“So what's the address?” he snarled at her, prepared to write it down, but as she looked at him, she realized what was going to happen.

“Does this mean you'll be dropping by on me from time to time?” she asked, looking worried, and he loved it. He liked making her uncomfortable, catching her off guard, frightening her, if possible. She brought out all his basest sexual instincts.

“It might. I have a right to drop by, you know. Do you have something to hide?”

“Yes. You.” She looked right at him and he flushed all the way to his receding hairline.

“What's that supposed to mean?” He dropped his pen and stared at her in irritation.

“It means that I have four roommates who don't need to know where I've been for the past two years. That's what.”

“You mean incarcerated for murder?” He glowed. Now he had a wedge he could use on her. He could threaten to expose her to her roommates.

“I guess that's what I mean. You make it sound so charming.”

“It is pretty charming, I'm sure they'd be fascinated to know your history. And by the way, what do you mean four roommates. Sounds like a bunch of call girls.”

“You wish.” She wasn't afraid of him, but he worried her a little bit, and she disliked him intensely. “They're models.”

“That's what they all say.”

“They're registered at the agency where I work.”

“Too bad. I need the address anyway … unless you want me to violate you, of course.” He looked ever hopeful.

“Oh for chrissake, Marquez.” She told him the address then, and he raised one nasty little eyebrow.

“Lake Shore Drive? How are you going to pay for that?”

“Split five ways it's costing me exactly two hundred dollars.” She had no intention of telling him about the money she'd gotten in her settlement with Frank Wills. Louis Marquez had absolutely no reason to know that. And the truth was, with the salary she earned, if she was willing to economize a little bit, she could afford the new town house.

“I'm going to have to look at this place,” Marquez growled at her, and she shrugged.

“I figured you'd say that. Want to make an appointment?” she asked hopefully. But he wasn't inclined to be that accommodating.

“I'll just drop by.”

“Great. Just do me a favor,” she looked at him unhappily, “don't tell them who you are.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“I don't care. Tell them you're selling me a car. Tell them anything. But don't tell them I'm on probation.”

“You'd better behave yourself, Grace,” he looked pointedly at her, and his meaning was not lost on her, “or I might have to.” And as she looked at him, for reasons she couldn't quite sort out, the ugly little man reminded her of Brenda in prison. He had her legs tied. And this time there was no Luana to save her.





Chapter 7

The group at the apartment got along splendidly. They never fought over bills, everyone paid their share of the rent, they were each nice to the other girls. They bought each other small gifts, and were generous with groceries. It was really the perfect arrangement. And Grace had never been happier in her life. Every day she wondered if it was real, or if she was dreaming.

The girls even tried to fix her up with their friends, but she drew the line at that. Groceries were one thing, but gifts of men were of no interest. She had no desire to go out with anyone, or complicate her life. At twenty, she was perfectly content to stay home and read a book, or watch TV at night. Every little freedom she had was a gift to her, and she wanted nothing more from life. Certainly not romance. Just the thought of it terrified her. She had no desire to go out with anyone, possibly ever.

Her roommates teased her about it at first, and then eventually, they decided she had a secret life. Two of them were sure she was seeing a married man, particularly when she started going out regularly, three times a week, on Monday and Thursday nights, and all day Sunday. During the week she would leave direcdy from work, and change there, and more often than not, she was home after midnight.

She had thought of telling them the truth, but eventually the fantasy that she was seeing someone worked a lot better for her. It made them leave her alone and stop trying to fix her up with their friends. In fact, in terms of how she wanted to live, it was perfect.

And the truth was that her three-times-a-week trysts were the heart and soul of her existence. Once she'd gotten settled in the town house with the girls, she had started looking for a place to work three times a week. Not for pay, but to give back some of what she had gotten out of life. She felt too fortunate not to do something to help others. It was something she had always promised herself, as she lay on her bunk at night, chatting with Sally, or while she worked out with Luana.

It had taken her a month to find the right place to volunteer. There had been no one she could ask, but she had read a number of articles, and there had been a special on TV about St. Mary's. It was a crisis center for women and children in an old brownstone, and when she'd first gone there, she was shocked at the condition it was in. Paint was chipping off the walls, there were bare bulbs hanging from sockets. There were kids shouting and running around everywhere, and dozens of women. Most of them looked poor, some were pregnant, all were desperate. And the one thing they had in common was that they had all been abused, some to within an inch of their lives. Many of them were scarred, some no longer functioned normally, or had been in institutions.

The place was run by Dr. Paul Weinberg, a young psychologist who reminded her of David Glass, and after the first time she'd been there, Grace found herself aching for Molly. She would have loved to talk to her, and tell her all about it. It had been a deeply moving experience just being there. The place was mostly staffed by volunteers, and there was only a handful of paid employees, most of them doing internships for psych degrees, some of them registered nurses. The women and children living in the crisis center needed medical care, psychological help, they needed a place to live, they needed clothes, they needed tender loving care, they needed a hand to get out of the abyss they were in. Even for Grace, going to St. Mary's every week was like a light shining in the darkness. It was a place where souls were restored, and people were made whole again, as whole as they ever would be.

