by Mary Carter
“It’s a clue. Someone left it for me to find.”
Jake ran his hand through his hair. “Is there any coffee for me?”
“I left a cup by your bed.” Jake gave her a kiss on the nose, then slid off the stool. He padded into the bedroom. A minute later he poked his head out the doorway.
“Where?” he said.
“On the table.”
“It’s not there.”
“It has to be.” Grace walked into the bedroom and headed for the table. She was fully prepared to say, “If it were a snake, it would have bit you.” Instead, she found herself staring at an empty space. Not even a coffee ring. “You must have moved it,” Grace said.
“I’ve been asleep.”
Grace glanced at the other bedside table. Besides Jake’s thriller, there was nothing there. “Maybe you took it into the bathroom,” she said. She started to turn. Jake gently caught her arm.
“I’ve been sleeping. I haven’t moved from this bed until just now when you slammed the door.”
“I didn’t slam the door.” Grace headed for the kitchen. Maybe it was on the counter. But she knew she had put it on his table. There wasn’t a single doubt. Jake must have moved it. People were known to do stranger things in their sleep. Eat, walk, fight. Why not move a coffee cup? Still, it was just another strange thing on top of an already strange morning. Had someone been in the apartment? Watching Jake? “Jake. Think. Is there anyone slightly crazy who is madly in love with you?”
“Of course not. Wait.” Jake stopped. He looked up and to the right and then frowned.
“What?”
“There is one girl.”
“Who?”
“She’s about this tall.” Jake held out his hand to Grace’s height. “Gorgeous brunette hair. Hazel eyes. When she sings—”
“Har har.” Grace whacked Jake on the shoulder; he pulled her in to him.
“You really think someone was here?”
“I put that coffee cup near your bed. I swear to it, Jake. I swear to it.”
“So you think, what? Someone came in here just to steal a cup of coffee?”
“Maybe he or she was watching you sleep. The same person who left me this book. And then—I don’t know—he or she took the coffee to let us know he or she was here. Someone is messing with us.”
Wait, Grace thought. She came home rather quickly. Someone could still be in the apartment. Hiding. Jake watched Grace looking around the room. He stepped forward.
“You think he or she is still here?” he whispered. Grace nodded, grateful he was no longer hinting that she was losing her mind. Jake turned and surveyed the apartment. Grace was silently listing all the places one could hide. Under the bed. In the closet, or in the bathroom. There weren’t any windows open. But technically could someone have gone out the fire escape and closed the window behind himself or herself?
She followed Jake back to the bedroom. He crouched on the floor and peered under the bed. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. What did she expect Jake to do if he found someone? Fight? Jake wasn’t a fighter, and she didn’t want him to be. “Jake,” Grace whispered. “Let’s just go.”
Jake stood up from the bed. “It’s clear.”
Grace grabbed his sleeve. He looked at her. Let’s go, she mouthed, pointing to the door. Jake shook his head no, held up his hand. He opened the closet, and disappeared inside for a moment. Grace covered her mouth with her hands. She couldn’t take this.
“Please, Jake,” she said.
“No one,” he said. He was no longer whispering. He headed for the bathroom. Grace followed. Unlike in the horror movies, their shower didn’t have a curtain to dramatically pull open. It had a clear door. The minute they turned on the light they could see it was empty.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Grace said. “What if he or she is armed?”
“Shit,” Jake said. He pointed. There, on the bathroom sink, was the cup of coffee. It was still full. Grace slumped against the doorframe. Jake pointed at it. “I did not put that there,” he said. “Is there any chance you did?”
“No. No chance.”
Jake wiped his brow with his forearm. He was covered in sweat. “Okay. Now I’m kind of getting freaked out.”
“Call Dan,” Grace said. “Now.”
“I think it’s like four a.m.,” Jake said.
“Do it,” Grace said. “If he allowed some stalker to use him to lure us here under false pretenses, I can deal with disrupting his beauty sleep.”
“Good point.” Jake said. He picked up the coffee cup. He smelled it. “Do you think someone poisoned it?” he half-joked. Grace snatched it and dumped it in the sink.
