Saving Grace

35

"Oh shit, look at this."

Grace was sat on the lounge suite upstairs, hunched over the laptop with thousands of little gleaming city lights twinkling behind her. I paced over, sat down.

"What the fuck...?"

A folder, password protected and hidden deep in the heart of the machine, contained hundreds of photographs, all displaying only one commonality: Grace. One depicted her with Fiona and Shelley, wearing feathered scarves and ridiculous hats in the old boutique they'd once adored. Another was of her at some party, hanging off a jock with a vodka sunrise dripping down her right hand. One was even taken from her backyard, focused on Grace staring out of her bedroom window. I shuddered.

"If you look at the dates on these, each one seems to get closer and closer to me. Look," Grace pointed to the first picture. "In the beginning, the pictures were taken from far away in public places at night time. Then, he gets closer. Takes them from a little less far away in daylight. Then he progresses again to outside my house. He was getting bolder, more confident."

I bit my lip.

"Does it say anything about where he might be headed?"

"No," she sighed. "But give me a little time. There must be a clue on here somewhere."

I leaned back into the couch, watched Grace's eyes narrow in concentration. Perhaps she was right. Godric was well-resourced in terms of money and connections, but Grace had another advantage: she knew Jack Russo – knew his passwords, knew his behaviour, knew his safety net. The harder she focused on that laptop, the more I began to believe we might find him first. But I had no idea what we were going to do when that happened.

In the next three hours, Grace picked through all of Russo's financial transactions, bank statements, history lists – all looking for that one thing that would tell us where he was headed. Eventually, when she was verge of falling asleep, we wandered downstairs and flicked the kettle on. I rubbed my eyes, listened to the water boil.

"Hey, Grace," I said, sticking my head around the corner, "do you want milk in your coffee?"

The all too familiar click of a lock rendered the entire penthouse silent. Grace, from her spot at the bottom of black staircase, locked eyes with me and we turned our heads to face the front door. The handle jiggled as someone struggled with the key. Carefully, Grace sat the laptop down, flicked the lights off, and walked into the kitchen.

"W-what now?" I mumbled.

Grace, eyes never leaving the front door, unsheathed a large butcher's knife from the holder on the sink.

"Follow my lead."

Slowly, silently, Grace inched towards the front door. I shook my head.

"No, no – Grace!"

The door flung open and Grace lunged forward, knife raised above her head. With almost animalistic cry, she yanked the poor maid into the apartment and pinned her to the wall.

"Who are you?!"

The maid, in her early sixties with short, caramel-coloured hair, trembled with wide eyes as Grace held the knife to her wrinkled neck.

"Where is Jack?!"

Paralysed, I looked at Grace and failed to recognise her. Her rage was too powerful – it was in her eyes, wide and wild, in her face, red raw, and in her voice, roaring and calloused. It had consumed her and I didn't know how far she would go. The maid, hands raised with tears streaking her cheeks, whimpered as Grace pressed the blade further into her throat.

"Tell me where he is," Grace snarled. "Or I'll gut you like a fish and leave you here to rot."

"I-I don't..." she cried. "I don't know."

"You must know him if you have a key."

"I'm a maid. I clean, I cook. But I don't know him very well. He doesn't come here often."

"When the last time he was here?"

"I thought he was going to be here now," she said. "That's why I came."

"Then where is he going?"

"Please," she begged. "I've children. Grandchildren. A husband of forty two years."

"Then you'd better start talking if you want to see them again."

"I-I don't know. I don't know!"

Grace gulped, bit her lip, considered her options. The maid wept, divulged into endless pleas.

"Grace," I whispered, voice shaking. "Just let her go. Come on. Give me the knife. Let her go."

I reached out to her, couldn't move my feet. My jaw clenched.

"Grace, look at her!" I screamed. "Look at what you're doing!"

She blinked and sucked in a breath as the rage sank and the redness drained from her cheeks. She gulped.

"Give me your driver's licence."

The maid reached into her pocket, handed her the card with shaking hands.

"Right," She said, snatching it. "If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I'm coming to your house and paying your children, grandchildren and husband a visit. Do you understand?"

The old woman nodded furiously. Grace reflected the motion.

"Alright. Go."

She stepped back and the maid collapsed to her knees, where she scurried out of the apartment and sprinted down the hall. Grace gulped, lowered the knife, turned to face me with her eyes focused on her feet. I scoffed, shook my head.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

She turned up her eyes, sat the knife on the bench.

"Leaving. Right now."

© A.G. Travers 2018