Pretty Girls

by Karin Slaughter

  Claire’s choice.

  And Helen’s, too. The last time Lydia had talked to her mother, Helen had said, “Don’t make me choose between you and your sister.”

  To which Lydia had responded, “I think you already have.”

  Though Lydia hadn’t spoken to her mother since, she still kept tabs on her. The last time she’d checked the Athens-­Clarke County tax records, Helen still lived in their old house on Boulevard, just west of campus. The Banner-­Herald ran a nice story when Helen retired from the library after forty years of ser­vice. Her colleagues had said that their grammar would never be the same. The obituary for Helen’s second husband mentioned that she had three daughters, which Lydia thought was nice until she realized that someone else had probably written it. Dee hadn’t made the list because they didn’t know she existed. Lydia would likely never remedy the situation. She could not bear the humiliation of having her daughter meet ­people who held her mother in such low regard.

  Lydia often wondered if her family ever looked online for her. She doubted Helen used Google. She had always been a strictly Dewey Decimal kind of gal. There were so many different sides of Helen that Lydia had known. The young, fun-­loving mother who organized dance contests and Sweet Valley High sleepovers. The much-­feared, cerebral librarian who humiliated the school board when they tried to ban Go Ask Alice from the library. The devastated, paralyzed woman who drank herself to sleep in the middle of the day after her oldest daughter went missing.

  And then there was the Helen who warned, “Don’t make me choose” when she had clearly already made her choice.

  Could Lydia blame them for not believing her about Paul? What Claire had said at the cemetery today was mostly true. Lydia had stolen from them. She had lied. She had cheated. She had exploited their emotions. She had banked on their fear of losing another child and basically extorted them for drug money. But that was the thing. Lydia had been a junkie. All of her crimes had been in the ser­vice of getting high. Which begged the obvious question that Helen and Claire had apparently never bothered to ask: What could Lydia possibly gain from lying about Paul?

  They hadn’t even let her tell the story. Separately, she had tried to tell each of them about riding with Paul in the Miata, the song on the radio, the way Paul had touched her knee, what had happened next, and they had each had the same response: I don’t want to hear it.

  “Time to wake up.” Rick muted the TV when a commercial came on. He slipped on his reading glasses and asked, “What is the groundnut better known as?”

  Lydia carefully rolled onto her back so the cat wouldn’t be disturbed. “The peanut.”

  “Correct.” He shuffled through the Trivial Pursuit cards. They were cramming for the Westerly PTO Parent/Teacher Trivia Night. Lydia barely had two years of college. Rick had three. They took a perverse pleasure in beating the doctors and lawyers of the Westerly Chosen.

  Rick asked, “Who is buried in an Argentine cemetery under the name Maria Maggi?”

  “Eva PerÓn. Give me something harder.”

  Rick shuffled through the cards again. “Where is the tallest mountain on earth?”

  Lydia put her hand over her eyes so she could concentrate. “You said tallest, not highest elevation, so it can’t be Everest.” She made some thinking noises that caused the dogs to stir. The cat started making biscuits on her stomach. She could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.

  Finally, Rick said, “Think ukulele.”

  She peeked through her fingers. “Hawaii?”

  “Mauna Kea.”

  “Did you know the answer?”

  “I’m gonna say yes because you have no way of knowing.”

  She reached up and pretended to smack his cheek.

  He bit at her hand. “Tell me what your sister’s like.”

  Lydia had already told him about surprising Claire at the cemetery that afternoon, though she’d left out the unseemly bit about squatting over Paul’s grave. “She’s exactly how I thought she would be.”

  “You can’t just say she’s a Mother and leave it at that.”

  “Why not?” The words came out sharper than Lydia intended. The cat sensed her tension and moved to the arm of the couch. “She’s still thin and beautiful. Obviously she works out all the time. Her outfit cost more than my first car. I bet she has her manicurist on speed dial.”

  Rick stared down at her. “That’s all there is to her? A gym membership and designer clothes?”

  “Of course not.” Lydia bristled, because Claire was still her sister. “She’s complicated. ­People look at her, and they see how beautiful she is, but they don’t realize that underneath she’s smart and funny and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Was Claire still smart and funny? After Julia disappeared and Helen checked out, Lydia had taken over the mothering responsibilities. She was the one who made sure Claire got to school on time, had lunch money and clean clothes. She was the one Claire had always confided in. They were best friends until Paul had forced them apart.

  She told Rick, “She’s quiet. She hates confrontation. She’ll walk halfway around the world to avoid an argument.”

  “So, she’s adopted?”

  Lydia slapped his arm. “Trust me, she was very sneaky. It might look like she was agreeing with you, but then she’d run off and do whatever the hell she wanted.” Lydia waited for another comment, but Rick held his tongue. She said, “Before the rift, I used to think that I was the only person in the world who really understood her.”

  “And now?”

  Lydia tried to remember exactly what Claire had told her in the cemetery. “She said I don’t know a damn thing about her. And she’s right. I don’t know Claire with Paul.”

  “You think she’s changed that much?”