“That could’ve been evidence,” Jake said.
“Shit,” Grace said. “I didn’t think of that.”
“We suck at this.”
“Maybe this is why nobody gets up early.”
“Agreed. Let’s go back to bed.” Jake wrapped his arms around Grace and maneuvered her back into the bedroom.
“Jake?”
“Yes, my love?”
“I want to go home.”
Jake sat on the edge of the bed and brushed a strand of hair out of Grace’s face. “Someone is just playing a bit of a game,” he said. “Don’t let that person get to you.”
“I don’t care who it is or what he or she has paid for. I’m not going to the wedding.”
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“I don’t like being played with either. Screw their wedding. But that doesn’t mean we should run home. In fact, the best revenge would be to have the holiday of our lives.”
“At least call Dan. We can figure it out from there.”
Jake nodded and kissed Grace. She put her arms around him and kissed him back. “I’ll protect you,” he said.
“My hero,” Grace said. “Now call Dan.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He planted a kiss on her nose and dug his phone out of a pair of jeans on the floor. Grace lay in bed as he made the call. She closed her eyes. Answer, she pleaded. She wanted to get these paranoid thoughts out of her head so they could thoroughly enjoy Barcelona. Please just answer. She headed to the front door of the apartment to double-check that it was locked. An envelope had been slid underneath the door. There in elegant calligraphy were their names:
GRACE AND JAKE
Grace swiped the envelope and held it at arm’s length. Grace and Jake. Her name came first.
“Still no answer,” Jake said from behind her. Grace shoved the envelope down her shorts.
“What’s that?” Jake said. Grace whirled around, conscious that the tip of the envelope was peeking out at her waist. She casually covered it with her hand. “Did you just stick something down your pants?”
“They’re shorts.” Cut-offs actually, but she was already on a slippery slope.
“What is that?” He reached for it.
‘Wait,” she said, for the first time ever blocking his hand from that region. “I’ll do it.”
“What is that?”
“Someone slipped it under the door.”
“Why are you hiding it?”
Shoot. He was angry. Why was she hiding it? It was really hard to come up with convincing lies. How did people do it? “Some girl is stalking you, and I think you know exactly who it is,” Grace said. That was certainly one way. Put the innocent bystander on the defensive. Pick a fight with the man you love. Good going, Grace.
“Bring it to the counter,” Jake said. She set it on the counter, and the two of them just looked at it. “Why are you so sure this has to do with me?”
Grace couldn’t swear to it, but Jake sounded just a tad thrilled with the prospect. “Because whoever is doing this used your work to launder the trip.”
“Launder the trip? If you’re just working your way through the alphabet, then ‘lured’ should come after ‘launder.’ ”
“Enough with the jokes. You know what I mean.”
“Are you jealous?”<
br />
“If some psycho is after my man? You bet I am.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” She took his face in her hands. It was true. Sometimes she did get jealous. She kissed him. “I just wanted to read it first. I’m sorry.”
“Should we place a bet?”
Yes, Grace thought. I bet we’re not going to like it. The feeling was so strong, not based on fact, just an uneasy gnawing churning in her. The same sick feeling she got whenever she thought about Stan Gale.
“You look as if you think it’s laced with anthrax,” Jake said.
“I was not thinking that. Until now.”
“You can look for gloves if you want, but I say let’s live dangerously and just open it.”
Grace opened the envelope before Jake could beat her to it. A card slipped out. On the front was a photo of Casa Batlló at night. The colorful mosaic tiles glowed under a full moon.
MAGIC BY NIGHT
As the sun dips into the Mediterranean and darkness descends on Barcelona, Casa Batlló is hosting an exclusive musical event on its rooftop terrace. You are cordially invited to mingle with the magic of Antoni Gaudí and engage every sense in this exquisite nocturnal drama.
A pair of tickets was tucked into the envelope. Grace pulled them out and held them up. “It’s for tonight,” she said.
“Exquisite nocturnal drama?” Jake said. He took the card. “You missed this part.” He pointed to some writing on the bottom of the invitation. It was true. Grace had overlooked it entirely. “Who do we know with the initials SBC?”
