Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

  Sydney forfeited the book to Kate’s outstretched hands, then turned to the bed, where Lydia squirmed in her little nook. Sydney fussed over her baby while Kate took the album and rested it on the resort’s built-in desk.

  Kate opened the first page while Sydney hummed lazily in the background to her restless daughter. It seemed wrong for Kate to leaf through evidence of Sydney’s abuse while a lullaby floated over to her, a soundtrack to the pictures that showed bruises in the shape of fingermarks and cuts from what Sydney had claimed were accidents.

  As Kate flipped from one page to the next, Sydney hummed louder, giving Kate a buzzing in her ears that made her uncomfortable and queasy. Image after image. Most of them close-ups of a woman’s body. A burned shoulder, a cut lip, a bruised tummy. None of them showed Sydney’s face. Probably, so if the book fell into the wrong hands, she couldn’t be identified.

  “You dated for six months,” Kate said, making an effort not to vomit. Her damn queasy stomach. “Then you got married.”

  “Yes, and pregnant within the month,” Sydney said. “It was a whirlwind.”

  “The first time he came after you…”

  “I was probably pregnant but didn’t know it yet. We were already married,” she said. “It wasn’t too bad that time. He’d…well, he’d had a bit to drink and was angry about something. I don’t remember what. Probably a dish in the wrong place, or the lights. I used to leave the lights on when I left a room, and it drove him nuts.”

  Kate cleared her throat, biting back her vile comments. She flipped another page. “This went on,” she said, hoarse, “through your pregnancy?”

  “Not horribly,” she said. “But yes, enough for me to be concerned. He promised me he’d stop. I thought maybe when the baby arrived, it would shock him into realizing there was something else to live for. Someone else to let me live for,” she corrected. “He asked me to quit working. I thought it was sweet at first, but in retrospect, it made it harder for me to leave. He probably knew that all along.”

  “But you managed to tuck money away before you quit?”

  Sydney nodded. “I would have left him sooner, but I needed the insurance for my pregnancy. He did have a good job, and he didn’t let me go without. And whenever I had a trip to the hospital, he always bought me something nice after. He was very apologetic.”

  “He shouldn’t have had to be,” Kate said with poison on her lips. “‘Here, honey, I sent you to the hospital. Have a silver watch.’”

  Sydney’s eyes flashed in frustration. “He did love me. He still loves me. He just doesn’t know how to manage it.”

  “It doesn’t seem like he’s learning, and he will kill you before he does,” Kate said. She stood. “I need to use your bathroom. I’m going to be sick.”

  Kate left the page open as she stood and strode across the resort room, falling to her knees before the toilet. As she relieved every last bit of the contents in her stomach, she swore to herself she was never drinking again.

  But Kate knew that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue wasn’t the champagne, or Sydney’s justification for her husband’s horrendous actions, or even the fact that that sweet, innocent baby Lydia might have been affected if Sydney hadn’t left when she did. It was the photograph on the page of the album that showed a woman from the neck down, thin-limbed and gawky, her belly swollen with pregnancy, with bruises up and down her thighs.

  A carefully written line across the bottom read:

  February 2, 2018. Eight months pregnant.

  Went to the hospital for “injuries” because I incorrectly loaded the dishwasher.

  Dropped all charges because he threatened to kill me and the baby if I didn’t stay.

  Kate pulled herself off the floor, feeling a dry sort of primal urge to find the man who’d done this to a young mother and strangle him herself. She felt a surge of rage that the law hadn’t protected this woman or kept her and her child safe. With that ugly, festering feeling in her stomach, she wiped a sleeve across her mouth and splashed water on her face.

  “You can’t keep running from him forever,” Kate said, stepping out into the room. She noticed Sydney had closed the book, and her face had turned ashen. “I’d like to help you if you’ll let me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sydney said with a shaky tremble of her lip. “But it’s far too late to help me.”

  * * *

  Detective Ramone: Let me get this straight: Four women all book massages at the same time—all paid for by you. Then, the same four women all confess to killing one man, each of them acting on their own authority. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?

