Pretty Girls

by Karin Slaughter

  He’d escaped from Nolan, but he hadn’t run off to an island country with no extradition treaty. Claire had no doubt that Paul had a secret stash of money waiting for him somewhere. He’d probably already ordered the Gladiator cabinets for the garage. He’d admitted to her over the phone that the timeline had been pushed up, but that didn’t explain why he was sticking around. The FBI couldn’t find him, but as Lydia would say, so what? Paul was a free man. He didn’t need to go into witness protection. He didn’t need the FBI. He didn’t need anything.

  Except for whatever was on the USB drive.

  The door shook as someone pounded a fist against the flimsy wood. “Claire!”

  Claire recognized the angry voice of her lawyer on the other side of the door. Wynn Wallace, the Colonel.

  “Claire!” Wynn tried the knob. The door was locked. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut!”

  Nolan told Claire, “You can refuse his counsel.”

  “So you can keep lying to me?”

  “Claire!” Wynn yelled.

  Claire stood up. “You’re asking the wrong question, Fred.”

  Wynn tried to shoulder open the door. There was a sharp crack.

  Nolan said, “Tell me the right question.”

  “Paul didn’t give you the information you wanted, therefore, his life isn’t in danger. He should be on a beach somewhere. Why is he sticking around?”

  Nolan hacked like a dog with a string down its throat. “You’ve seen him?”

  Claire opened the door.

  Wynn Wallace stormed into the room. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Nolan tried to stand up, but Wynn blocked him, demanding, “Who the hell are you? I want your ID number and your supervisor’s name right now.”

  “Claire,” Nolan tried, “don’t go.”

  Claire edged her way out the door. She fumbled for Lydia’s phone in her bra. The metal was hot. She pressed the button to power on the phone. She stared at the screen, silently begging for a message from Paul.

  “Sweetpea?”

  Claire spun around. She wondered if she was hallucinating. “Mom?”

  Helen was near tears. “We’ve been halfway around the state. They wouldn’t tell us where you were.” She cupped her hand to Claire’s face. “Are you all right?”

  Claire was trembling again. She couldn’t stop. It was like she was standing on the beach in the middle of a hurricane. Everything was slamming into her at once.

  “Come with me.” Helen took her hand. She pulled Claire down the hallway. They didn’t wait for the elevator. Helen led her to the stairs. Claire looked down at the phone as she followed her mother. The signal was strong. No calls. No voice mail. There was one new text: a photograph that had been sent a few minutes after Claire had turned off the phone. Lydia was still in the trunk. Her face didn’t show any new cuts or bruises, but her eyes were closed. Why were her eyes closed?

  Helen said, “Just a little bit farther.”

  Claire put the phone in her back pocket. Lydia had blinked when Paul took the picture. Or she was tired. She had closed her eyes against the sun. No, it was dark in the photo. Lydia was being obstinate. She didn’t want Paul to get his way. She was trying to make trouble because that’s what Lydia did.

  Claire’s knees felt weak. She almost stumbled. Helen helped her down another two flights of stairs. Finally, she saw the sign for the lobby. Instead of going through the marked door, Helen took her through the emergency exit.

  The sunlight was faint, but Claire still shielded her eyes with her hand. She looked around. They were standing on the corner of Peachtree and Alexander. Traffic was starting to fill the streets.

  She asked Helen, “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty in the morning.”

  Claire leaned back against the wall. She had been inside the building for almost twelve hours. What could Paul do to Lydia in twelve hours?

  “Claire?”

  She waited for her mother to lay into her, to demand an explanation for why she had to find a lawyer and rescue her daughter from the FBI.

  Instead, Helen stroked Claire’s cheek and asked, “What can I do to help?”

  Claire was speechless with gratitude. She felt like decades had passed since someone had offered her something as simple and genuine as help.

  “Sweetheart,” Helen said, “nothing is so bad that it can’t be fixed.”

  She was so wrong, but Claire forced herself to nod.

  Helen stroked back her hair. “I’ll take you home, okay? I’ll make you some soup and tuck you into bed and you can get some sleep and we can talk this out. Or not. It’s up to you, sweetheart. Whatever you need me to do, I’m here.”

  Claire felt herself start to crack. She turned away from her mother’s touch, because the only other option was to fall into her arms and tell her everything.

  “Sweetpea?” Helen rubbed her back. “Tell me what I can do.”

  Claire opened her mouth to tell her mother there was nothing that could be done, but she stopped, because she saw someone familiar standing fifty feet away.

  Detective Harvey Falke. She recognized him from the Dunwoody police station. Captain Mayhew had called him in to help connect the massive hard drive to his computer so that he could tell Claire that the movies Paul had been watching were fake.

  Harvey was leaning against a railing. His suit jacket was open, showing his gun. He wasn’t being shy about it. He was looking directly at Claire. His lips smiled under his bushy mustache.

  “Claire?” Helen sounded even more concerned. She had seen the man, too. “Who is—­”

  “The Tesla is parked downstairs on the third level.” She took the key fob out of her pocket. “I need you to move it to the Marriott Marquis for me, okay? Visitor parking. Leave the ticket on the seat and hide the key fob behind the parking pay machine in the lobby.”