“What?” Please, God. He did not just say SBC. Hearing Jake speak the initials sounded so wrong. As if he’d just picked up a hand grenade and said, “Hey, what’s this pin?” just before pulling it. Grace snatched the card back. She had heard right. It was there in the corner, in capital letters. SBC. Sisters by Choice.
Carrie Ann.
Oh, God. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Could it? Was she here? Grace wanted to see her. It had been so, so long. She’d tried searching for Carrie Ann on the Internet but had never found a single, solitary thing. What was her life like? What was she like? The thought of seeing her again gripped Grace like the thrill of a roller coaster. Yet she was terrified. They were connected. That’s why Grace had been thinking about her lately. They were connected. She should have listened to her instincts. She should have told Jake. She should tell him now. Grace felt charged, as if she were going to explode. Why couldn’t she ever control her emotions? Should she sing now? Sing her pain?
“Does SBC mean anything to you?” Jake asked.
Yes. Carrie Ann was my sister. She’s nearby, and I knew it. I’ve felt her. We are connected. Like radio waves. Like handcuffs.
“Grace?” Jake said again. “Does SBC mean anything to you?”
Sisters. Sisters by choice. Or by force. “No,” Grace said. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”
CHAPTER 9
Grace’s mother had been telling the truth after all. Carrie Ann had gone to the hospice to see her. She asked me all sorts of questions about you. Grace held the invitation and studied it while Jake showered.
Magic by Night. Carrie Ann used to practice magic. She was wicked at pulling a quarter from your ear, she could seemingly swallow a scarf whole, never to be seen again, and she stumped Grace time and again on a card game in which she always, every single time, guessed Grace’s card correctly. All this in a freckled, fair-haired package. Some of the happiest “family” moments had come when Carrie Ann was willing to do her tricks in the den for everyone, even the boys. Grace almost laughed—it sounded horrible; did Carrie Ann twist those words around like she did everything? The Sawyers made me do tricks in the den for the boys....
Carrie Ann had planned to grow up to be the first famous female magician. Grace had always expected she would. Expected to open the New York Times or turn on the television to see Carrie Ann with her long blond hair and knockout figure in a glittering skintight dress performing a death-defying trick.
SBC. Instantly, Grace was back in the tree house on their twelfth birthday. Carrie Ann didn’t know when her real birthday was, so she decided it was the same as Grace’s. July twenty-ninth. Carrie Ann had held up the paring knife with the pearl handle. Its blade gleamed in a stray beam of sun sneaking in through the gaps in the tree.
“Swear.” With her usual flair for dramatics, Carrie Ann had thrust the knife up. Grace had followed it with her eyes. “On our thirtieth birthday, we will celebrate in Rome.” For the briefest second, Grace had imagined being thrown into the Colosseum with a roaring lion, while Carrie Ann watched gleefully. The loser would be dinner.
“Thirty?” Grace had said. It had sounded ancient. “Rome?” It had sounded far.
“Or Paris,” Carrie Ann had said, running the tip of the knife softly across Grace’s upper lip. “But I prefer Rome.” Grace had blinked, waited a few seconds and then cautiously pushed on Carrie Ann’s arm until the knife was no longer touching her face. Then, she had nodded.
“Rome,” she had repeated in a raspy whisper. Carrie Ann had scraped the tip of the knife across her index finger until it sprouted bright red blood. Then, she had handed it to Grace to do the same. Grace had flinched and shut her eyes as she swiped it as fast as she could.
“Well done,” Carrie Ann had said. Grace had swelled with pride at the compliment. Carrie Ann had quickly pressed her finger to Grace’s, and their blood had mixed.
“Now we’re sisters by choice,” Carrie Ann had said. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Grace had repeated. “Sisters.” Although she hadn’t been so sure about the choice. Sometimes she had felt a little trapped by Carrie Ann. It made her feel so guilty; what was wrong with her? She’d always wanted a sister. But did they all scare you a little bit the way Carrie Ann did? Just a little. She’d even prayed for someone like Carrie Ann long before she showed up at their doorstep with her little flowered suitcase.