  Kate Cross: I met new friends, reconvened with some old ones, and paid for their massages. So what? I was racking up my ex-boyfriend’s room bill. If you don’t have anything new, can we wrap this up? It’s after midnight, and we’ve been at this for hours.

  Detective Ramone: Not so fast, Ms. Cross. One of you ladies doesn’t have your story straight.

  Kate Cross: Oh?

  Detective Ramone: Three of you have told me that you killed a man by swinging a wine bottle at his head. One of you confessed to shooting him. Who should I believe?

  Kate Cross: Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody was shot.

  Detective Ramone: I can assure you, a man was shot this evening.

  Twenty-Two

  Emily did a double take as she stepped onto the sandy path, huge sunglasses masking her bloodshot eyes, and caught a glimpse of a mini Ginger strolling down the path. Despite the haze of the previous evening, Emily recalled Ginger’s daughter was named Elsie. Elsie Adler, she thought, watching the gangly teenager roll her eyes at her father as he tossed a football miles over her head.

  Flinging a beach towel over her shoulder, Emily inhaled a slurp of some nasty kale smoothie that she’d had to infuse with vodka from the minibar. She tried to sort through the feelings in her stomach, but they were mixed with last night’s hangover and this morning’s alcohol, and she didn’t like what she was finding. Not only were her emotions a mess, but so were her thoughts. She couldn’t shake the mantra that’d begun to play on repeat.

  Julia should be here too.

  Her daughter should be gossiping about boys with Elsie, or tanning her awkward teenage limbs in the sunlight, or snarking to her mother about being overly watchful and annoying and uncool. Emily wouldn’t complain about Julia like Ginger did about Elsie; she’d bask in the joy of being a mother.

  “I’m not getting that,” Elsie snapped across the sand. “I’m going to find Mom.”

  “Heya, Emily!” Frank Adler waved over his children’s heads. “I haven’t said hello to you yet.”

  Emily shoved her glasses higher on her nose and sucked down the rest of the smoothie to fortify her confidence. It was hard to know how to feel about Frank. Emily wanted to hate him for his part in the destruction of her friendship with Ginger, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. The blame went equally to them both. Plus, Frank was just too damn hard to hate with his huge heart and huger smile.

  “Hi, Frank.” Emily moved an inch closer. It was all the friendliness she could muster on only two shots of vodka. “You’ve got quite the clan out here.”

  “They’re the best.” Frank paused. “Tom, go get the football before it’s lost at sea. Elsie, come meet your mom’s old pal.”

  Before Emily could wave off the herd of Adlers, Frank swooped down to gather a giggling little girl in his arms. He tossed her over his shoulder before striding across the sand and offering Emily a handshake while his youngest daughter swung like a pendulum behind his back, laughing in a high-pitched wail that hurt Emily’s hungover ears.

  Emily returned the shake, watching a completely unfazed Frank carry on a conversation with a child hanging like a sack of potatoes behind him. Somehow, Emily wasn’t surprised. Both she and Ginger had known Frank would slip into fatherhood like he w
ould a used baseball glove. Frank was made to be a dad.

  “You knew my mom when she was younger?” Elsie hovered a safe distance from her father and looked curiously at Emily. “My mom had friends?”

  “Your mom was a firecracker,” Frank said with a whistle. “She still is. Only we make her act like the responsible one. Ain’t that right, Poppy?”

  The littlest one let out another shriek as Frank tickled her stomach. In the next second, a football sailed across the sandy pitch and landed an inch from Emily’s big toe. A few degrees north, and it would have knocked the empty glass right out of Emily’s hand.

  “Tom, come on, bud. We talked about that,” Frank yelled. “Don’t throw balls around the guests if you can’t aim.”

  “It’s fine,” Emily lied. “Boys will be boys.”

  Frank gave a happy nod and completely missed all telling signs of Emily’s dismay. He tossed Poppy in the air before setting her down, then challenged her in a race to catch up with Tom. Only Elsie lingered behind, pretending to watch her siblings and father, but really casting glances at Emily whenever she thought it was safe.