  “Who knows?” Lydia said. “She was thirteen when Julia went missing. We all dealt with it in our own way. You know what I did, and what happened to my mom and dad. Claire’s response was to make herself invisible. She just agreed with everybody—­at least on the surface. She never caused any problems. She made solid grades in school. She was cocaptain of the cheerleading team. She tagged along with all the popular girls.”

  “That doesn’t sound invisible to me.”

  “I’m saying it wrong, then.” Lydia searched for a better way to explain. “She was always holding herself back. She was cocaptain, not captain. She could’ve dated the quarterback, but she dated his brother instead. She could’ve been top in her class, but she’d purposefully turn in a paper late or miss an assignment so she’d fall closer to the middle. She would know about Mauna Kea, but she would say Everest because winning would bring too much attention.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia said, not because she didn’t know, but because she didn’t know a way to explain it that made sense. No one understood striving for second place. It was un-­American. “She just wanted peace, I guess. Being a teenager is so hard. Julia and I had two great parents growing up. All Claire had was turmoil.”

  Rick asked, “So, what did she see in Paul? He wasn’t exactly in the margins. His obituary made him out to be a pretty successful guy.”

  Lydia had seen the photo in Paul’s obit. Claire had somehow managed to put pearls on the proverbial pig. “He wasn’t that way when she met him. He was an obnoxious grad student in thick glasses. He wore black socks with sandals. He laughed through his nose. He was really, really smart, maybe even a genius, but he was maybe a five and Claire’s always been a solid ten.”

  Lydia remembered the first time she’d met Paul Scott. Her only thought was that Claire could do so much better. But the fact was that Claire had never wanted to do better.

  Lydia said, “She always flirted with the good-­looking, popular guys, but she went home with the geeky ones who practically slobbered with gratitude. I think they made her feel safe.”


  “What’s wrong with feeling safe?”

  “Because the way Paul made her feel safe was by pushing everybody else out of the way. He was her savior. He made her think that he was all she needed. She stopped talking to her friends. She stopped calling me as much. She didn’t go home anymore to visit Mom and Dad. He isolated her.”

  “Sounds like a classic abuser.”

  “As far as I know, he never hit her or even raised his voice at her. He just kept her.”

  “Like a bird in a gilded cage?”

  “Sort of,” Lydia said, because it was more than that. “He was obsessed with her. He’d look at her through the window when she was in class. He’d leave notes on her car. She’d come home and there would be a rose on her doorstep.”

  “That’s not romantic?”

  “Not if you do it every single day.”

  Rick didn’t have a response to that.

  “When they were out in public, he was always touching her—­stroking her hair, holding her hand, kissing her cheek. It wasn’t sweet. It was creepy.”

  “Well”—­Rick put on his diplomatic tone—­“maybe she liked the attention. I mean, she married him and stayed married to him for almost twenty years.”

  “It’s more like she gave in.”

  “To . . . ?”

  “The wrong type of guy.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Someone she could never be passionate about or lose sleep over or worry about running around. He was safe because she would never really give all of herself to him.”

  “I dunno, babe. Twenty years is a long time to put up with somebody you don’t like.”

  Lydia thought about how devastated Claire had looked at the cemetery. She certainly seemed to be grieving. Then again, Claire was always really good at behaving exactly the way ­people expected her to behave—­not out of duplicity, but out of self-­preservation.

  She said, “Back when I was thin and beautiful, guys like Paul were always hanging around. I made fun of them. I teased them. I used them, and they let me use them because being around me meant that they weren’t losers.”

  “Damn, babe. That’s harsh.”

  “It’s the truth. I’m sorry to be blunt about it, but girls don’t like guys who are doormats. Especially pretty girls, because there’s no novelty to it. Guys are hitting on them all of the time. They can’t walk down the street or order a coffee or stand on a corner without some idiot making a comment about how attractive they are. And the women smile because it’s easier than telling them to go fuck themselves. And less dangerous, because if a man rejects a woman, she goes home and cries for a few days. If a woman rejects a man, he can rape and kill her.”

  “I hope you’re not giving Dee this excellent dating advice.”

  “She’ll learn it on her own soon enough.” Lydia could still remember what it felt like back when she was fronting the band. Men had fought for the privilege of accommodating her. She never had to open a door for herself. She never had to buy a drink or a bump or a Baggie. She said she wanted something and it was placed in front of her before she could finish the sentence.

  She told Rick, “The world stops for you when you’re pretty. That’s why women spend billions on crap for their faces. Their whole life, they’re the center of attention. ­People want to be around them just because they’re attractive. Their jokes are funnier. Their lives are better. And then suddenly, they get bags under their eyes or they put on a little weight and no one cares about them anymore. They cease to exist.”

  “You’re using a mighty broad brush to paint a whole bunch of ­people.”

  “Back in high school, did you ever see a guy get shoved into a locker? Or watch someone slap a lunch tray out of his hand?”

  Rick said nothing, probably because he had been the one terrorizing the poor kid.