“Sisters by choice,” Carrie Ann had said. “SBC. Forever.”
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. “Why do you carry that stupid book wherever you go? How many times have you read it? You do know there are other books in the world, don’t you?” Carrie Ann had been jealous of a book. She had grabbed it and ripped a corner off of the cover. “Do you like it now?” Carrie Ann had asked. “Or does it have to be perfect?” Grace had known it was some kind of test, some kind of trap.
“I still like it,” she had said.
“Just as much?”
“Yes. Just as much.” But she hadn’t. God help her, she hadn’t. She had taped the corner back on, but it never felt quite the same.
There, but for Grace, go I. . . .
Oh, God. Grace thought of the very last time she had seen Carrie Ann. At Lionel Gale’s funeral. Standing tall underneath that willow tree in a long black dress. Wearing black to Lionel’s funeral. That was Carrie Ann, all right. Grace hadn’t dared. She had worn navy blue instead. She had been so afraid to look at Carrie Ann, and when their eyes did accidentally meet and lock, Carrie Ann had seemed to be silently screaming at her. You betrayed me. I hate you. This is just as much your fault as it is mine. Every time Grace thought of that, that a man might be alive if she had just done things a little bit differently, her chest constricted, and she’d find herself gasping for breath. Sing your pain? A man’s life in our careless hands—how’s that for pain?
Carrie Ann had cornered Grace as she was exiting the funeral home. At first Grace had thought Carrie Ann was going to hurt her. She had backed all the way up into a corner of the vestibule. She had eyed umbrellas in case she needed to protect herself. That was the other strange thing. It had been raining nonstop since Grace found Lionel Gale hanging by the neck in his barn. It had been as if the skies were crying out, punishing Grace.
“You’ll be sorry,” Carrie Ann had said. Strange, it hadn’t been said like a threat. In fact Carrie Ann had sounded almost sad for Grace. You’ll be sorry. As if Grace weren’t sorry already. Stan’s
father was dead. Lydia’s husband. A man was lying in a casket just a few feet away. Because of them. Why was Carrie Ann saying, “You’ll be sorry” as if it were some future event and not the anchor that had just been lodged in Grace’s gut? For the first time in the five years since Carrie Ann had swept into her life, Grace had stood her ground.
“I never want to see you again,” Grace had told her.
Carrie Ann had given her a sad little smile. “But you will,” she had said. “But you will.”
Now, here they were, all grown up and in Spain. In five days it would be their thirtieth birthday. Grace held her breath. This could not be happening.
“Grace?” Jake said. He stood behind her with a towel wrapped around his waist. Grace had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.” Jake rested his hands on her shoulders and gently brushed his lips against her cheek. “Tell me.”
Grace jerked away. “You’re wet,” she said, hoping he’d believe that was the reason. The truth was, she just didn’t want him near that part of her. The girl she used to be. The lengths she’d gone to, to please Carrie Ann. She didn’t want to talk about Stan Gale, or Lionel. She definitely didn’t want to talk or think about Lionel. “Are you sure there’s no one at work who’s in love with you?” It came out harsher than Grace meant it. She would give anything if it were some woman from Jake’s work. Anything if it weren’t Carrie Ann. Why would Carrie Ann go through Dan? How would she even know about Jake or where he worked?
She’s been stalking me. The truth hit Grace, hard and cold. Carrie Ann was close. As close as a strange set of fingerprints on Jake’s morning coffee.
“This can’t be anyone from work,” Jake said. “I mean—the receptionist flirts with me a bit—”
Grace slid off her stool. “Lyndsey?” Dyed blond, big boobs, straight white teeth, skinny rest of her.
“Don’t go Glenn Close on me,” Jake said. “It’s harmless flirting.”
“Do you flirt back?” In the moment Grace didn’t really care. She just needed to keep talking. She needed to make this someone other than Carrie Ann. If this was Carrie Ann, Grace was booking the next flight back to Tennessee.
