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Authors: Jennifer Laurens
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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
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
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