  Miraculously, Helen still did not demand an explanation. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “No.”

  She squeezed Claire’s hand before leaving.

  Claire waited until her mother disappeared into the FBI building. She walked down the street. She forced herself not to look over her shoulder as she reached the corner. She crossed against the light, dodging around a yellow taxi. She took West Peachtree toward downtown. She finally looked behind her.

  Harvey was thirty yards away. His arms were bent at the elbows as he tried to catch up with her. His jacket billowed out. His gun was dark and menacing against his white dress shirt.

  Claire picked up the pace. She regulated her breathing. She tried to keep her heart rate under control. She looked behind her.

  Harvey was twenty yards away.

  Lydia’s phone started ringing. Claire pulled it from her back pocket as she started to jog. She looked at the screen. UNKNOWN NUMBER.

  Paul said, “Did you enjoy your time at the FBI?”

  “Is Lydia okay?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Claire crossed the street again. A car screeched to a stop inches away from her hip. The driver yelled out his open window. She asked Paul, “Do you want that USB drive or not?”

  “Lydia is fine. What did you tell the FBI?”

  “Nothing. That’s why they kept me so long.” Claire looked over her shoulder. Harvey was closer, maybe fifteen yards away. “A cop is following me. One of Mayhew’s guys.”

  “Get rid of him.”

  Claire ended the call. She jogged across the street. She knew this area of town because she had worked in the Flatiron Building when they first moved to Atlanta. Claire had hated the job. She took long walks during lunch and came back late and flirted with her boss so he would let her leave early.

  She started jogging again. Harvey was quickly closing the gap between them. He was a big man with a long stride. He was going to catch up with
her soon.

  Claire turned the corner onto Spring Street. She lunged into a full run. She was at the next corner by the time Harvey rounded the building. Claire went halfway down the side street. She checked over her shoulder. Harvey hadn’t made the corner yet. She frantically looked for an escape route. The Southern Company’s side entrance was the closest option. There were six glass doors and a large revolving door at the far end. She tried the first door, but it was locked. She tried the next one, then the next one. She looked back for Harvey. Still not there, but he would be running now, catching up fast. She tried another door, then wanted to kick herself for not going to the revolving door first. Claire ran full-­bore into the open mouth of the door. She pushed so hard against the glass partition that she heard the motor grind.

  The lobby was cordoned off by glass turnstiles. The sleepy guard behind the counter was smiling. He had probably watched her try each door.

  “I’m sorry.” Claire pitched up her voice a few octaves so she sounded helpless. “I know it’s awful of me to ask, but can I use your restroom?”

  The guard smiled. “Anything for a pretty lady.” He reached under the desk and opened one of the turnstiles. “Go straight through to the main lobby on West Peachtree. The bathrooms are on the right.”

  “Thank you so much.” Claire walked briskly through the partition. She looked behind her. Harvey raced past the side-­entrance doors.

  She had two seconds of relief before he came back.

  Claire darted into an elevator alcove. She kept her head turned so she could see him. Harvey started toward the building. He pulled on one of the locked doors. He was clearly winded. His breath fogged the glass. He wiped it away with his jacket sleeve. He cupped his hands to his eyes and peered into the lobby.

  The guard mumbled something under his breath.

  Claire pressed her back against the elevator doors.

  Harvey pushed away from the glass. Instead of leaving, he moved toward the revolving door. Claire tensed herself. She would tell the guard that Harvey was stalking her. Then Harvey would flash his badge. She could run toward the front entrance, dart back into the street.

  Or she could stay here.

  Harvey hadn’t pushed through the revolving door. He was still standing outside. His head was turned to the right. Something on West Peachtree had caught his attention.

  Claire held her breath until he ran off toward whatever had distracted him.

  She peeled herself away from the alcove. She went back out the glass turnstile. She told the guard, “Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat. “You have a blessed day.”

  Claire pushed open the door. She knew better than to think she was safe. She ran back toward Spring Street. She hooked a left onto Williams. Her feet pounded against the cracked sidewalk. There was a mist of rain in the air. Claire scanned the area behind her as she kept running. She tried to orient herself. Staying on the street was not an option. There had to be somewhere to hide, but it was too early for any of the cafés to be open.

  Lydia’s phone rang. Claire didn’t slow as she answered, “What?”

  Paul said, “Take a left. Go to the Hyatt Regency.”

  Claire kept the line open. She took the left. She saw the Hyatt in the distance. Her knees hurt. Her legs were screaming. She was used to running on the treadmill, not up and down hills and over cracks in the concrete. Sweat dripped from her scalp and down her back. The waist of her jeans was starting to chafe. She gripped the phone in her hand as she ran. How was Paul tracking her? Was Mayhew tag-­teaming Harvey? Were they trying to funnel her into a location where they could grab her?

  The bellhop outside the Hyatt opened the door when he saw Claire round the drive. If he thought it was odd that a grown woman dressed in jeans and a button-­down shirt had gone for a run at six in the morning, he didn’t say.

  Inside the building, Claire slowed her pace. She followed the signs to the women’s restroom. She pushed open the door. She checked the stalls to make sure they were empty.

