Pretty Guilty Women

by Gina LaManna

Detective Ramone: Who else was there?

  Lulu Franc: It was me and, well, Sydney. She was already unconscious.

  Detective Ramone: Sydney was unconscious when you arrived?

  Lulu Franc: Yes, and there was a man standing over her. I was convinced he hit her hard enough to knock her out because he had blood on his knuckles, and Sydney’s head was bleeding. Head wounds bleed a lot.

  Detective Ramone: Was her baby with her?

  Lulu Franc: No.

  Detective Ramone: Where was the baby?

  Lulu Franc: I don’t know.

  Detective Ramone: There’s one other tiny detail with your story that doesn’t make sense to me, Ms. Franc. When security arrived on the scene, there was no woman lying unconscious on the ground. If Sydney was injured so badly, then where did she go? And how did she get away?

  Twenty-Five

  Sharleen told Emily to take things easy until she got back home.

  Of course, she’d said so in more professional terms.

  Emily grabbed her fourth champagne from the bar, thinking Sharleen didn’t really understand. It was easier to forget. What better way to help her forget than an open bar? Appetizers had barely begun to make the rounds by the time Emily made fast friends with the bartender, the exchange of a healthy cash tip ensuring a full glass all evening.

  Screw Sharleen, Emily thought. Screw Henry, screw Daniel, screw them all. Emily had escaped from a horrible, toxic relationship and was working to put it all behind her. She’d only recently come to terms with the word abuse. She hadn’t wanted to think of herself as a victim, yet that was what she was. A poor, helpless victim.

  Weak people were supposed to be victims. Kate Cross in her fancy getup would never be a victim. Sydney with her baby wasn’t a victim; she was a warrior taking care of that baby all on her own. Ginger wasn’t a victim—she would set her husband straight the second he stepped out of line, Emily was sure of it. She’d seen it happen. Emily had never wanted to be weak.

  But the truth was that she had been weak. All those years ago in college, from that very first time Daniel had laid eyes on her, she’d crumbled. She’d made her choices. She’d gone back to him over and over again, even when she had seen cracks in his exterior that leaked glimpses of the cruelness he hid beneath. Even when she should have known better.

  Emily’s mouth tasted bitter. She ordered a shot of whiskey, downed it. Ordered another. Ordered a tequila and watched as the bartender’s fuzzy-looking face frowned as he slid it over, a little less full than the previous ones.

  “Another tequila, please,” Emily said to the bartender. “No training wheels this time.”

  “Um, ma’am—”

  “Give me the drink,” she said. “And I’ll leave you the hell alone.”

  Emily flashed back to the present, thinking of Henry’s words that morning. He’d meant to help, but he hadn’t. The truth was, he’d hurt her. In looking up the obituary for her daughter, pulling up an image of the man who’d ruined Emily’s life, confronting her with the dirty details of her past when the two of them were supposed to be nothing more than a fling in the present, he’d hurt her badly.

  Henry had gone where he shouldn’t have gone; he’d dug deep, torn at old scratches and wounds inside her, opening the scars to bleed. Then he’d gone, leaving her to die a lonely death because she’d asked him to go.

  Emily sipped her champagne and looked around the room decked out in love and hearts and shitty buffet food. (The food was actually quite good, but Emily’s mood tainted it to the equivalent of steamed spinach without butter.) She wondered if Daniel had a new wife by now. A new woman to batter, a new child to destroy. Emily really should do something about him…but what? What could a weak woman like herself do against a force like Daniel?

  Emily closed her eyes, sinking into the memory of the night she’d left. She’d done this before, multiple times, usually when she was drinking. If she let go enough, she could almost visualize the scene as if she were right there in the moment all over again.

  The night had been murky, black, and that was how her visions always began. She only remembered bits and pieces of it. She’d been sober back then, even before she’d gotten pregnant with Julia. Emily hadn’t even enjoyed alcohol all that much before Daniel. She’d never had more than a glass of wine with dinner. Alcoholics had seemed so undisciplined to her. Why not just stop drinking? she’d thought to herself. It can’t be that hard!

