Grace Doll by Jennifer Laurens Read Free Book Online Page A

dashboard speakers. It’s hard to concentrate on the road, my insides are so jumbled.
    I just don’t know what I want to do with myself.
    It’s then I notice the black Bentley behind me. How long has it been tailing me? Maybe it’s not following me. There are a million Bentleys in Los Angeles. But this one doesn’t have a license plate on the front.
    Gaze flicking to my rearview mirror, I take the first right I come to just to see if the car stays with me. It does. Too bad I’m driving the van. I could really use something with guts.
    I take another fast right. So does the Bentley.
    Smashing my foot down on the brake pedal, I force the van to stop. Car in park, I leap out the door and into the path of the oncoming vehicle. It screeches to a stop. The windows are black, I can’t see in. I race around to the drivers’ side and slap my palms on the window. “Come on, get out! Let’s do this!”
    Whoever is driving presses on the gas. The car rounds my van in a burst of acceleration. No plates on the back.
    My heart’s racing. The car looks just like the one outside Dad’s house last night.
    I pull out my cell phone and call Rufus Solomon.
    “Brenden.”
    “Are you following me?”
    “I’m at my home. Can we meet today?”
    “Is one of your people following me?”
    “My people have more important things to do then follow a teenager around. Can we meet today?”
    My heart finally starts to slow. I’m standing in an empty street, the van idling. If this guy isn’t following me, then who is? Warning swarms inside my gut. “I can’t today.” I end the call and get back in the van.
    My cell phone rings again. I don’t answer. Mr. Solomon’s perseverance slivers like ticks under my skin. Edgy, I continue driving to the beach. When I finally arrive, I park, get out and stare at the angry sea. Fog sneaks close to shore. The air is uncommonly cool for January, but I always keep an extra wetsuit in the car. I’m not sure I want to surf. Today, red flags dot the beach, the lifeguard station. Nobody’s in the water. A few people walk dogs along the cement path cutting through the sand. Other than that the place stretches on in emptiness.
    If I dive in I won’t come out, not with the ocean thrashing like it is.
    My cell phone rings again. This time it’s Judy. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
    Give me a chance to breathe.
    I grab my sketchbook, pencil and cross the cool sand. Crashing waves, wind, and the call of seagulls usually soothe but my cell phone keeps ringing, interrupting my efforts to chill. I put the phone on vibrate and shove it in my backpack.
    Sand cradles me when I plop down, settle in. I take a deep breath. My pencil scratches over the paper in short, jagged bursts sketching the choppy mass of sea. My phone vibrates continually.
    I rip the page from the sketchbook, crush it between my fists, stuff it in my backpack. Take another deep breath of thick, sea air. Start over.
    Dad loved that I drew. “You’ve got a gift, that’s wonderful. Have you considered art school?” he’d asked.
    “Art’s not what you call a real job.”
    He eyed me. “I faired pretty well.”
    Yeah. It’s hard not to let resentment infect me. Of course I’d like to spend the rest of my life creating.
    Once, when Judy had been away and I’d been at the house for one of our once-a-month visits, he’d taken me into his office, shut the door and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He’d pulled out the snapshot of Grace Doll—the one from the safe deposit box— and said, “There’s a face for you to draw.”
    After I’d sketched the photo, Dad wanted it, but Mom got first dibs on anything I drew. Mom took one look at the Grace Doll image and her eyes had widened. She’d examined the drawing: Grace’s long dark hair—the floppy hat— peasant blouse. I could tell by the look on her face she was conflicted. “It was a color photograph?”
    I nodded.
    Mom looked off in thought, then