Meet Me in Barcelona (25 page)

“Whatever you do, I'm going with you.”

“You shouldn't be involved with this. Or with me.”

“I'm a travel blogger, remember? I love Cadaqués. It's right on Costa Brava on the Mediterranean. Only a few hours from Barcelona. We could rent a car.”

“I can rent a car.”

“With what? You don't even have your license, or your passport, or a credit card.” He had her there. “And if you did get there on your own—somehow—would you know exactly where to go?”

Oh, God, he was right. She needed him. Without thinking it through, Grace threw her arms around Jean Sebastian and hugged him. Slowly his arms wrapped around her waist, and he hugged her back. When she started to pull away, he dropped his arms and stepped back. He had been telling the truth. He wasn't going to take advantage of her. And Grace knew she needed all the help she could get.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I'll start packing,” he said. He went into his room. Grace texted Jake's phone.

I won't come until you let me speak to Jake.

 

By the time Jean Sebastian was finished packing a small bag, Grace still hadn't heard back from anyone. “I mean it,” she said. “I'm not going until they contact me directly and let me talk to Jake.”

“Let's go up on the roof deck and get a bite?”

“I don't think I can eat.”

“A glass of wine then?”

Grace nodded, although she immediately felt guilty. The roof deck was like a sanctuary. The ocean was their backyard. Jean Sebastian and Grace sat on one of the sofas, and Jean Sebastian ordered a bottle of wine and some appetizers. As they ate and drank, Grace wondered where Jake was and what he was doing. He certainly wasn't drinking wine on a roof deck. If she was allowed to talk to him, maybe he would give her some sort of clue as to where they were keeping him. Maybe he was in Port Lligat. That could be a good thing. Wouldn't it actually be easier to find him in a small fishing village than in all of Barcelona? She could go to the police, or, hell, hire Spanish thugs. They could raid the place. Break down the door and get Jake back. Her cell rang. She almost dropped it, she was so jittery. She didn't even look at the screen.

“Jake?” There was a moment of silence and a hum, as if the caller were in a tunnel. “Jake?”

“No,” said a familiar female voice. “This is his mother.”

“Barbara,” Grace said. “How did you get this number?”

“That's how you greet me?”

“I'm sorry, it's just—I just bought this phone.”

“Your father gave me the number, Grace.”

“Oh, that's right.” Even though Jean Sebastian had warned Grace about giving out the new cell phone numbers, Grace had managed to sneak a call in to her father. She wanted him to have the number in case he needed to call about her mother. Barbara Hart must have called her father when Jake didn't return her calls. She'd told Stan at Park Güell to have Jake call his mother back. She'd warned them.

“Where is Jake?” Barbara asked. “Why isn't he calling me back?”

“Oh, so sorry about that. He ran into some old college friends.” Across from her, Jean Sebastian raised his eyebrow. Grace shrugged.

“Old college friends? In Barcelona?”

“Yes. Small world, huh?”

“What old college friends?”

“I don't know. Mike and Jimmy?” She desperately tried to remember any guy friends Jake had ever mentioned.

“Tell me the truth,” Barbara said. “Are you two having problems?”

“Europe is stressful,” Grace murmured. She hated lying, and hated Jake's mother's thinking that they were fighting. But it was better than leaving her thinking something awful had happened to her son. Which, of course, it had. But if Grace had told her, that woman would have been on the next plane to Barcelona. Grace's parents would be notified. The police would be involved. Grace had to at least talk to Jake one more time and try and find out what he thought she should do. Grace got off the phone as quickly as possible, with a hundred more promises that Jake would call Barbara soon.

Please, Jake, call me. Call me,
Grace thought. The kidnappers would be monitoring the call, but she and Jake knew each other well enough that she was praying he could give her some kind of hint. Then it would be off to the Salvador Dalí House for the next “clue.” Jean Sebastian had already hired a driver. He had said they were both tired and stressed, and this would give them a few hours to relax. She didn't know how to thank him or repay him. Grace was almost finished with the glass of wine, and pondering sending another text, when her phone rang. This time she looked at the screen.