  Now, her memories were often patchy, thanks to the liquor, but that night, it was due to sheer terror and pain that certain parts had been blocked out. Her recall of the specifics was broken. She knew he’d had a knife. There was a struggle. She remembered trying to leave through the sliding patio deck doors when he’d come home raging drunk and began whaling on her. She’d tried to protect herself, her baby. There’d been stairs, falling, blood.

  He’d panicked, thrown her in the bathtub.

  Emily had always suspected he’d wanted to try and make it look like a suicide.

  When he’d realized there would be no explaining the bruises on her head, he must have changed his mind, because he tried to take her to the hospital. By the time Emily had come around, however, she’d fought him off and run to get Julia. This is it, she’d said. I’m taking the baby.

  He was going to let her go too. She could see it. See the horror in his eyes at what he’d done. The fear of Emily reporting him, ruining his successful career, destroying his life.

  “If you ever come near me or the baby ever again, I’ll kill you,” she’d said as she reached for Julia, and she’d meant it.

  A tear slipped down Emily’s face, over her cheek. She was sinking, spiraling into the black hole, a flushed toilet dragging her into the sewage of the world, the muck and filth that had become her subconscious. There was no escaping it. It was too late. She’d already lost Julia, her heart, her very soul.

  She opened her eyes, her knuckles white as they gripped the stem of a champagne glass. (When had she gotten champagne?) And she knew exactly what she had to do. There was only one way out of this mess.

  Emily spiraled from the bar, pausing, taking a second to note the room before her. It all seemed like too much. Like a Barbie wedding complete with the blushing bride. Whitney really did look beautiful in a sweeping, long white gown that skimmed over her impossibly trim hips.

  The coordinator, Miranda something-or-other, bustled about with a pen stuck behind her ear that she’d likely forgotten there, barking orders as if her life depended on this very dinner going off without a hitch. The flowers—white roses—filled the centerpieces of every table and spilled over onto a floor strewn with fresh petals.

  Several chefs worked quickly to keep the smell of expensive foods pungent and permeating the room—stuffed zucchini flowers, mouthwateringly thin strips of prosciutto, a cheese platter lovingly arranged so it was impossible to eat. The flowers, the scents, mixed with the gauzy, draping fabrics and the dim twinkle of fairy lights made the patio look otherworldly, exquisite…perfect. And this was only the rehearsal dinner.

  I don’t belong here, Emily thought with a smile.

  She didn’t belong anywhere.

  “Sharleen,” Emily muttered as she pulled her phone out and began to dial. “Sharleen, pick up the phone.”

  Sharleen’s answering machine clicked on as Emily fought her way through heart-shaped photo arrangements of the bride and groom. There were no goodbyes she needed to say, except to her therapist. To let Sharleen know there was nothing she could have done.

  “I’m sorry,” Emily said into the phone. “But this is for the best.”

  * * *

  Detective Ramone: Thanks for joining me on the phone, Dr. Love.

  Sharleen Love: What’s this about? Is Emily all right?

  Detective Ramone: She’s…fine. But the situation is a little complicated. We found your number had be
en dialed a few times on her phone over the last forty-eight hours. Did you speak with Ms. Brown during any of these calls?

  Sharleen Love: What’s this about? I’m not answering questions without speaking to my lawyer. We have doctor-patient confidentiality.

  Detective Ramone: I’m not asking you to breach confidentiality, I only need to know what she said to you the last time she called. A few minutes later, a man was murdered.

  Sharleen Love: Emily didn’t kill anyone, I can tell you that. She wasn’t… She was calling about something else entirely.

  Detective Ramone: Doctor, has Emily ever discussed suicide with you?

  Sharleen Love: I think I’d like to confer with a lawyer before we continue.

  * * *

  “Oh, God.” Emily stopped walking abruptly as she reached Henry’s floor and stepped out of the elevator. “Ginger, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Ginger looked harried, an ice bucket in her hand and a frenzied look on her face as she stopped short at Emily’s voice. Ginger spun around, and Emily realized she must have caught her in the middle of getting dressed. She had on beach sandals with a half-unzipped dress and hair pinned to only one side of her head.