  “Imagine if that guy dated the homecoming queen. That’s what it was like when Paul started dating Claire. You could totally see what he was getting out of it, but what was in it for her?”

  Rick stared at the muted television as he thought it over. “I guess I see your point, but there’s more to ­people than how they look.”

  “But you only get to know somebody because you like what you see.”

  He smiled down at her. “I like what I see.”

  Lydia wondered how many chins she had from lying on her back and whether or not her roots showed in the glow of the television. “What on earth could you possibly see?”

  “The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” Rick put his hand on her stomach. “This belly you’re always complaining about? This is where Dee spent the first nine months of her life.” He pressed his palm to her chest. “This heart is the kindest, gentlest heart I’ve ever known.” He let his fingers trace up toward her neck. “And this is where your beautiful voice is made.” He lightened the pressure as he touched her lips. “These are the softest lips I’ve ever kissed.” He touched her eyelids. “These eyes see straight through my bullshit.” He stroked back her hair. “This head is full of thoughts that surprise me and enlighten me and make me laugh.”

  Lydia guided his hand back to her breasts. “What about these?”

  “Hours of pleasure.”

  “Kiss me before I say something stupid.”

  He leaned down and kissed her mouth. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. Dee was spending the night at Bella’s. Tomorrow was Sunday. They could sleep in. Maybe have a second go-­round.

  Her cell phone chirped in the other room.

  Rick knew better than to ask her to ignore the phone when Dee was away.

  She told him, “Keep going without me. I’ll catch up.”

  Lydia picked her way past the dogs and a pile of laundry as she made her way into the kitchen. Her purse was in a chair. She dug around in the bag for several seconds before spotting her phone on the counter. There was a new text.

  “She all right?” Rick was standing in the doorway.

  “She probably forgot her math book again.” Lydia swiped her thumb across the screen. There was a text from a blocked number. The message listed an unfamiliar address in Dunwoody.

  Rick asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Lydia stared at the address, wondering if the text was sent by mistake. She ran a small business. She didn’t have the luxury of clocking out. The voice mail at work gave her cell phone number. The work number was on the side of her van alongside a photo of a giant yellow Lab that reminded her of the dog her father had rescued after Julia was gone.

  “Liddie?” Rick said. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Claire,” Lydia said, because she felt it with every ounce of her being. “My sister needs me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Claire sat in her office because she couldn’t stand being in Paul’s anymore. Her desk was an antique Chippendale secretary that she’d had painted a soft eggshell white. The walls were pale gray. The rug on the floor was patterned with yellow roses. The overstuffed chair and ottoman were covered in a muted lilac velvet. A simple chandelier hung overhead, but Claire had replaced the clear crystals with amethysts that spotted the wall in a purple prism when the sun hit it just right.

  Paul never came into her space. He only stood at the doorway, afraid that his penis would fall off if he touched anything pastel.

  She looked down at the note Adam Quinn had left on the car.

  I really need those files. Please don’t make me

  do this the hard way. AQ

  Claire had stared at the words so long that she could see them when her eyes were closed.

  The hard way.

  That was certainly a threat, which was surprising because Adam had no reason to threaten her. What exactly was the hard way? Was he going to send some goons around to rough her up? Was there some sort of sexual innuendo intended? Her dalliances with Adam had been
a little rough sometimes, but that was mostly because of the illicit nature of their affair. There had been no romantic hotel rooms, just quickies up against the wall at a Christmas party, a second time at a golf tournament, and once in the bathroom inside the Quinn + Scott offices. Honestly, their clandestine phone calls and secret texts had been more titillating than the actual acts.

  Still, Claire couldn’t help wondering which files Adam meant—­work files or porn files? Because Adam and Paul had shared everything, from a dorm room in college to the same insurance agent. And Claire supposed she belonged on that list of shared items, but who the hell knew whether Paul had figured that out?

  Then again, what exactly had Claire figured out?

  She had looked at the movies again—­all of them this time. Claire had rigged up Paul’s laptop in the garage so she wouldn’t have to sit in his office. Halfway through the first series of movies, she’d found herself somewhat anesthetized to the violence. Habituation, Paul would’ve explained, but fuck Paul and his stupid explanations.

  With her newfound distance, Claire was able to see that each movie series told the same linear story. At first, the chained girls were fully clothed. Subsequent installments revealed the masked man slowly cutting or slicing away their clothing to reveal leather bustiers and crotchless panties that they had obviously been forced to wear. Sometimes, their heads were covered by a black hood made of a light fabric that showed their desperate inhalations as they gasped for breath. As the story progressed, the violence ramped up. There was beating, then whipping, then cutting, then burning them with a branding iron, then the cattle prod.

  The girls were unmasked toward the end. The first woman’s face was exposed for two of the movies before she was butchered. The girl who looked like Anna Kilpatrick was hooded until the very last movie on Paul’s secret hard drive.

  Claire had closely studied the girl’s face. There was no way of telling whether or not she was looking at Anna Kilpatrick. Claire had even pulled up a photo from the Kilpatrick family’s Facebook page. She had positioned them side by side and still been unsure.