“It's Jake's phone,” she told Jean Sebastian. He nodded. Grace moved away from their little table to the edge of the roof deck. “Jake?” she answered, well aware of the quiver in her voice.

“Grace,” he said.

A sob escaped from her. “Oh, God. Jake. Jake.”

“Are you okay?” he said.

“Me? I'm okay. What about you? I saw your lip.”

“You did?” Jake said. “How?”

“They texted me a picture,” Grace said.

“This is so messed up, Grace.”

“I know. She dyed her hair? She's dressing like me now?”

“Grace, I can't speak off the cuff. I have a list of approved things I can say.”

“Okay. Okay. Tell me you're all right. Tell me they're not going to hurt you again.”

“I'm okay, Grace. It's going to be okay. We just have to do what they say.”

“We're leaving for Cadaqués tonight.” There was silence. Grace knew Jake wanted to say something, but he couldn't. “Is that really where you are?” Again, that awful silence. “Cough if you're in Cadaqués.”

“They're listening, sweetie. They just heard you say that.”

“I hate this.”

“I do too. But I love you.”

“I love you more. I'm going to find you, Jake.”

“I have to go, Grace.”

Panic seized her along with an uncontrollable anger. “Wait. Is she going to hurt you again?”

“Who?”

“Carrie Ann. Who else?”

“She's not doing this, sweetie.”

Grace hesitated. She didn't want to admit it, but she was stung. He sounded like he was defending her. Was he falling under her spell? Stockholm syndrome. If anybody could pull it off, Carrie Ann could. And he hadn't even acknowledged the weird photograph where Carrie Ann was dressed up as Grace. Because “they”—whoever “they” really were—were listening. Grace wasn't going to get him busted up again. But she was going to pry just a little. “Have you seen Stan?”

“Yes,” Jake said. His voice was very measured.

“Can you tell me anything?”

“No.”

“Because you don't know anything?”

“No.”

No, he didn't know anything, or no, that wasn't why he couldn't tell her? She wasn't too good at this type of questioning. “Because they're listening?”

“Of course.”

“Is Rafael helping him?”

There was a pause, as if Jake had to check whether or not it was okay for him to answer. “Yes.”

“I knew it.” She made a mental note to try and figure out Rafael's connection to all of this. Grace lowered her voice, even though it was probably pointless. “You can't escape them? Run away?”

“Grace.”

“Tell me what to do. Should I go to the police?”

“No. Don't cry. You know I hate it when you cry.”

“I can't believe this is happening.”

“Listen to me. Just do what he says.”

“He wants me to go to the Salvador Dalí House for the next clue. Jean Sebastian says it's only a few hours' drive.”

Jake's voice caught, as if he too were crying. “I know,” he said.

“So you think I should go?”

“I just want you to be safe,” he said.

“Jean Sebastian has been amazing,” Grace said. Shoot, she shouldn't have said that. It just slipped out, and she didn't want Jake worrying about her being on her own. But he didn't like her being with Jean Sebastian any more than she liked him being with Carrie Ann.

“Be careful,” Jake said. “I have to go.”

“Wait. Don't react. Just listen. Your mother called me.”

“You?”

“Yes. My father gave her my cell number.”

“Okay,” Jake said.

“She thinks we're fighting. I told her you met up with friends from college.”

“Okay,” Jake said.

“If she doesn't talk to you soon, she'll be on the next flight out here.”

“I'll tell him.”

“Don't trust Carrie Ann, Jake. She could be lying. She could be in on this with him.”

“You're the one I'm worried about, Grace.”

“How do we know he'll keep his word? If I figure out this stupid puzzle?”

“We pray.”

“This is because of my past, Jake.”

“I know, Grace.”

“What do you know? Did Carrie Ann say something?”

“None of it matters now. Do you hear? I don't care about any of it. I don't care who you are. I just want you back.”

Who she was? Grace had been so relieved to hear his voice that she'd forgotten all about the video he made. What was Carrie Ann saying to him? Grace was going to kill her. How could Jake believe a word of it? Maybe he was just playing along, following his approved “script.” “I can tell you're holding things back,” Grace said. “I know you can't talk freely. This is making me crazy.”

