by Rob Thomas
She’d never fully forgiven herself for that. Not even after she caught the rapist. If she’d just turned on the lights that night, if she’d just asked a simple question—Hey, Parker, are you okay?—she could have stopped him sooner.
And here we are again: same shit, different day. Questioning a girl who’s already been through the details more times than anyone should ever have to.
She steeled herself as best she could and pushed in through the building’s glass doors.
Hearst’s main stage was a cavernous theater bounded by red velvet. Painted across its high ceiling was a dramatic, swirling mural of the constellations—Orion with his club, Ursa Major with its too-long tail, Pegasus with wings outstretched—dotted with pinprick lights that represented stars. She entered quietly, holding the door to keep it from shutting too hard. On the stage, a group of actors were clustered midscene. Veronica sat down in the back row of plush seats.
A man at stage right held his back strangely hunched, facing a woman at stage left. Behind her a small entourage waited. Everyone was in street clothes, and it appeared to be early in rehearsals. Some of the ensemble didn’t seem to know where or how to stand yet, still experimenting with postures and blocking.
“Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst,” cooed the man, taking the woman’s hand in his. She violently snatched it away.
“Foul devil, for God’s sake, hence, and trouble us not.”
Veronica recognized the voice before she recognized the speaker. It was the same buttery alto she’d heard just a few hours earlier on the phone. Now, though, it rang from the rafters.
“For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry’s wounds open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh!”
Grace was almost unrecognizable as the exquisitely coiffed creature Veronica had seen in the surveillance photos. Now she wore slouchy boyfriend-cut jeans, a plain white tank top, and sneakers. Her hair was in a sloppy ponytail, her face free of makeup. But as she moved, Veronica could see it: that same deliberate energy, the same poise that she’d shown crossing a lobby in Jimmy Choos. She projected the nuance and subtlety of the scene to the very back of the theater.
As the scene went on, Grace took a step toward the hunched man, her fingers clenching below her chin and then falling impotent at her sides. “O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink’st revenge his death! Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, as thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!”
She was good. No, not just good…she was remarkable. Grace Manning was far more than a lovely face—she was an actress. And every word, every movement, every flourish told a story.
After the cast broke, Veronica hung back as the actors dispersed. Grace picked up a red flannel shirt from a seat cushion and pulled it around her shoulders.
No haute couture duds, no makeup, no Mouawad handbags, thought Veronica. Either the way she’d dressed that night at the Grand was just a lark, or Grace had gone radically normcore in the months since the attack. Veronica knew it wasn’t out of the ordinary for women to become self-conscious about their appearance after an assault. All part of the brain’s profoundly unhelpful self-blaming tendency: Harlot, cover thyself; had’st thou not drawn attention to thy body, thou would’st remain undefiled.
“Grace? I’m Veronica.” When Grace didn’t take her hand, she let it drop. “The show looks like it’s going to be amazing.”
Grace smirked. “Sorry we didn’t have time to get Titus Andronicus up for you. That’s the one where they rape me and cut out my tongue. But maybe it’s a little too on the nose.”
How very theatrical, Veronica thought, but she kept her face carefully neutral. In a way, she was relieved. She’d feared a nerve-racking eggshell walk through the emotional ruin of rape—shame, grief, terror. But anger? That one was easy.
“Do you want to go somewhere more private to talk?”
“No, this is fine.” Grace gestured around her. “Everyone’s gone. And everyone knows what happened to me anyway.” She crossed her arms over her chest. A faint white scar stretched from her cheekbone to her lip, zigzagging where her skin had torn under the force of the blows. “So you’re here to find out if I’m lying?”
“I’m here to find out what happened to you, Grace.”
“On behalf of people who don’t want to take responsibility for what they did.”
Veronica shook her head. “Look, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me. But just so you know, I’m not making these guys a Pinterest scrapbook of custom-curated facts. The evidence I find is exactly what they’re getting. All I want is to find out what happened that night.” She paused, watching Grace’s expression.
For the first time, a spark of emotion flickered in Grace’s eyes. She blinked, looking down at her feet for a split second before sitting down carefully in one of the red velvet seats. Veronica sat too, keeping an empty seat between them to give the girl some room.
“What do you want to know?” Grace’s voice was still steady, but softer. Maybe a shade less hostile.
Veronica took a slender notepad from her jacket pocket and flipped to a blank page. “Well, let’s start with what you remember. Can you walk me through what happened that night?”
A faint crease formed across her forehead. She looked down at her lap, her hands flat against her thighs. “It’s all come back in fits and starts—it’s kind of hard to put in order.”
“Just do your best,” Veronica said.
Grace shrugged. “All right. I showed up at the bar to wait for my boyfriend. It was around eleven. I had a few martinis, sat and chatted with Alyssa—the bartender. I knew her a little bit. I was in there a lot.”
“What’d you talk about?”
The girl frowned. “I don’t really remember. Just small talk. We used to talk about movies, TV shows. Stuff like that.”
