Saving Grace

34

Grace took the Cadillac, drove like a madwoman.

Weaving between the streets, flying up highways and leaving black tire marks at every bend, we raced into the city, with the piercing sounds of screeching rubber, car horns, and screaming voices trailing behind us. I gripped the dash, stared wide-eyed at the open road.

"Grace, I don't know if this is a good idea."

She pulled the gear stick, flattened the accelerator. The streetlights flew by so quickly they blurred into one dim stream of light.

"Grace, if you keep going this fast, we're going to get pulled over."

Her knuckles whitened on the wheel. The speed meter trembled.

"Grace – "

"Shut up, Richie," she snapped, eyes focused on the road.

I shut my mouth, pressed my lips together.

"You could at least put your seatbelt on," I grumbled.

The moonlight that had once shone down gave way to the looming skyscrapers, beaming with yellow light and flashing with pixilated advertisements. Grace finally slowed the car, her foot relaxing on the pedal as we ventured north and she took it off completely when we pulled up outside one particularly remarkable building. The structure was at least fifty stories high with its head buried in the gathering clouds. Its front doors were made of reinforced glass that reflected us standing there in the street, huddled under our jackets in the orange lamplight.

"Holy shit," I said, shutting the car door. "This is where he lives?"

"His father owns the building. He comes here from time to time."

Grace shrugged on her hoodie, pulling it up over her head before sliding on a pair of sunglasses. I frowned.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't have a key, genius."

I paused.

"Oh."

She threw a pair of sunglasses at me and I caught them in my shaking hands. I slid them on, pulled my hoodie over my face.

"Now what?"

She pulled out a cigarette, lit it as she walked towards the doors.

"Now we wait."

***

Curled around the corner from the main entrance of Russo's building was a well-kempt garden bed, stoned in on all sides with the once blooming flowers now drooping downwards, wilting in the cold. Grace and I sat on the pavestone edge, shivering in the icy night air and staring at the front steps, coloured orange from the buzzing streetlights.

"Fuck's sake," Grace complained, crushing out her fourth cigarette. "I didn't think it would take this damn long for someone to come outside."

My fingertips gently brushed over a small stubborn sprout, just pushing up out of the damp soil behind us.

"Well," I said, "unless you know how to pick an automatic lock, we haven't got much of a choice."

Grace, with pursed lips and trembling hands, fumbled in her pocket and brought another cigarette to her lips. I rubbed the dirt off my fingers, watched her struggle with the lighter. And with a small smile, I leaned over, took it, burned the end of her smoke with the little flame. She looked up at me, inhaled.

"Grace – "

"He's here," she interrupted, her wonderful mouth obscured by little trails of smoke twirling into the night. "Trust me," she implored. "I know him. He'd come here first."

I took a breath, saw the certainty in her eyes, more potent and powerful that I'd ever seen before. I gulped, nodded.

"Alright."

I leaned back on the pavestone, lowered my eyes. Grace, shivering beside me, filled drifting silence with the chattering of her teeth. I sighed, shrugged off my jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

I locked eyes with her. She knew what I was doing, and she didn't want to accept my kindness, but the piercing wind didn't leave her much choice. So, she smiled, briefly, and brought the cigarette to her lips. Just as it was smudged with the red of her bright lipstick, a small click caused our heads to jerk towards the main doors. A young girl of sixteen, dressed in a black hoodie and dirty vans, stepped through. Grace and I held our breaths.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

We launched forward, eyes locked on the door slowly swinging shut. I pushed forward, feet hitting the pavement, arms outstretched –

– and caught the door one inch from the frame. Grace, one step behind me, yanked it open.

"Okay," she breathed. "Let's do this."

***

"Come on, hurry up."

I buried my hands in my pockets, scanned the hallway for witnesses.

"I'm going as fast as I can," Grace said between her teeth.

I glanced down at her, kneeling with her eyes narrowed at the hairpin lodged in Russo's doorhandle. She focused, hands shaking, teeth cutting into her bottom lip. I sighed, turned around, tried to ease my nervous jitters. Dammit. This was taking too long. We were going to get caught. The lock clicked and Grace jumped to her feet.

"Got it," she beamed.

She turned the handle and swung the door open.

Russo's penthouse was like something from an old black and white film – stylish white walls, a lounge suite the colour of fresh snow, dark chocolate floorboards and a slick black staircase to the glorious rooftop. Behind the stairs, the entire back wall was fitted with dozens of shelves – the home of countless works of literature, first editions, priceless signatures. Grace, for a brief moment, seemed lost in herself – a look of mental retreat, utter submersion in memories that tasted of old sugar. She blinked twice, met my eye.

"Upstairs," she said.

Russo's bedroom was just as extraordinary – king size bed, a coffee-coloured lounge suite, and the most spectacular view of the city, allowed by the crystal glass walls surrounding on three sides. I stared open-mouthed at all of these fine things, silent and awestruck.

"God," I said. "Why the hell would he even bother living in the suburbs when his life could be like this?"

"That little house was his," she said, standing by his bedside drawers. "This is his dad's. He didn't just want to be the rich guy's son. He wanted to be his own person." She curled her hand around a mug of black coffee on the bedside table. "Look. Still warm. He can't have gone far."

I looked down at the coffee, lowered my eyes to the bed where Russo's brand new laptop sat atop the covers.

"And something tells me this might help us figure out where he's going."

Grace met my eyes and a dark, haunting smile crossed her lovely mouth.

© A.G. Travers 2018