chapter seven

Ben couldn’t believe what he was reading. He’d been such an asshole! And why would her own uncle recommend such a thing? Could he have just been trying to get even with her for running away in the first place? But it still seemed too cruel no matter how angry he was with her.
He was in a small police station in Artesia reading a faxed copy of Grace Delacroix’s file that he had had a secretary at the station in Santa Monica send him. It had taken him a while to convince her to do it but she couldn’t argue much when she double-checked his badge number. The reason Grace had a file at all was because she is a member of the chief’s family and ‘cause she had been brought in once before for running away a few years back.
He couldn’t believe she had lived through so much, and during her adolescent years too, and hadn’t been broken. No wonder she seemed so much older then she was. According to the file, her parents had died on an unexplained plane crash on their way home from a meeting with business associates on July 17, 1984, which was, coincidentally no doubt, also Grace’s eleventh birthday. When they died her uncle moved into their house and received custody of her and her brother, who was fourteen at the time of their demise.
Then on June 20, 1987, which he realized was exactly three years ago on the day Grace ran away, her uncle filled out a missing person’s report when William, according to the file, ‘vanished’. He was never reportedly seen or heard from again. A week later Grace ran away from home only to be caught and brought back in less than a day. There was nothing in her file after that year and everything had been quiet as far as he knew. That is, until now.
Ben thanked the man who had let him use the station’s equipment and then drove back to the coffee shop to see if Grace was still there.

For the first time since Grace had met her, Valerie was speechless. Grace had just played a section of one of her songs and when she finished and looked up Valerie actually had tears in her eyes. Often she expressed emotions in her music that she didn’t even know were there.
Grace asked, “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to upset you—”
“Oh don’t worry about me, you can upset me like that anytime you want,” she laughed and then followed, sounding genuinely concerned, “That was the saddest thing I ever heard and you didn’t even say a word. Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m just perfect,” she quickly changed the subject. “Oh and by the way, I do sing. Do you need me to show you?”
“That’s not necessary; you only have another fifteen minutes before we need you on. That’s a good time for you, right?”
Grace told her it was and then asked where the restroom was. Excusing herself, she left to find it. Inside she washed her face and applied chapstick to her devastatingly windblown lips then left to listen to the last acts.
On stage was a young woman with a bobbed haircut the color of honey. She was singing a cappella, something about love, and kept blinking rapidly every now and then. Grace thought it was probably a nervous twitch. The girl really shouldn’t have been worried though because she sounded pretty good.
When it was her time to perform, Grace got up and sat on the stool provided on the stage. She strummed a couple notes on her guitar and then started playing a song she wrote about a man who lost his wife to the drugs he had introduced to her. It had a lot of ‘why not me’ type of lyrics and was rather depressing but it worked.
While she was playing she saw the silhouette of a male figure come inside and sit in a shadowy corner of the quaint shop and then all but forgot about him when she had to concentrate on the tricky finale of her song.

Ben watched her from the back and thought about how well she had hid any pain last time they talked compared to how much it showed when she was singing. She sounded as though she knew all the unfortunate people in the songs personally and truly grieved with them. Funny how all pretenses fall when you don’t know who sees you.
Listening to her he realized she was really quite talented. Her ubiquitous voice, low and husky, almost sensual if not for the harsh edge, all but swallowed you up. It gently pounded the words into your head so that you couldn’t help but hear each one of them. Her sound was hard to explain because of all its contradictory aspects.
But what she pulled off on the guitar was nothing short of beautiful. While she always voiced sorrow her playing was mostly upbeat. Not a fast tempo but just light tunes and sort of jazzy. Together it was yet another inconsistency but for some reason it fit. Maybe it just fit her.

At the end of her two hours Grace was tired and she felt as though she ached everywhere from having to use such a crappy stool. She climbed down off the stage only to be bombarded by half a dozen people telling her how much she had touched them. Although she thought that was just fine and dandy it wasn’t like she sang to please others and wasn’t in the mood for company. Playing always seemed to do that to her. After getting away from them without rudeness beyond the absolute necessity she went to find Valerie so that she could get her money and bail. She finally found her after almost ten minutes and got her fifty as well as invitations to come back anytime, preferably tomorrow night, and left leaving only a ‘we’ll see’ behind.
Stepping outside she welcomed the rush of brisk air after spending too much time in the small, stuffy coffeehouse. She closed her eyes briefly, reveling in it, and heard a step behind her. Her eyelids flew up and when a moment passed and nothing happened she ignored the presence behind her and proceeded forward. Before she went more than five feet she heard a familiar voice: one with a charming southern edge.

“I enjoyed your performance, Ms. Delacroix,” Ben revealed.
Grace turned around and said, as calmly as ever although with undeniable sarcasm, “So you know my name. Are you going to deny me the pleasure of yours?”
“Benjamin Curtis. Nice to meet you.”
“Fine then enough with the bullshit; what the hell are you doing here? How dare you follow me?” she replied, with more than a little venom in her voice.
“Why don’t we go somewhere and talk, I need to ask you a few questions. I saw a nice place—”
“Fuck you. The only thing you need to do is answer my fucking questions ‘cause you’re not getting shit outta me ‘till you do,” she looked like she wanted to tear his heart out and make him watch while its beating slowly faded into a quiet nothing. And even though he had no clear idea of why she was so angry with him he was almost ready to crawl to her on his knees and beg her forgiveness for whatever unspeakable sin he had committed against her or her kin, all while he smooched her toes. He nearly laughed out loud.
Ben incredulously asked her, “What’s wrong with you? I know you couldn’t be so mad just about my following you. I would assume you’d be creeped out or maybe even a little frightened but not mad.”
At first she looked as though his words infuriated her even more but then all of a sudden she just sort of turned off, shut down. Her face lost all of its anger and became stony, coldly expressionless, and her whole body just relaxed. It didn’t seem natural for a person to suppress themselves and their emotions so completely or abruptly and as a result of her denial to coincide with the intrinsic way of things he couldn’t help but shudder a little.
She spoke calmly once again when she responded with a nod, “Alright. Come with me back to my room, since you already know where it is anyway right?”
She didn’t wait for him to answer but slowly turned on her heels and headed for her truck. He went to his car as well and let her lead the way back to the motel.