Grace Doll by Jennifer Laurens Read Free Book Online Page B

back at my sketch.
    “Have you ever seen it before?”
    She shook her head and handed me the drawing. “No.” An odd silence had tightened the air.”But then there are probably a lot of pictures of Grace Doll out there the world hasn’t seen.”
    I hadn’t had the heart to tell her Dad had kept that one locked away in his desk.
    “You think I could get anything for the sketch?”I’d asked.
    “A Grace Doll sketch that good? Why not?”
    I ended up entering the piece in a contest at the Hollywood Civic Center for young artists and I won five hundred dollars.
    The sketch sold to a collector.
    Dad was angry I’d sold it. He didn’t talk to me for three months after that.
    That was the only money I’d ever made with my drawings. Mom didn’t mind my love of art—as a hobby. But she wanted me to major in something practical like business or law. I got that.
    My pencil seems to draw of its own accord now. Soft, rounded strokes. Cheeks. Eyes. Wispy hair, blown by the sea breeze.
    Grace Doll.
    The picture from the safe deposit box comes to life in my head. Her eyes blink. Her lips part, as if she’s going to say something.
    I darken the sky around her face using fingertips to smudge in angry clouds. Her eyes look at me with that look I can’t identify. She’s got a smile that steals your soul, and I spend forever making sure I catch that essence in my sketch.
    By the time I finish, the sky over my head is two shades darker, the temperature in the air has dropped a few degrees. I hold the drawing in my hands and stare at it.
    She’s alive.
    I’ve purged myself and finally rise, gathering my crumpled papers. I cross the empty sand back to the street. You can’t run away from what life gives you, Mom used to say. Her death taught me that. The pain is deep, and penetrating as a sunburn, and feels like it’ll never go away.
    Solomon’s not going away unless I make him go away. I’d rather do anything than return to Dad’s house. If I meet with the man, it’ll kill some time, and I’ll make some money. Maybe Judy will be asleep if I can b.s. the old guy long enough.
    I retrieve my phone. Fifteen calls from Judy, twelve from Solomon. Jeez.
    I hit Solomon’s number and wait.
    “Yes Brenden?”
    “I can meet now.
    A long pause follows. “Twenty-one Chalon Road. I’ll expect you within the hour.” Click.
    Who does this guy think he is? Part of me wants to call him back and tell him to shove his demands where the sun doesn’t shine. But I need the money, and I’ve got the day.
    I head to Beverly Hills.
    This winter’s the coldest it’s ever been in Los Angeles. I shudder, crank the heater—which labors to blow warm air. I plug my earbuds in, but the rock blasting from my iPod doesn’t distract me.
    What does the man want?
    It’s hard to see addresses in this part of Beverly Hills. Everything’s designed to hide. I round the corner of a massive property surrounded by a wall covered in ivy. A scary looking black iron gate closes off the driveway. A stone plaque in the brick arch houses the address.
    I stop at the security tower. A camera, a phone. I pick up the phone. It rings once.
    “Hello?” A voice addresses me.
    “I’m here to see Mr. Solomon.”
    “Name?”
    “Brenden Lane.”
    “Proceed.” Click.
    On top of the ivy-drenched walls sit cylindrical video cameras. The gates slowly open. A narrow, foliage-lined drive seems to never end, winding around and around. At the top I see the mansion: white stucco with a red tile roof. Its windows, French doors, and balconies are shrouded and dripping in red bougainvillea.
    I round the fountain and park. The fountain is King Neptune, surrounded by mermaids holding their breasts while water spews. Okay.
    A fourteen-foot door made of hand-carved wood sits deep inside a mosaic-tiled vestibule. I lift the brass knocker and let it fall, sending a clang into the cool air and echoing beyond the thick barrier, through the house.
    The door opens. I’m greeted by the