  Claire locked the last stall door. She sat down on the toilet. She was panting for breath when she said, “Let me speak to Lydia.”

  “I can let you hear her scream.”

  Claire put her hand to her mouth. What had he done? Twelve hours. He could have Lydia in Key West or New Orleans or Richmond by now. He could be torturing her and beating her and—­

  Claire couldn’t let herself think of the “and.”

  Paul asked, “Still there?”

  She fought back the overwhelming agony that came from knowing exactly what her husband was capable of. “You said you weren’t going to hurt her.”

  “You said you were going to call me back.”

  “I will drive over that fucking USB drive with a Mack truck.”

  Paul had to know that Claire would do it. She had never been averse to burning bridges she was still trying to cross.

  He asked, “Where is it?”

  Claire tried to think of an area she was familiar with but Paul was not. “It’s at the Wells Fargo on Central Avenue.”

  “What?” He sounded concerned. “That’s a very dangerous area, Claire.”

  “Are you really worrying about my safety?”

  “You need to be careful,” he warned. “Where is the bank exactly?”

  “Near the main post office.” Claire had driven to the post office several times to drop off mailers for the Humane Society. “I’ll go get it right now. We can meet somewhere and—­”

  “It’s almost six in the morning. The bank won’t be open until nine.”

  Claire waited.

  “You can’t leave now. You’ll get carjacked if you park the Tesla on Central for that long.” She could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Stay in the hotel. At eight thirty, drive down to Hapeville. That should get you there right when the bank is opening.”

  “Okay.”

  “Traffic will be bad coming back. Get on seventy-­five and wait to hear from me.”

  Claire didn’t ask how he would know where she was because she was beginning to think Paul knew everything. “Nolan told me what you did.”

  “Is that right?”

  Claire didn’t elaborate, but they both knew Nolan had only seen what Paul wanted him to see. “He said you wanted to be in witness protection.”

  “That wasn’t going to happen.”

  “He said you wanted me to watch you die.”

  Paul was quiet for a moment. “It had to seem real. I was going to come back for you. You know that.”

  Claire didn’t respond.

  Paul said, “I’m going to take care of this. You know I always do.”

  Claire took a stuttered breath. She couldn’t stand the soft, reassuring tone of his voice. There was still an infinitesimal part of her that wanted her husband to somehow make it all better.

  But Fred Nolan was right. The Paul she had known was dead. This stranger on the other end of the phone was an imposter. Or maybe he was the real Paul Scott, and her husband, her friend, her lover, had been the lie. It was only when he put on that black leather mask that the real Paul showed his face.

  She said, “I want to speak to my sister.”

  “In a minute,” he promised. “The battery on your phone is probably getting low. Did you bring the charger from the house?”

  Claire checked the screen. “It’s at thirty percent.”

  Paul said, “Go buy a charger. And you need to juice up the Tesla. There’s a charging station at Peachtree Center. I downloaded the app for you so just—­”

  “Let me talk to Lydia.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Put my sister on the goddamn phone.”

  There was a rustling sound, then the tinny echo of a speakerphone.

  “Wake up,” Paul said. “Your sister wants
to talk to you.” Claire gritted her teeth. He sounded like he was speaking to a child.

  “Lydia?” she tried. “Lydia?”

  Lydia didn’t answer.

  “Please say something, Liddie. Please.”

  “Claire.” Her voice was so flat, so lifeless, that Claire felt like a hand had reached inside her chest and ripped out her heart.

  “Liddie,” Claire said, “please, just hold on. I’m doing everything I can.”

  Lydia mumbled, “It’s too late.”

  “It’s not too late. I’m going to give Paul the USB drive, and he’s going to let you go.” Claire was lying. They all knew that she was lying. She started crying so hard that she had to brace herself against the wall. “Hold on a little while longer. I’m not going to abandon you. I promised you—­never again.”

  “I forgive you, Claire.”

  “Don’t say that now.” Claire bent at the waist. Tears fell onto the floor. “Tell me when you see me, okay? Tell me when this is over.”

  “I forgive you for everything.”

  “Pepper, please. I’m going to make this right. I’m going to make everything all right.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Lydia told her. “I’m already dead.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Paul was smiling when he put the phone down on the table beside the black hood. Lydia didn’t look at the phone, which she could not reach, but at the soaked black hood next to it, which she knew would eventually be wrapped around her head again. The spray bottle was empty for the third time. Paul was drinking filtered water so he could fill it back up again.

  When he was ready, he would make her watch him fill up the bottle, then he would put the hood back over her head, then he would start spraying. Seconds before she passed out, he would shock her with the cattle prod or whip her with the leather belt or punch her or kick her until she gasped for breath.

  And then he would start the process all over again.

  He said, “She sounds good, right? Claire?”

  Lydia looked away from the hood. There was a computer on a workbench like the one Paul had in his garage at home. Metal storage shelves. Old computers. She had catalogued everything in her head because she had been here almost thirteen hours—­Paul updated her with the time every half hour—­and the only thing that was keeping her from going insane was reciting the inventory like a mantra while he tried to drown her in his piss.