Pretty Girls

by Karin Slaughter

  Lydia grabbed her sister by the collar and pushed her toward the narrow opening. Claire couldn’t fit through the gap with the tapes. Lydia slapped them out of her hands. She pushed Claire again. Her feet slipped. Her shoes were melting into the concrete. Lydia made one last push. Claire went flying outside. Lydia was right after her. They both landed hard on the driveway.

  The sudden fresh air shocked Lydia’s system. Her collarbone had cracked against the concrete. She felt like a knife had jammed into her throat. She rolled onto her back. She gasped for air.

  Videotapes rained down around her. Lydia swatted them away. She hurt so bad. Everything hurt so bad.

  “Hurry!” Claire was on her knees. She was reaching her hands back into the garage, trying to save the videotapes. One of her shirtsleeves caught on fire. She shook out the flame and kept reaching in. Lydia tried to push herself up, but her left arm wouldn’t work. The pain was almost unbearable as she lifted herself with her right hand. She grabbed Claire by the shirt and tried to pull her away.

  “No!” Claire kept reaching for more tapes. “We have to get them.” She used both hands to gather the tapes the same way she used to gather sand to make castles. “Liddie, please!”

  Lydia got on her knees beside Claire. She could barely see more than a few inches in front of her. Smoke was furling out the opening. The heat was suffocating. She felt something drop on her head. Lydia thought it was a spark from the fire, but it was rain.

  “There’s just a few more!” Claire kept pulling out the tapes. “Get them away from the house!”

  Lydia used her good hand to toss the videos out into the driveway. There were so many. Her eyes scanned the dates on the labels, and she knew the dates corresponded to missing women, and that the women had families who had no idea why their sisters, their daughters, were gone.

  Claire fell backward as flames shot out from the garage. Her face was black with soot. The fire had finally engulfed the garage. Lydia grabbed her collar and pulled her away from the house. Claire stumbled as she tried to stand. Her melted shoes fell off her feet. She banged into Lydia. The jolt sent pain straight up into Lydia’s shoulder, but it was nothing like the hacking coughs that wracked her body. She bent at the waist and let out a stream of black water that tasted like piss and cigarette ash.

  “Liddie.” Claire rubbed her back.

  Lydia opened her mouth and let out another foul, black stream that made her stomach spasm. Mercifully, there wasn’t much more. She wiped her mouth. She stood up. She closed her eyes to fight the dizziness.

  “Lydia. Look at me.”

  Lydia forced open her eyes. Claire stood with her back to the garage. Fire and smoke raged behind her, but she was looking at Lydia, not the fire. She had her fingers pressed to her mouth. She looked stricken.

  Lydia could only imagine what her sister was seeing: the bruises, the welts, the electrical burns.

  Claire said, “What did he do to you?”

  “I’m okay,” Lydia said, because she had to be.

  “What did he do?” Claire was shaking. Tears cut white tracks into the soot on her face. “He promised he wouldn’t hurt you. He promised.”

  Lydia shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

  “I’m going to kill him.” Claire’s bare feet pounded into the ground as she stalked around to the back of the house.

  Lydia followed, holding her useless left arm as still as she could. Every step sent her collarbone clashing against the base of her throat. Her joints had filled with gravel dust. Rain had turned the soot on her skin into a wet, black ash.

  Claire was just ahead of her. She had a revolver stuffed down the back of her jeans. Lydia recognized the gun, but not the fluid way Claire pulled the weapon, cocked the hammer, and trained the sights at the man crawling on the ground.

  Paul had pulled himself about twenty feet away from the house. A streak of dark blood showed his progress through the wet grass. His right knee was a bloody pulp. His ankle was shattered. The bottom half of his leg hung at an unnatural angle. Bone and sinew and muscle glistened in the light from the still-­roaring flames.

  Claire had the gun pointed at Paul’s face. “You fucking liar.”

  Paul kept moving, using his elbow and hand to pull himself away from the fire.

  Claire tracked him with the gun. “You said you didn’t hurt her.”

  Paul shook his head, but he kept crawling.

  “You promised me.”

  He finally looked up.

  “You promised,” Claire said, sounding petulant and devastated and furious.

  Paul managed a shrug. “At least I didn’t fuck her.”

  Claire pulled the trigger.

  Lydia screamed. The noise from the gun was deafening. The bullet had torn open the side of Paul’s neck. His hand clamped down on the wound. He fell onto his back. Blood seeped between his fingers.

  “Jesus Christ.” Lydia breathed. It was all she could say. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Claire.” Paul’s voice gurgled in his throat. “Call an ambulance.”

  Claire trained the gun at his head. She looked down at him with an utter lack of emotion. “You lying piece of shit.”

  “No!” Lydia grabbed Claire’s hand just as she pulled the trigger. The shot went wild. She could feel the recoil travel through Claire’s hand and up her own arm.

  Claire tried to aim the gun again.

  “No.” Lydia forced her hand away. “Look at me.”

