she’d been holding on the table in front of me and left the room. I grabbed it before it hit the tabletop microphone. I flipped the paper around to find Gavin’s photo under the headline:

ROCK STAR ARRESTED IN DISAPPEARANCE OF MISSING PEAK GIRL

Gavin Vault, lead singer of Venus Unearthed, was arrested on Christmas Day for the kidnapping and attempted assault of Grace Miller, daughter of Broadway actress Vivienne Miller. Miss Miller, seventeen, was reported as a runaway two months ago by her legal guardians, Victoria and Kenneth Larson, with whom she’d been living since her father, Gabriel Miller, died in a motor vehicle accident. Mr. Vault is considered a person of interest in the disappearance of Miss Miller’s brother Remiel, fifteen, and the Larsons’ daughter Jennifer, also fifteen. The two teens were reported missing three weeks ago. At the time of Mr. Vault’s arrest, Miss Miller was found on the Vault estate in questionable physical condition. She is believed to be suffering from a condition similar to Stockholm syndrome.

Something in the article triggered a stream of coherent thoughts and memories. The media could not have possibly known of Gavin’s arrest, unless it had all been planned, leaked on purpose.

When I tell them, when I finally answer their questions, it’s not gonna be good.
They thought I was protecting Gavin, that I was his victim somehow. What would they say when I told them what really happened? What would Mom think?

My stomach churned as I took the last sip of the liquid they proudly called “coffee.” The door to the interrogation room swung open, seemingly on its own, and stayed that way. A feeling of dread covered me as I stood to throw the coffee cup away.

Gavin appeared across the hall, leaning against the wall. My stomach churned again, and a great sadness followed. Where had he come from? He hadn’t been there a second ago.

Every bit the rock star and not a hair out of place, he certainly didn’t look as if he had just been arrested for unspeakable things. Gavin laughed with the same officers who’d carted him away from his home on Christmas Eve, at ease in the clothes he’d been wearing when they took him away in handcuffs.

Can you hear me
? I tried speaking to him telepathically. He didn’t answer or even acknowledge that I’d spoken, so I opened my mouth to call to him.

Our eyes met, and my mouth clamped shut. I was suddenly at a loss for words. One of the officers began leading him down the hall. I wanted to run to him, but my legs were jerked back into place by what felt like shackles, though there weren’t any on me. I tried again, but could only move about a foot from where I stood before being yanked back into place.

“Gavin!” My voice echoed off the walls of the interrogation room and out into the hall, making me sound way more desperate than I’d intended.

Gavin lowered his head as if the sight was too much for him. Hot tears streamed down my face, stinging my skin.

“Please, Gavin, wait!”

He kept walking, as if he didn’t know me at all.

Officer Bladen reentered the room, closing the door behind her, as if a closed door could shield me from what was coming. Still, I heard them laughing and talking outside; it surprised me that I could hear them through the walls. Or was I just hearing voices again?

“You really make a lasting impression, huh, Vault?” One of the cops joked, followed by laughter from the others. By his tone, they seemed like they could have been old high school buddies.

Rage and humiliation got the best of me. I lunged forward, only to be pulled backward by the invisible shackles around my feet.

My landing wasn’t as graceful as I would have liked. Refusing help from a rather amused Officer Bladen, I stood, dusted off my knees, and took a seat.

***

We sat in silence, occasionally staring at one another, listening for anything at all. The only interruptions were Officer Bladen rubbing her arm at seemingly timed intervals and the dings of her cell phone. The fly was gone. He caught the flight out when Bladen opened the door. Smart fly. I found myself missing his flitting and buzzing.

A knock on the doorframe brought us both out of our bored trances. I think I was actually counting Officer Bladen’s arm hairs at the time.

“Ms. Miller,” intoned a cop who poked his head in from the hallway. Leaning in slightly and holding onto the doorframe as if the room were contaminated, he continued, “Your mother’s arrived and is right outside. I suspect you’ll want to start with your videotaped statement now.” He crooked a long index finger and motioned for Officer Bladen to follow him into the hall. And then she was gone, leaving only the lingering smell of perfume.

A voice came from somewhere on the other side of the two-way mirror. “Hi, honey. Go ahead with your statement. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

A red light on the video camera I hadn’t noticed until now above the mirror came on.

“Mom?” I stood, ready to leave with her.

“Sit down, Grace,” Mom’s voice ordered. “Just give your statement, and this will all be over with.”

“Mom … you’re not coming in?” My voice was small, almost mousey. The sound of the metal chair scraping the concrete floor echoed in my ears as I sank back down.

“No, honey, just please give them your statement so we can be done with this whole mess.” Mom had not come to get me at all.

Sergeant Mullane’s voice boomed through the overhead speakers. “Miss Miller, please. Look into the camera, state your name for the record, and start with your earliest recollections leading up to when we found you last night, how you met Mr. Vault, came to be on his property, anything he may have said about your brother, Remiel, or Jennifer Larson from as far back as you can remember. Just take your time, Grace. If you need a break, let me know.”

I squirmed, took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and spoke into the microphone. “Archangel Grace Ann Miller.” My voice was barely above a whisper. I could still take it back.

“I’m sorry, Grace. Can you repeat? Not sure we caught that,” Sergeant Mullane requested.

I know what I am. I know what I saw.

“Archangel Grace Ann Miller,” I repeated, only slightly louder.