  The interest was mutual. From the moment Elsie had sidled over, Emily had been hard-pressed to turn her gaze from Elsie’s face. She truly did look like Ginger, minus the graying hair and stress lines on her forehead. Emily’s heart lurched, picturing a younger version of herself standing there on the beach. She wondered if Julia and Elsie would have been fast friends like she and Ginger had been a long time ago.

  “Do they always have that much energy?” Emily’s voice cracked. She wasn’t feeling well and knew she was staring too much at Elsie. Emily’s phone call with Sharleen hadn’t gone all that well, hence the vodka in her breakfast smoothie.

  Elsie winced. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  Emily offered a smile. “I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Did you actually like my mom back in college?”

  “Yes, I did,” Emily said. “We were good friends for quite some time.”

  “But you’re not friends anymore.”

  Emily studied Elsie. It was strange how natural it seemed that Elsie existed. When Emily and Ginger had been in college, children for either of them—both of them—had seemed so impossible. Something so far off in the distance, it was barely a spec on the horizon, and certainly not something that might become real. Or rather, someone.

  But looking at Elsie, seeing the hint of curiosity she’d inherited from Frank, along with the beauty she’d surely grow into from Ginger, Emily wondered how she’d ever doubted Frank and Ginger would end up together. How she could have made such a stupid mistake that almost destroyed everything. Elsie was so real, so tangible and unique, it was as if her parents had been drawn together solely for her creation.

  Emily studied her empty glass and desperately longed for a refill while she considered Elsie’s question.

  “No, we’re not exactly friends anymore,” Emily said. She was too tired to lie. “You could say we fell out of touch after college.”

  “I figured,” Elsie said. “Since she calls you a bitch. But only when she thinks we can’t hear her.”

  Emily snorted. “Yeah, well. At least you kids are honest.”

  “What happened to make you guys not friends?”

  Emily thought back to Frank, and Daniel, and the mess she’d made, then glanced to Elsie. “Your mother can tell you the story when you’re older.”

  “Why does everyone think I’m a child?” Elsie shot a dark look in the general direction of the spa. “My mom punishes me like I’m an adult and then treats me like I’m Poppy’s age. It’s not fair.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” Emily said, then raised her empty glass in cheers. “I’m ready to listen. And you know your mom doesn’t approve of me, so there you go. Isn’t that what teenagers love? Going against their parents’ wishes?”

  Emily felt mildly bad about toying with Elsie’s mind, but she was too curious in studying Ginger’s daughter to let her go so quickly. She wanted to understand what Julia might be like, what problems she might be dealing with had she lived to reach high school. When Elsie talked, Emily tried to picture her daughter and pretend this was real. Just a mother and daughter hanging out on the beach, hashing out high school drama.

  Emily could see Elsie considering, and she could see the moment when the young girl decided to take a leap and trust Emily. Or at least get back at her mother by confiding in Ginger’s well-known enemy. It had been a strategic ploy on Emily’s part, and it had worked. She certainly didn’t regret it.

  “That’s the problem.” Elsie toed the sand in her flip-flops, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure nobody was in earshot. “She doesn’t listen to me. Ever. She’s punishing me now for… Well, it’s stupid. And super embarrassing.”

  “I heard something about it,” Emily said vaguely.

  “I’m sure you did. Because my mom talks to everyone but me about my problems.”

  “Try me,” Emily repeated. “I’ve heard it all. Nothing will alarm me.”

  “My mom thinks I’m carrying…condoms around.” Elsie studied Emily’s face for a reaction, and then looked disappointed when she didn’t get one. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know…to have sex.”

  Emily shrugged. “And?”

  “And I’m not! I mean, they were in my bag, but I’m not using them.”

  “So what if you were?”

  “I’m not even sixteen. I don’t even…” Elsie’s fingers clenched into fists. “I haven’t even held hands with a boy.”

