Grace Doll Read Online Free PDF Page B

comes into my mind. Her tears. The ones she’d cried for me when she knew her life was going to end. “I’m sorry, Brenden,” she’d said, looking at me like her heart had burst.
    I float on my back. Cold sea presses into me. Mom presses into me. Dad—the lack of him—presses into me. I wish I could sink, drown the ache.
    I feel a subtle shift in the tide. More force. As if the tide dares me to tease it any longer before it rips me out and away into fish food.
    I dive, swim, pushing back to shore against the strengthening caress of sea. Each stroke is like swimming through sand.
    Dragging myself out of the water, my lungs heave for air. I collapse next to my towel and board, the sand adhering to my wetsuit, coating me from head to foot. The familiar dusty scent of sand soothes my aches. Sleep curls its fingers around my bones. I could die in sleep. Never wake up.
    Maybe I do sleep, I’m not sure. Suddenly, a shadow comes over me, stealing the overcast light. I open my eyes. A man, dressed in a black suit, stands above me.
    “Brenden Lane?” he asks. His silver hair is neatly combed. He’s tan for winter, but then this is So Cal.
    “Yeah?”
    “My employer wants to speak with you about the death of your father.”
    A thread of concern dangles inside of me. “What for?” Who is this guy? FBI? Someone Judy’s hired for some unexplainable reason?
    “He’s prepared to pay you for your time. One hundred dollars an hour.”
    I sit upright. Sand flutters away from my skin. “Seriously?”
    The suit nods. He extends a card to me and I take it. It’s white, with a gold phone number on it.
    “Can I tell him that you’ll call?”
    Hell yes . I nod. “Sure. Who is he?”
    “Rufus Solomon, an old friend of your father’s. Call him as soon as possible,” he says, then he turns, crossing the sand in his black suit, to the highway where a black limo waits.
    Rufus Solomon. The name dislodges from cobwebs in my memory but I forget where he fits in with Dad. Curiosity pushes me to my feet. I grab my towel and board, following him, keeping a good twenty-foot distance.
    The suit opens the back door of the vehicle, gets in and shuts the door. I jog over. Who is this guy and, is Rufus Solomon inside the car?
    The limo doesn’t move. I see my reflection in the onyx windows, my blond mussed hair, my curious face peering back at me. A shiver spins down my spine. Whoever’s inside is watching me.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Five
     
     
    I drive to Bel Air, unease eating at me. The man in the limo must have been at the funeral. That makes sense. And he’d followed me to the beach, right? This is L.A. Anything is possible. Creeped, I toss glances over my shoulder as I head up Roscomare Road.
    At a stoplight, I pull out the white card, grab my cell phone, and dial.
    A gravelly voice answers. “Yes?”
    “This is Brenden Lane.”
    Silence follows. “Brenden. Rufus Solomon. I knew your father many years ago. He worked for me. ”
    Then I remember. Mom told me that Rufus Soloman had once been a big shot movie producer back in the day. “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say, I just want the money.
    “My condolences. “
    “Thank you.”
    “I’d like to meet and ask you some questions about Jonathan. In exchange I’m offering you compensation for your time. Is that agreeable?”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll answer your questions when we meet. I’ll send my driver. He’ll be there in an hour.”
    “Today?”
    “As soon as possible.” His voice sounds crisp.
    The funeral was hours ago. Still, with Judy on the “you need to get your act together” bandwagon I need money and sticking around the house will weigh me down.
    “Okay.” Click. Phone’s dead. Money’s money, and I don’t have enough of it. No way am I telling Judy about this. Still, she might see the limo pull up, wonder who—then it hits me—I didn’t tell Mr. Solomon where I live.
    I dial the number on the card again.
    “Yes?”
    “This is Brenden Lane. I