  “Emily,” Ginger said evenly. “I’m in a rush and can’t talk. Poppy threw up everywhere, and the whole room is a mess.”

  “This… I’m sorry, but it can’t wait.” Emily found herself being pulled toward Ginger, her arms outstretched. The alcohol was clouding her vision and making words difficult to find, but she desired closure with her old friend. Craved it. “I need to talk to you.”

  “You’ve had fifteen years to talk to me, Emily,” Ginger said. “I’m not interested in talking to you right this very second. I need to sort out my daughter.”

  “It’s about Daniel.”

  “I don’t care about the past,” Ginger said. “I got Frank, you got Daniel—it all worked out. We all got what we deserved. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Emily stopped cold. Was Ginger right? Had she deserved Daniel? Had she deserved all that happened to her? The thought was sickly and black and wormed its way through the alcohol to the hole in Emily’s heart. Maybe she’d known the truth all along, and it had just taken an outsider to bring Emily’s worst fears to life.

  “You don’t know what I’ve been through,” Emily said in a whisper. “It’s been awful. I’ve paid for my mistakes a hundred times over.”

  “Look, I’m not happy to hear you’re hurt, Emily, but what can I say? Karma has a way of catching up to people. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to get this mess cleaned up and my daughter in the bath. I haven’t finished dressing myself, and I’m already late to dinner.”

  “I don’t have a family,” Emily whispered. “I don’t have anyone, Ginger.”

  “Jesus, what do you want me to say? Seriously, I don’t have time for this right now.” Ginger cradled the ice bucket to her chest and sidestepped Emily, stomping past her before whirling back around and coming to a stop. “You’re so selfish, Emily. What don’t you understand? You’re quite clearly drunk, probably on some ridiculously expensive champagne, and I’m here clearing up fucking vomit.”

  Emily felt weak as she looked at Ginger, too preoccupied to even give her the time of day. It was with startling clarity despite her hazy mind that she knew it was time.

  Without thinking, Emily stepped forward and reached an arm toward Ginger. As Emily’s fingers connected with the fabric of Ginger’s dress, Ginger flinched and looked down. Emily stepped closer and brushed a quick kiss against Ginger’s cheek. When Emily pulled away, she could barely speak.

  “I’m so sorry, Ginger,” Emily murmured. “I hope someday you’ll understand.”

  Emily could feel Ginger’s eyes on her as she turned and left, but she didn’t look back. If she did, if Ginger offered even the slightest words of friendship and forgiveness, Emily’s resolve might crumble—and she couldn’t let that happen. Her mind had been made.

  Emily arrived outside Henry’s room, dressed in the red gown she’d saved for months to buy—if for no other reason than to put on a good show for Kate, Whitney, and Ginger at their reunion—and knocked. Her mind was fuzzy, dark.

  She closed her eyes, swaying against the door, as the doctor’s voice played in her head. I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do. There’s nothing you could have done.

  “Emily, are you all right?” Henry opened the door and helped her to stand. “You collapsed on me there.”

  She glanced up, closing one eye to focus on Henry. “You’re—ah, you’re off to dinner.”

  Henry was dressed in a suit, sliding a button on his wrist through the hole. “You’re drunk.”

  Instead of sounding sympathetic, he sounded annoyed. “Get in here. You need to lie down.”

  “I will, but, ah—I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Henry was definitely upset, Emily realized. Even through her fogged mind, she could tell he was not happy to see her. “I’m—you’re angry with me.”

  “Fuck,” Henry said. “I didn’t come here to babysit a grown woman, Emily. No, I’m not happy to see you, and especially not in this state. You can barely open your eyes.”

  Well, that, Emily thought, isn’t very nice.

  But it was the proof Emily needed. Sharleen hadn’t answered, Ginger hadn’t forgiven, Henry had flung their fling, and there was nobody on earth who wanted her. Nobody who needed her. Pathetic, weak old Emily, taking up oxygen that someone else deserved more.