“Okay. So you were waiting for this guy…”
“Yeah, so, he texted me to tell me he couldn’t get away. It was already around eleven. I had one more drink, and then I left to go home.” She laced her fingers together in her lap, a pale, tense knot. She was still as she spoke, but every muscle seemed rigid. “I remember going through the door to the stairwell—the door stuck a little bit, and I remember thinking, good thing there’s not a fire. I got in and I started down the stairs. And then…things get all fucked up in my head.” Grace paused for a moment, her lower lip trembling slightly, but when she spoke again her voice remained matter-of-fact. “I don’t know where exactly my memory starts to gray out. It’s like when you go to the dentist and they start to put you under and you don’t even notice the moment you let go. You just come to later, and you can kind of remember the dentist moving around overhead, and the sound of the drill, and the vibration in your skull, but you can’t put it together chronologically.”
Veronica nodded. “Do you think you might have been drugged when you were at the bar, right before you headed downstairs?”
“No, I was sitting right in front of the bartender the whole time and wasn’t talking to any guys. All I’m saying is, stepping through the stairwell door is the last distinct memory I have. And for a long time, all I could remember beyond that point was being attacked. I remembered something hitting me again and again. Here…” She touched her ribcage, below her breasts. “Here. And here.” She ran her hand along the side of her face, her jaw, her collarbone. “I remembered hearing something snap and thinking: Fuck! My fucking nose. And I know it’s probably going to sound frivolous to you, but I remembered thinking…I have an audition next week. How am I going to be Hedda Gabler with a crooked nose?”
Veronica knew from experience that it wasn’t frivolous, that it was impossible to predict or police the thoughts that floated through your mind,
even in a moment like that—but Grace kept talking.
“And then I felt something pressing down on my neck.” The girl’s long, pale fingers curled instinctively around her throat, gentle and protective even as they demonstrated violence. “I couldn’t breathe. I scratched at whatever it was and felt my fingernails bite in. That was when I realized he was choking me. He shook me. My head smashed up against something a few times.”
She looked up. Her eyes were clear, her expression bland. It would have been easy to see it as affectless—Veronica assumed that was probably how the sheriff’s deputies had read it—but Veronica saw something else. She saw the face of a girl who’d been taken apart with violence, and who’d then put herself back together with sheer willpower. She saw a girl who refused to let the story, told and retold, hurt her all over again.
“When I woke up I was in the hospital,” Grace went on. “Everything was still fuzzy; they had me on a ton of painkillers. I had a concussion and a bunch of broken bones. And he’d damaged my throat so bad I couldn’t talk. For some reason I got it in my head that I’d be mute for the rest of my life. I couldn’t shake that fear even after the doctors kept telling me I’d be able to talk in a few days.”
It all rang true: the horror, acute and paralyzing, of everything that’d been taken from her in one moment. Her body. Her sense of safety. Her voice.
“For a long time I couldn’t remember the guy’s face. It was just this horrible blurred image lingering in my brain. And I kept having these nightmares. I’d wake up screaming. My neighbors called the cops once, it was so bad—they thought I was being murdered in my bed.” She gave a hollow laugh. “Anyway, a few weeks ago I just…I finally saw his face again, in my dream. And I woke up and I knew it was real—that I could ID him. My therapist says it’s fairly common in cases with trauma. Sometimes it takes a while for the information to process. So I called the Sheriff’s Department. I gave them the description. They had me come in and look at some photos, and…and there he was.” She swallowed hard, her fingers clenching. “Right there in the book of photos. Miguel Ramirez. The guy who raped me.”
“Did anything else come back to you then? Like how he got you out of the building?”
“No. I must’ve been unconscious for that part.”
Veronica frowned. “Grace, you said you spent a lot of time around the Grand. Did you ever notice Ramirez before that night? Did he ever try to talk to you?”
She shook her head again. “No. I mean, I spent most of my time in the bar, or in a room. I don’t think I would’ve bumped into a laundry guy in the hall.”
“Oh? Did you stay overnight at the Grand often?” Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Pretty posh digs for a college student.”
“Oh, is that not in my file?” Grace asked with a slight sneer. “I assumed you knew. I had a married boyfriend. That’s where we used to meet. The cops drilled me on that so many times I assumed it’d be there in bold.”
It had, in fact, but Veronica didn’t rise to the bait.
“Can I ask why you took the stairs that night?” Veronica asked. “Fourteen stories in stilettos? There have to be easier workouts.”
“I always took my shoes off. Otherwise I’d have broken an ankle.” Grace shrugged. “My boyfriend was a little bit paranoid. Didn’t want the elevator camera to track which floor I got off on because someone might trace it to him.”
“But you said that night he canceled.”
“Yeah. I don’t really remember why I took them that night in particular, but it was kind of force of habit. I almost never took the elevator down.” Grace picked at a cuticle.
Veronica jotted Extreme secrecy re: “boyfriend” in the notepad.
“Look, I understand why you didn’t want to tell the cops who your boyfriend was. But if we’re going to figure out what happened that night, I really need…”
“No.” Grace’s voice was sharp. Veronica glanced over and was unsurprised to see her eyes narrow, her chin jutting belligerently. “There’s no reason to talk to him. He wasn’t there that night—he wasn’t involved.”