“Did she say what I think she said?” It was Officer Bladen’s unmistakably snarky voice.

“Grace, I’m sorry. Can you please repeat your name and speak directly into the microphone in front of you?” Sergeant Mullane instructed.

“Archangel Grace Ann Miller,” I stated as loud as I could without yelling.

I didn’t hear anything after that.

To Tell the Truth

Memories flew past like rewind on a DVR, only they seemed more like movie trailers, vivid as if they were happening at that very moment. If I closed my eyes, I could almost forget I was sitting in a police station, sit back, press play, and watch my life go by in HD. But I had no popcorn, and these people seemed serious as all get out. So I ignored the stench of the borrowed sweater and began my statement. I was going to tell them
everything
and not stop until they understood—until Gavin and I were free.

***

From as early as I can recall, my parents kept secrets. Not secrets like where my surprise birthday party was going to be, or where Christmas gifts had been hidden, but life-altering secrets, like we weren’t who I thought we were.

When Remi was eight and I was ten, I convinced Remi to join me in an eavesdropping session and took a strategic position at the top of the stairs behind the replica Impressionist painting that Mom had always insisted was real.

“I think we should wait until he is old enough to understand. No sense in telling him things that will only cause confusion. Besides, he’s maturing at a nice pace. Why upset things?” Mom said. She and Dad were holed up in Dad’s office, door open just enough for us to hear them.

I’m not sure why Dad even bothered trying to argue with her. She was never around long enough to be part of the family, and yet, he allowed her to make critical decisions on our behalf.

“But the folks in town,” Dad countered. “
People
can be cruel. He’s already big for his age. We should tell him. And Gracie? Don’t you think she has a right to know that she is
not
insane? Hearing voices, seeing things. It won’t be long—” Dad broke off, defeat in his voice. The way he said the word “people” was strange. What he said about me, even stranger.

I’d never told anyone about the voice I’d started hearing a year ago, but somehow they knew.

“
Grace
,” Mom corrected him. She hated that he called me Gracie. “—will be just fine. She’s only ten, for Pete’s sake. And as for the people in town? Honestly, Gabe. That’s what you’re worried about? I think we have more important things to contend with. You just do what you’re supposed to. Be there for them. And if you’re really that concerned about Grace, get her some charges,” she concluded as if that settled the argument.

Wow. What the heck is that supposed to mean?

Dad challenged her, something I’d never seen him do before. “Maybe we should talk to Michael. He put this whole thing in motion, after all.” There was urgency in his tone; they no longer seemed to be talking about telling Remi that Dad was not his biological father. Besides, everyone, including Remi, already knew.

“I’ve already spoken to Michael,” she said. Then it was really settled. The house was quiet for hours after.

I hated seeing Dad so powerless, but what could I do? I was just a ten-year-old girl who heard voices and saw visions. And, Mom? Seemed she was happy to go on letting me think I was insane. Motherly.

***

My mom could charm a priest out of his collar. She had no shame. She’d always been attractive, but she was more than just beautiful. Mom had an otherworldly power over men—over most people, actually. She’d gone from winning the Miss Missouri title to marrying, having two kids and playing Greta Garbo on Broadway without missing a beat.

We never had a strong mother-daughter connection. I don’t think either of us really put in the effort. Besides, that charm crap never worked on me, ever. When she was around, I pretty much ignored her except to eavesdrop on her conversations with Dad. I guess I felt the need to protect him, to make sure he never fell too deeply into her snare.

Over the next three years, I focused on putting the pieces of that one conversation between Mom and Dad together. Remi would help sometimes, but he was too focused on his band, hockey, and a budding interest in girls—well, really one girl in particular: Jennifer Larson, to be of much help.

When I asked why he wasn’t as interested in the truth as I was, he said, “Maybe they know something we don’t. Aren’t moms and dads supposed to do that—protect us from things we don’t need to know? That’s what Mom says, anyway.”

“When did you talk to Mom?” I tried not to sound jealous. She’d been gone this time for exactly nine weeks without a single word, email or text.

“I didn’t.” The moment he said it, I knew he had lied. Remi looked past me. “I’m just saying. I think you read too much into things sometimes. Maybe you should like, you know, chill.”

I envied my younger brother’s maturity at times. At eleven, he seemed to know more about life than I did at thirteen. Then again, he was huge for his age, so maybe that had something to do with it—big brain and all.

“So you didn’t talk to Mom?” I gave him another chance to come clean.

Remi turned his attention back to me and made a face, as if he’d just remembered talking to her. “I did. But not ’cause she called me or anything, Grace. I talked to her like, in my head. She came to me. Like in a vision. It scared the heck out of me!”

Remi’s admission shocked me into silence, reverence almost. Something was happening to both of us, something we could never tell anyone about. Ever.

***

By the time I was sixteen, I’d become used to the secrets, lies, questions, and half-truths surrounding my existence. I’d accepted that I might never get answers with Mom and Dad gone, and took to writing …
Him,
the voice I had been hearing since age nine, daily. I didn’t know his name—only that
He
spoke as if
He
knew me.

I dreamed of you again. It was so real, as if you were really there. When will you return?
I can’t concentrate in school, at home. You’re all I think about, even though I don’t know your name.
Please tell me your name.

Will you come and see me?

You must think I’m crazy, writing you like this.

I love you.

Love,