  Claire wouldn’t let go of the gun. Her eyes were glazed. She was somewhere else, somewhere dark and menacing where the only way out of it was to murder her husband.

  “Look at me,” Lydia repeated. “He knows where Julia is.”

  Claire wouldn’t look away from Paul.

  “Claire.” Lydia spoke as clearly as she could. “Paul knows where Julia is.”

  Claire shook her head.

  “He told me,” Lydia said. “He told me in the garage. He knows where she is. She’s close by. He told me he still visits her.”

  Claire shook her head. “He’s lying.”

  Paul said, “I’m not lying. I know where she is.”

  Claire tried to move the gun back to his head, but Lydia stopped her. “Let me try, okay? Just let me try. Please. Please.”

  Slowly, Claire slackened the tension in her arm as she gave in.

  Still, Lydia kept an eye on her sister as she struggled to kneel down. The pain nearly took her breath away. Every movement sent a sharp knife into her shoulder. She wiped the sweat from her brow. She looked down at Paul. “Where is Julia?”

  Paul wouldn’t look at her. He was only interested in Claire. “Please,” he begged her. “Call an ambulance.”

  Claire shook her head.

  Lydia said, “Tell us where Julia is and we’ll call an ambulance.”

  Paul squinted up at Claire. The rain was pelting his face. Spraying his face. Streaming into his face.

  “Call an ambulance,” Paul repeated. “Please.”

  Please. How many times had Lydia begged him in the garage? How many times had he laughed at her?

  Paul said, “Claire . . .”

  “Where is she?” Lydia repeated. “You said she was close. Is she in Watkinsville? Is she in Athens?”

  He said, “Claire, please. You have to help me. This is serious.”

  Claire held the gun limply at her side. She was looking back at the house, staring into the fire. Her lips were in a tight line. Her eyes were still wild. She was going to crack. Lydia just couldn’t tell which way.

  Lydia looked back down at Paul. “Tell me.” She tried to keep the begging tone out of her voice. “You said you know where she is. You said you visited her.”

  . . . rotten bones with long strands of dirty blonde hair and those stupid bracelets. . .
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br />   “Claire?” Paul was losing too much blood. His skin had turned a waxy white. “Claire, please—­just look at me.”

  Lydia didn’t have time for this. She jammed her fingers into his shattered knee.

  Paul’s screams pierced the air. She didn’t let up. She kept pressing until her fingernails had scraped raw bone.

  She said, “Tell us where Julia is.”

  He hissed air between his teeth.

  “Tell us where she is!”

  Paul’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body started to convulse. Lydia took away her hand.

  He gasped for air. Bile and pink blood dribbled out of his mouth. He pressed the back of his head into the ground. His chest was heaving for air. He made a choking sound. He was crying.

  No, he wasn’t crying.

  He was laughing.

  “You don’t have it in you.” Paul’s bloody white teeth showed between wet lips. “Worthless fat bitch.”

  Lydia jammed her fingers into his knee again. She could feel her knuckles bend as they curled around the broken shards of bone. This time, Paul screamed so loud that his voice broke. His mouth was open. Air was passing through his vocal cords, but there was no sound.

  His heart would be shaking. His bladder would be releasing. His bowels would be liquid. His soul would be dying.

  Lydia knew, because Paul had made her scream the same way inside the garage.

  He started to convulse again. His arms were stiff. His grip tightened around the wound in his neck. She saw dark red blood dripping between his fingers.

  Claire said, “I have a first-­aid kit in the car. We could patch up his neck and make this last longer.” Her tone was conversational, almost the same as Paul’s had been inside the garage. “Or we could burn him alive. There’s some gas left in the can.”

  Lydia knew that her sister was deadly serious. Claire had already shot him twice. She would’ve executed him if Lydia hadn’t stopped her. Now she wanted to torture him, to burn him alive.

  What was Lydia doing? She looked down at her hand. The fingers had all but disappeared inside what was left of Paul’s knee. She could feel his tremors resonating straight into her heart.

  Into her soul.

  She forced herself to withdraw her hand. Taking away his pain was one of the hardest things she had ever done. But no matter what hell Paul Scott had visited on Lydia and her family, she wasn’t going to turn into Paul, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let her baby sister.

  “Where is she, Paul?” Lydia tried to appeal to what little humanity Paul had left. “You’re going to die. You know that. It’s just a matter of time. Tell us where Julia is. Do one decent thing before you go.”

  A thread of blood slipped from Paul’s mouth. He told Claire, “I really did love you.”

  Lydia asked, “Where is she?”

  Paul would not look away from Claire. “You were the only good thing I ever did.”

  Claire tapped the muzzle of the gun against her leg.

  He said, “Look at me. Please, just one more time.”

  She shook her head. She stared out at the field behind the house.

  He said, “You know that I love you. You were the only part of me that was normal.”

  Claire shook her head again. She was crying. Even in the rain, Lydia could see the tears streaming down her face.

