The Disappearance of Grace by Vincent Zandri

couch, but standing all the way on the opposite end of the apartment at the kitchenette. I have no idea when or how I got here in my sleep. I’m in the process of stacking dishes on the counter. For now anyway, I can see. I have no idea why I am doing this or it if means anything at all. Just like the night before when I woke to find myself sleepwalking up on the roof.
    I. Can. See.
    I have no recollection of falling asleep. But at some point, exhaustion must have taken over, causing me to pass out on the couch. I turn away from the stacks of boxes, cans, dishes, cups, wine glasses, drinking glasses, knives and forks, peer outside the open French doors. Beyond the painting situated on the easel is the dark night of Venice. I listen to the pleasant sounds of the ever-active city of water until the realization hits me like a suddenly detonated IED..
    Grace is gone.
    I have my eyesight. I want to try calling her again while I have my eyesight.
    I dig in the pocket of my leather coat, retrieve my phone. I stare down at the screen. I’ve received no phone calls in the hour since I’ve returned to the studio. Nothing.
    I try speed-dialing her.
    I get the same automated “mailbox full” message that I got before. I set the phone down on the harvest table, beside a stack of white bowls and a tower of cereal boxes beside it.
    Taking a step back I take a quick survey of the room.
    In the light of the naked overhead bulb I see stacks of white plates on the small kitchenette counter. In between the stacks of plates are carefully positioned boxes of pasta and rice set beside towers made from can goods. I say “carefully positioned” because the boxes, cans and plates don’t seem to be randomly placed there. It’s like I was placing them in that position on purpose.
    It’s the same story for the harvest table.
    I’ve made myself a model city of boxes, bowels, plates, with knives and forks placed end-on-end to mimic roads or maybe rivers. The dream I was having while I was sleepwalking must have really been something. Now I am designing cities.
    I go to return the boxes and plates to the shelves and cupboards, but as soon as I place my hands on them, I decide to leave them be. My gut speaks to me, tells me to listen to my dreams. In this case, it insists that I see my dreams for real.
    * * *
    I check the time on my watch. The vision of my hand is growing blurry, distorted, which tells me it’s about to be lights out again for my eyes. Something I have to accept for now.
    My malady…
    I try the cell phone one more time and it’s the same story. Grace’s mailbox is full.
    When the phone on the wall explodes in a cacophony of electronic chimes, I think my heart is about to pop out of my chest. I make my way to the phone, yank it off the cradle.
    â€œYes!” I bark. “Grace!”
    The receiver is filled with static or a bad reception. Maybe a little of both.
    â€œI. See.” says a voice. A man’s voice. “I. See.”
    My heart pumps.
    â€œIs Grace with you?”
    â€œI. See.”
    â€œDo you have Grace?”
    â€œI. See.” he repeats.
    â€œListen to me, please. Do you have my fiancée?”
    I’m trying to hold back from screaming into the phone. Trying to stay calm and not anger the man. If he does have Grace, I don’t want to risk him causing her pain. I don’t want to give him an excuse to break off contact.
    â€œPlease, please,” I beg. “Who are you? Have you taken my Grace? Please.”
    â€œI. See.” he says yet again.
    â€œPlease!” I scream.
    And then the phone goes dead.

Chapter 19
    I SET THE PHONE back onto the cradle and frantically check my mobile phone again. No calls. Once more I speed-dial Grace’s number. The automated message is the same. Mailbox full. Grace’s phone is missing or out of a charge or both.
    My body is beginning to tremble over the realization that Grace’s