Just helping them helped her. It made her whole life worth something just to go there. She had volunteered for three shifts a week of seven hours each, which was a tremendous commitment. But it was a place where Grace felt at peace herself, and where she could bring peace to others. The women there had experienced many of the same things she had, and so had the children. There were pregnant fourteen-year-olds who had been raped by their fathers or brothers or uncles, seven-year-olds with glazed eyes, and women who didn't believe they would ever be free again. They were the victims of violence, and most of the time of abusive husbands. Many of them had been abused as children, too, and they were continuing to perpetuate the cycle for their own children, but they had no idea how to break it. That was what the loving staff at St. Mary's tried to teach them.

Grace was tireless when she was at St. Mary's. She worked with the women sometimes, and most of all, she loved the children. She'd gather them close to her, hold them on her lap, and tell them stories she made up, or read to them by the hour. She took them to clinics at night, to see the doctor for injuries they'd had, or just to get exams or shots. It gave her life so much more meaning. And at times it hurt too. It hurt terribly, because it was all so familiar.

“It breaks your heart, doesn't it?” one of the nurses commented a week before Christmas. Grace had been putting a two-year-old to bed. She had been brain-damaged by her father, who was in jail now. It was odd to think that he was in jail, and her father, who had done things that were almost as bad, had died a hero.

“Yes, it does. They all do. But they're lucky.” Grace smiled at her. She knew this story well. Too well. “They're here. They could still be out there getting battered. At least, for now, it's over.” The real heartbreak was that some of them went back. Some of the women just couldn't stay away from the men who beat them, and when they went back, they took the children with them. Some were hurt, some were killed, some never recovered in ways that couldn't be seen. But some got it, some learned, some moved on to new lives and came to understand how to be healthy. Grace spent hours talking to them, about the options they had, the freedom that was theirs, just for the taking. They were all so frightened, so blinded by their own pain, so disoriented by everything they'd been through. It made her think of the condition she had been in herself nearly three years before, when she'd been in jail and Molly tried to reach her. In a way, Grace was doing this for her, to give back some of the love that Molly had shared with her.

“How's it going?” Paul Weinberg, their chief psychologist, and the head of the program, stopped to chat with her late one night. He had been working shoulder to shoulder with the volunteers and employees, doing intakes. Most of them came in at night. They came in hurt, they came in frightened, they came in injured in body and mind, and they needed everything the team had to give them.

“Not bad.” Grace smiled at him. She didn't know him well, but she liked what she'd seen. And she respected the fact that he worked hard. They had sent two women to the hospital that night, and he had driven them there himself, while she cared for the children. Each of them had had four kids, and they were all in bed now. “It's a busy night.”

“It always is right before Christmas. Everyone goes nuts over the holidays. If they're going to beat their kids and wives, this is the time to do it.”

“What do they do? Run ads? ‘Beat your wife now, only six more days to do it before Christmas.’ “She was tired but still in good humor. She liked what she was doing.

“Something like that.” He smiled at her, and poured her a cup of coffee. “Ever think of doing this for real? I mean, on a paid basis?”

“Not really,” she said honestly, but she was flattered by the question, as she sipped the steaming coffee. Paul had the same woolly hair as David Glass, and the same kind eyes, but he was taller, and better-looking. “I used to think about getting a psych degree. I'm not sure I'm that good at this. But I like what I do here. I love the people, and the idea that we might make a difference. I think doing it as a volunteer is good enough for now. I don't need to get paid for it. I love it.” She smiled again, and he seemed to be studying her carefully. She intrigued him.

“You're good at what you do, Grace. That's why I asked. You should think about that psych degree some more, when you have time.” He was impressed by her, and he liked her.

She had worked until two o'clock that night. Half a dozen new women had come in, and there was just too much going on for her to leave them. When everyone was settled, Paul Weinberg had offered to drive her home, and she was grateful for the ride, she was exhausted.

“You were great tonight,” he praised her warmly, and she thanked him. And he was surprised to see where she lived. Most people on Lake Shore didn't bother to volunteer three days a week at St. Mary's. “What's the deal?” he asked her, as they pulled up outside her house. “This is a pretty fancy place, Grace. Are you an heiress?” She laughed at the question, and she knew he was teasing her, but he was curious too. She was a very interesting young woman.

“I share a town house with four other girls.” She would have invited him in but it was late. It was after two-thirty. “You'll have to come by sometime, if you can get away from St. Mary's.” She was friendly, but he sensed that she wasn't flirting with him. She treated him like a brother, but his interest in her was definitely not platonic.

“I get away once in a while,” he smiled. “What about you? What do you do when you're not helping women and kids in crisis?” He wanted to know more about her, even though it was late, and they were both tired.

“I work at a modeling agency,” she said quietly. She liked her job, and she was proud of it, and he raised an eyebrow.

“You're a model?” He wasn't surprised, but he thought it was unusual that someone who'd have to spend so much time on themselves would give so much to others. Because she did give a lot, to the women, and the kids. He had watched her.