  “Why don’t you go on,” Emily said. “Let me sleep on your bed. Go to the party and forget about me.”

  Henry cursed again, helped Emily to the bed. When she lolled onto it, he gave her a look—one filled with such disgust, it caused tears to burst from Emily’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry” was all she could whisper as Henry stormed out and the door slammed shut behind him.

  * * *

  Detective Ramone: Tell me exactly what happened on the patio.

  Emily Brown: I stole a gun from Henry Anonymous. I already told you I slept with him, so it was easy enough to lie my way back into his room. You men are all the same.

  Detective Ramone: So you had the gun when you reached the courtyard?

  Emily Brown: Yes. I got a little lost when I left his room—I’d been drinking, see—but eventually, I made my way downstairs. I was headed outside. I thought it’d be awful for Henry, or a poor maid, to find me dead in the resort room. But when I got to the patio, Sydney was already unconscious. And that bastard was standing over her.

  Detective Ramone: What did you do when you found him there?

  Emily Brown: I raised my gun and shot him.

  Detective Ramone: Where was Lydia during this time?

  Emily Brown: The baby?

  Detective Ramone: Yes. The baby.

  Emily Brown: I don’t know.

  Detective Ramone: Ms. Brown, I have a huge problem with your confession, as you call it.

  Emily Brown: Why? I had the means and the motive.

  Detective Ramone: Imagine my confusion, then, when three other women all testified that there was no bullet in the victim’s body at the time of his death. An autopsy will be able to corroborate that detail easily enough. Which would lead me to believe, Ms. Brown, that the victim was shot postmortem. [Pause] Why don’t we review your story one more time?

  Twenty-Six

  “Poppy ate too much ice cream,” Elsie said, hanging up her cell phone. “My mom doesn’t have time to talk before the rehearsal dinner because Poppy is puking.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said, cautiously watching the teenager. “Are you upset your mom isn’t able to swing by for a chat? It must be hard having siblings. I was an only child.”

  “Upset?” Elsie barked laughter. “Don’t be silly. I’m only upset because she’s still making me
go to the dinner thing, even though Poppy and Tom get to stay back with Dad.”

  Kate watched as Elsie turned to her floppy paperback, a book worn into so many grooves, Kate wondered about its history. Who else had read that dirty, little copy? Who else had held it and complained about their parents while dog-earing pages or licking their finger to flip to the next? The way Elsie sunk into the book within seconds of turning her eyes to the page had Kate thinking she should get back into reading for pleasure. The joy on Elsie’s face, the unerring focus with which her eyes flitted from one line to the next, spurred something in Kate.

  Unfortunately, the very thing spurred in Kate sent her running to the restroom to bend over the toilet and expel the contents of her lunch. “What the hell?” she murmured, flushing to get rid of the smell, the sight of vomit making her even more sick.

  Once she’d cleaned up and brushed her teeth, Kate returned to the living area. “Don’t drink too much champagne, kids,” she said in a cheesy voice to Elsie. “I have one hell of a hangover.”

  “Maybe you’re pregnant,” Elsie said without flipping her gaze from the page. “My mom threw up all the time with Poppy. I used to tease Poppy about making Mom sick even when she was in her stomach.”

  “No,” Kate said automatically. “That’s not possible.”

  Now, Elsie looked up. “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because my ex and I tried everything money could buy to help us conceive a child,” Kate said. “Before we broke up, obviously. In fact, we tried for so long, and so hard, that it ruined our relationship. A few months ago, we decided to take a break from it all in hopes to get ourselves back on track. In fact, that’s why—” Kate stopped, squinted at Elsie. “Are you old enough to hear this?”

  Elsie rolled her eyes. “I go to public school.”

  “But you’ve never had sex.”

  “Of course not!” Elsie recoiled. “I haven’t even… I mean, the only time I’ve even seen a condom was when…” Elsie’s face turned red. “Oh, never mind.”

  “What is it?” Kate urged. “God knows I don’t judge.”