Was she showing discomfort? Andrew’s blue eyes were ripe with concern.
Oh, just dandy. Not only had she failed him, she was burdening him with her personal shit.
Wheeling forward, she recited the title of the article. Hoping the incantation would free her of subjectivity.
Andrew nodded. Suddenly, Grace felt as if she was about to choke. Covering with a cough, she muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” placed her hand over her mouth and inhaled long and slow, exchanging air through her nose in order to conceal her craving for oxygen.
A victim. No way, nono way—
Andrew Toner continued to regard her with... tenderness?
I’m okay, you softhearted bastard.
Grace knew she had to regain control or... what?
Distraction is the enemy. Stay focused.
“So,” she said, in her best therapist voice, “what villain has been occupying your thoughts and dreams?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”
“I understand.”
“That’s part of what you wrote about, right? That woman — Jane — was never sure she was ready to deal with it. Had no way of knowing because who could provide a map?”
Grace nodded. Going through the motions felt good. Shrinkyshrinkshrink.
Andrew went on, “That I can absolutely relate to. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, This is the moment I need to... confront reality. Then the impulse passes and I convince myself I’m able to just forget about it.”
Grace said, “Of course.” The warmth in her voice surprised her. Not having to think it out. Just being.
Maybe Andrew picked up on her newfound confidence because his body relaxed a bit.
But his eyes had grown moist.
Grace guessed why: sudden onrush of memories.
When he spoke next, she learned she was wrong.
“It’s not about me. There’s a... moral parameter.”
Grace waited.
Andrew shook his head. “Not important.”
“Important enough for you to come from San Antonio.”
His eyes raced to the left. The Texas bit, a lie? What else wasn’t he telling her?
Everything. Of course.
She said, “Without getting into details, can you tell me about the villain?”
He thought about that. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.”
“I know, I know — listen, I’m sorry.” His laugh was harsh. “Another obnoxious apology, I do it too much, it’s my problem.” Another laugh — an angry bark, really. “One of my problems... anyway I’m glad I made the trip because it gave me time to think but it’s just not going to work.”
His hand sliced air horizontally. “Nothing to do with you, please believe that, no... regrets. I just... can’t. Still not ready, I guess.” He smiled. “No doubt you hear that all the time.”
Trying to normalize the situation. For Grace as much as for himself. Someone who cares about others. That made it worse.
He got to his feet, face flushed. Remembering her? Tongue, legs, everything?
Grace said, “We’ve got time. You can take your time.”
He shook his head violently. “Can’t, sorry — there I go again. Apologizing to the damn world, like I feel I’m...”
“Different.”
“No, no,” he said, with surprising ire. “That’s...” Impatient wave. “Everyone’s different, different is meaningless, what I feel is... polluted.”
“Makes sense,” said Grace.
“Does it? Did Jane X feel polluted? Because that doesn’t come out in your article, you just talk about her having to construct her own system of morality. All those steps she took to cope.”
Grace said, “An article has limitations, Andrew. Why don’t you sit back down, give yourself some time?”
Andrew’s eyes scanned the therapy room. “You mean well. I know that. Maybe you’re right and I should. But I can’t. Thanks for your time. I mean that.”
He strode to the door. Wrong door, the one that led back into the front waiting room, rather than toward the side-street exit.
No one around, no need to stand on ceremony. Grace got up.
He said, “I can see myself out. Please.”
She held back, watched him open the door gingerly, take two steps into the waiting room before half turning and offering a slice of his pleasant, handsome, tortured face.
“Andrew?”
“I’m — would it be possible — just say no if it’s not — would it be possible if tomorrow I felt that I could handle returning — would you be able to find some time? I understand that you’re probably extremely busy, so if it doesn’t work out—”
First day of her intended vacation. She said, “Of course, I’ll make time for you, Andrew. As much time as you need.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re... quite... I think you might be able to help me.”
Blushing deeply, he escaped.
Relieved that he’d made no attempt to pay her, Grace returned to the therapy room and stood there for a long time. Hoping she’d finally return to normal but she didn’t and left, trudging out to the garage.
Wondering if he would call.
Aware of the multiple meanings that question could evoke.
She hoped she’d see him again. Hoped she was being honest about why.
As she backed the Aston into the street, a car, a squarish sedan parked several houses up, switched on its headlights and rolled toward her.
Unusual on this quiet block, but it happened.
Still, ever watchful, the way a single woman needed to be, Grace made sure the DB7’s doors were locked as she eased out and headed east.
The car remained behind her and she prepared to jackrabbit away if necessary. But then the sedan stopped for a moment, swung a three-point turn in a neighboring driveway, and reversed direction.
Grace watched its taillights diminish then vanish. Maybe she’d just seen a cop’s allegedly undercover wheels, some sort of burglary stakeout, WeHo had its share of break-ins.
Or just a car with a perfectly logical reason for being there and she was letting her thoughts ooze into irrational anxiety because today had been... different.
New day, new dawn.
Would he call?
Chapter 11
Grace’s eighth birthday went unnoticed. Since the red room, she’d lived in seven foster homes. All were business ventures operated by unremarkable people lured by government money and, occasionally, the chance to feel noble.
She’d heard stories from other foster kids about disgusting men creeping into bedrooms in the middle of the night, disgusting women pretending to be unaware. One of her many roommates, an eleven-year-old girl named Brittany, lifted her blouse soon after showing up and showed Grace a lump of scar tissue she said was the result of being scalded on purpose by a foster mom.
Grace had no trouble believing that; from what she’d seen, people were capable of anything. But Brittany liked to lie, including about stupid stuff, like what she’d had for snack at school, and she also stole Grace’s underwear, so Grace didn’t pay much attention to her.
In three years, Grace had never been physically or sexually abused. Mostly, she was ignored and left to do what she wanted if she didn’t bother anyone, because having a foster meant serious income for foster-folk and they tried to crowd as many kids as they could into their homes for as long as possible.
That didn’t explain why the caseworkers kept moving Grace from house to house, but she didn’t ask because she didn’t care. One place was the same as another, long as they gave her time to be by herself and read.