  “Well, your mother’s probably worried about you making the same mistakes she did.”

  “What sort of mistakes?”

  Emily had to tread carefully, she realized a moment too late, or she could very well insinuate that Elsie herself had been somewhat of a happy little surprise, as Frank had lovingly called their bundle of screaming joy.

  “What do I know?” Emily mumbled. “Like I said, I don’t have children. I’m only spouting crap to you. Why are you carrying condoms if you don’t want to have sex?”

  “A senior at school gave them to me during lunch. I didn’t know what to do, so I stashed them into this little pouch I never open and my mom never sees. I was in the cafeteria when it happened. It’s not like I could just throw them out in front of anyone. Afterward, I guess I forgot about them until my backpack ripped on the plane.”

  “Ah.”

  “Anyway, the girl who gave them to me, her name is Phoebe.” Elsie shook her head and pasted a mightier-than-thou expression on her face, though Emily caught a shadow of vulnerability underneath it. “She’s, like, the most popular girl in school. The head cheerleader. President of student council. Prom queen. Anyway, this year, I decided I’m going to try out for the cheerleading team.”

  “Did you tell your mom?”

  “No.” Elsie scowled. “She wouldn’t understand. She thinks cheerleading is stupid. Plus, it’s not like she has the money to buy me a uniform anyway.”

  “How would you explain practices to her?” Emily pressed. “You’d be spending a lot of time at school learning routines and going to games and whatnot.”

  “My mom works a lot. She usually doesn’t get home until late these days, so it’s not like she’d notice. My dad is nice and all, but he’s totally oblivious to my schoolwork. If I told them I joined a study group, it’d solve that. I suppose if they did find out at some point, it’d be too late by then to make me quit.”

  “What about the expenses?”

  “I’ve saved up. I have some birthday money,” Elsie said. “It’s not like I buy anything—I get all my books for free and the only thing my mom allows me to do for fun, practically, is read.”

  “It sounds like you have it all planned out.” Emily shrugged.
“Good luck. I’m sure you’ll do great at tryouts. If you’re anything like your mother, you’ll be running that team before the season’s over.”

  Elsie shot a surprised look at Emily before she burst into laughter. “You know, I don’t think you’re… Well, I don’t know why my mom’s not still friends with you. You’re easy enough to talk to.”

  Emily struggled to find the proper response. Her head swam with the fresh hit of alcohol on an empty stomach, and the familiarity of conversing with a carbon copy of “young Ginger” was forcing Emily to revisit years that had long since expired. Years that should remain behind her.

  “She has her reasons.”

  “Stupid ones, probably,” Elsie said. “I’d rather talk to you than my mom.”

  Emily’s stomach constricted, and a wave of guilt slid down her spine over her earlier jab at Ginger. Emily wondered what exactly had made Elsie open up to her. Had it really been Emily’s strategic conversation, or was it something more? Was it so obvious that Emily was an awful adult that even a teenager didn’t mind talking to her?

  No matter how big Elsie’s problems might be, she probably felt secure in knowing that Emily was more dysfunctional than her. Emily was willing to bet that Elsie could sense instability and felt more comfortable around a train wreck like Emily than someone like Ginger or Kate or Lulu—women who had their lives sorted and organized and shiny. Teenage life wasn’t sorted and organized and shiny, and neither was Emily.

  Emily wondered briefly if Julia would feel the same way, or if, had things been different, her own daughter might lash out to someone else—someone like Ginger—as a way to get back at her mother. It doesn’t matter, Emily thought, because it would never be. She would never discuss the birds and the bees, boys and magazines, prom dresses or wedding gowns with her daughter. Because she had failed as a mother.

  “I enjoy listening to you,” Emily finally mustered, her voice weirdly throaty with pent-up emotion. “Although, I’m still not quite sure how the condoms come into play or why someone would have given them to you.”

  “Well, Phoebe heard that I’m the only one trying out for the team who’s still…” Elsie’s face looked instantly sunburned with embarrassment. “You know…”