“I love you,” Jake said. “Do you hear me? No matter what.”

Grace's composure crumpled. “What does that mean? Oh, God. Carrie Ann has been filling you with lies, hasn't she?”

“She said you were really Carrie Ann. That you've only been pretending to be Grace for the past fifteen years. She told me that she is Grace Ann Sawyer.”

“She what?” What in the world? “And she thinks you'd believe that for a second? Jake? Jake?”

There was a silence. When he spoke again, he sounded extremely strained. “How come I've never been to your father's house?”

“What?”

“We always see him at the home. I've never been to his house.”

“When my mom was healthy my parents preferred to get out of the house. A lifetime of foster children will do that to you. And lately, it's because he spends all his time at Mom's facility.” Grace started to get ramped up, then paused. Wait. Why was this important right now? Was he trying to tell her something?

“I'm a little confused. I feel like I don't know anything any-more.”

He was trying to tell her something. She could tell from his voice, his manner. She just didn't know what. She spoke carefully and slowly back, as if that would help. “You know me, Jake.”

“Do I? Are you Grace Sawyer? Or are you Carrie Ann Gilbert?”

“We know each other, Jake. Like the back of our hands.”

“I thought so,” Jake said. “But sometimes you just never really know who you're with.”

“That's true,” Grace said. She thought of the picture of Carrie Ann and Jake in front of the Salvador Dalí House. Carrie Ann dressing up exactly like Grace. “Sometimes people are pretending to be something they're not.”

“Exactly,” Jake said.

“Like Carrie Ann. Pretending to be me on Facebook. Filling you up with lies. Stealing my ID. Luring us to Barcelona.”

“That's cold, Grace,” Jake said. “You're so cold.”

She knew Carrie Ann was probably listening. She hoped Carrie Ann was listening. “You know me, Jake. No matter what she says—don't ever forget that.”

“I have to go, Gracie.” And with that, he hung up. She slowly walked back to Jean Sebastian.
That's cold, Grace. You're so cold.
He'd never spoken to her like that before. Never accused her of being anything other than too nice. He was definitely acting. But she didn't get it. Whatever he was trying to say, she had failed to get it.

“Is he okay?”

“No. I mean, physically—I think so. Yes. But he says Carrie Ann has nothing to do with this. He also told me something pretty crazy that Carrie Ann's been saying.”

“What?”

“I don't even know how to say this.”

“Tell me.”

“She told Jake that I'm Carrie Ann.”

“I don't understand.”

“She told him that I was Carrie Ann and she was Grace. That I've just been pretending to be her for the past fifteen years.”

“Pardon the American expression but—that is fucked up.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

“Wait. He doesn't believe her, does he?”

“I don't think so. But they weren't letting him speak freely.”

“Stan was there?”

“I think so. He said he'd seen him.”

“At least that's one mystery solved.”

“And Rafael is working for Stan.”

“We suspected that. Anything else?”

“No. That's the gist of it.”

“You said Carrie Ann was crazy. I know it was an American expression. But is there any chance she actually is crazy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Telling Jake she's you. Dressing as you. Switching ID. Posting pictures dressed as you on Facebook. Is there any chance she actually thinks she's you?”

“No. Not a chance.”

“Are you sure?”

“I was alone with her several times before all this happened. She always knew who she was.”

“All right. Whatever it turns out to be—they won't get away with this,” Jean Sebastian said. “Not if I can help it.”

“I can't thank you enough,” Grace said. “How does your driver feel about going now?”

“He's waiting downstairs,” Jean Sebastian said. “Let's go.” On their way out, Grace passed her Taylor Hummingbird. For a few seconds, her fingers ached to touch it. For the first time in months, she actually missed it, wanted to play, wanted to sing. Maybe she
was
the type who could sing her pain. Who knew? Her gut told her to bring it. It wasn't logical, but then again, neither was her life at the moment. She picked up the guitar on the way out the door.

“We've got a long ride ahead of us,” Jean Sebastian said. “You can tell me more about the past.”

It was the last thing Grace wanted to do. But he was right. The answer lay somewhere back there, and if she couldn't figure it all out, maybe Jean Sebastian could.