“I believe you.” Veronica looked directly at her, trying to show sincerity, though she wasn’t sure how she really felt. “But it strengthens your case against the Grand if we can show definitively that he wasn’t involved.”
“Once they have his name, the case becomes an out-of-control media wankfest. He’ll be a philandering pervert and I’ll be a home-wrecking slut. They’ll use it to totally discredit me.”
“They’re going to do that anyway,” Veronica said.
“And these are the people you’re working for. You feel good about that?”
Veronica had been waiting for that jab from the moment Grace sat down; it’s what she would have said if the situation were reversed.
“When this goes to trial, Grace, the Grand’s lawyers are going to get his name, one way or another,” Veronica said. “And yes, they will do anything they can to discredit you, regardless of my feelings on the matter. You should be prepared for that.”
Grace stared at her for a long moment. “It’s not going to trial, Veronica. You know as well as I do that they’re going to settle. Look, they hired an undocumented immigrant who turned out to be a rapist. They’re in the wrong—and they’re not going to take their chances in court.”
“Are you still seeing him? Your boyfriend, I mean.”
Grace hesitated. “Our relationship was more or less physical. I mean, I really liked him. And he liked me. But it wasn’t like he could take me out on dates or anything. After what happened, I was…not so interested in sex. So we broke it off.”
Not exactly a fairy-tale romance, Veronica thought.
“It was mutual,” Grace added a little defensively, seemingly reading Veronica’s mind. “It wasn’t like he decided I was damaged goods and threw me off. I just knew I needed a chance to get my shit together, and that wasn’t the kind of relationship we had. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to throw him to the jackals. He’s got kids, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want them hearing about any of this.”
Grace looked down at her lap again. The scar across her cheek was barely visible. On stage, under makeup, no one would notice. But this close, it looked like a thin, pale question mark.
“I just want it to be over. Medical bills, therapy bills—they’re all stacking up, and the work-study gig barely scratches the surface of what I owe. I have no idea how I’m going to pay for tuition next semester.” She bit her lip. “Hearst is the first place I’ve ever felt like I belonged. I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to leave. If I can win this suit, I’ll be able to…to really move on. The Neptune Grand took something from me. I just want it back.”
Veronica faced the stage for a minute, leaning back in the red velvet seat. From this angle, she could see the little Xs of glow-in-the-dark tape the actors used for blocking and the plain wooden blocks that stood in for furniture while the set was being constructed.
“I remember you, you know.”
Her head snapped back to Grace. Her hands were clasped tightly on her lap.
Veronica nodded slowly. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“Yeah. You, and Duncan Kane.” The girl’s expression was unreadable. Her lips curved up slightly, but her eyes were flat and hidden. “The big, bad baby snatchers.”
“I didn’t have anything to with that,” Veronica said, lying reflexively.
Grace’s odd little smile didn’t waver. “You know, for a while I used to think you were going to come back for me. I used to imagine it while I was falling asleep in the crawl space. I could see it so clearly. You’d open the closet, just like before; at first I wouldn’t be able to make out your features because I’d been in the dark so long. You’d just be a dark silhouette. But then I’d see your hand, stretched out for mine. If I could just reach it—if I could just grab it—I’d be free. I’d be whisked off to wherever Faith and Duncan were shacked up.” She shrugged. “I thought you were a big hero.”
The words hit, a sucker punch that first inspired pain, then a powerful impulse to strike back. She’d never put much stock in heroes; it wasn’t her job to save the day. And legally speaking, she’d done her due diligence for Grace: She’d told Dan Lamb what she’d seen in that house, assuming he’d turn the information over to Child Protective Services. Hoping someone would do something. She’d only helped Duncan take the baby because it was his, and because Meg had begged her from her deathbed to make sure her parents didn’t get custody. But what more could she have done for Grace?
Really, Veronica? You couldn’t think of a single thing to do for her? Not with all your supposed ingenuity, your willingness to see the rules as profoundly optional?
For a moment, she didn’t trust herself to speak.
“I know you have no reason to trust me, Grace,” she said finally. “I know I’m working for the other team. But I want to get the guy who did this to you.”
“Bullshit. You want to prove I’m a liar and make this all go away for the Neptune Grand.”
“Grace, I wish there was some way to say this where I don’t look like an asshole…but I get paid either way,” Veronica said, shrugging. “So can we please just let my mercenary motives go for a moment? Look, I’ve seen the photos of you after the attack. You should believe that I want to see the guy who did that to you suffer.” She pulled a business card from her wallet and handed it to Grace. “Call me anytime, day or night, if there’s anything else you want to tell me.”
Grace looked down at the card, clearly skeptical, but she nodded and slid it into a pocket. Her voice was full and ringing when she spoke.
“‘Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind, and makes it fearful and degenerate; think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.’”
Veronica wasn’t sure which play the quote was from, but she knew exactly what it meant: You get tough. You get even.
You get tough. Had Mars Investigations been the sort of outfit that bothered to draft a list of its “Core Values,” that would’ve been a top fiver.