  “I was never going to leave you.” Paul was crying, too. “I love you. I promise, Claire. I love you with my dying breath.”

  Claire finally looked down at her husband. Her mouth opened, but only to take in air. Her eyes tracked back and forth like she couldn’t quite understand what was in front of her.

  Was she seeing the old Paul in this moment, the insecure grad student who so desperately wanted her to love him? Or was she seeing the man who had filmed those movies? The man who for twenty-­four years had kept the dark secret that had haunted her family?

  Paul reached up to Claire. “Please. I’m dying. Just give me this. Please.”

  She shook her head, but Lydia could tell her resolve was breaking.

  So could Paul. He said, “Please.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Claire knelt down beside him. She let the gun fall to the grass. She placed her hand over his. She was helping him stanch the wound, helping him stay alive.

  Paul coughed. Blood spit between his lips. He tightened his grip on his wounded neck. “I love you. No matter what, always know that I love you.”

  Claire held back a sob. She stroked his cheek. She brushed the hair out of his eyes. She gave him a sad smile and said, “You stupid asshole. I know you put Julia in the well.”

  Lydia would have missed Paul’s shocked look if she hadn’t been watching his face. He quickly rearranged his expression into one of open delight. “My God, you were always so clever.”

  “I was, wasn’t I?” Claire was still leaning over him. Lydia thought she was going to kiss him, but instead, Claire peeled his hand away from his wounded neck. Paul struggled to resist, to stop the flow of blood, but Claire held tight to his hand. She pushed him onto his back. His strength was gone. He couldn’t stop the blood. He couldn’t stop Claire. She straddled his waist. She pinned down both of his wrists. She kept looking him in the eye, drinking in every change that crossed his face—­the disbelief, the fear, the desperation. His heart was frantically pounding. Every beat sent out a fresh spray of arterial blood. Claire did not look away when his mouth gaped open, or when rain thumped the back of his throat. She held his gaze as the spray from his neck turned into a steady flow. As his hands unclenched. As his muscles relaxed. As his body slackened. Even when the only indication that Paul was still alive was the heavy wheeze of his breaths and the pink bubbles between his lips, Claire did not look away.

  “I see you,” she told him. “I see exactly who you are.”

  Lydia was dumbstruck. She couldn’t believe what was happening right in front of her. What she had allowed her sister to do. They couldn’t come back from this. There was no way Claire would ever come back from this.

  “Come on.” Claire was talking to Lydia. She stood up. She wiped her bloody hands on her pants like she’d just come in from the garden.

  Lydia still couldn’t move. She looked at Paul. The bubbles had stopped. She could see the flames from the house reflecting in the glassy black of his irises.

  A drop of rain hit his eyeball. He didn’t blink.

  “Liddie.”

  Lydia turned away. Claire was in the backyard. The rain was really coming down now. Claire didn’t seem to notice. She was kicking at the grass, pushing her way through the overgrowth.

  “Come on,” Claire called. “Help me.”

  Somehow, Lydia managed to leverage herself up. She was still in shock. That was the only reason the pain didn’t stop her. She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. She made herself ask Claire, “What are you doing?”

  “There’s a well!” Claire had to raise her voice to be heard over the rain. She was kicking at the weeds with her bare feet, making wide circles on the ground. “The property taxes said the house was on city water.” Her excitement was barely contained. She had the same breathlessness as when she used to tell Lydia a story about the mean girls at school. “I did a painting for Paul. Years ago. It was from a photograph of the backyard. He showed it to me when we were first dating, and he said he loved the view because it reminded him of home, and his parents, and growing up on the farm, and there was a barn in the picture, Liddie. A big, scary barn and right beside it was a well with a roof over it. I spent hours trying to get the color right—­days, weeks. I can’t believe I forgot about that fucking well.”

  Lydia pushed away some tall weeds. She wanted to believe her. She longed to believe her. Could it be that simple? Could Julia really be here?

  “I know I’m right.” Claire kicked at the ground under the sw
ing set. “Paul kept everything the same in the house. Everything. So why would he tear down the barn except to hide the evidence? And why would he cover the well if there wasn’t something in it? You saw his expression when I said that about the well. She has to be here, Pepper. Julia has to be in the well.”

  They were all so close, Lydia. Do you want me to tell you how close?

  Lydia started kicking through the wet weeds. The wind had changed direction again. She couldn’t imagine a time when she would smell anything but smoke. She looked back at the house. The fire was still going strong, but maybe the rain would keep it from jumping into the grass.

  “Liddie!” Claire was standing under the swing set. She banged the ground with her heel. A hollow sound echoed up from deep in the earth.

  Claire dropped to her knees. She started digging her fingers into the earth. Lydia dropped down beside her. She used her good hand to feel what her sister had found. The wooden cover was heavy, about an inch thick and three feet round.

  “This has to be it,” Claire said. “It has to be it.”

  Lydia grabbed handfuls of dirt. Her hand was bleeding. There were blisters from the fire, from the melting foam. Still, she kept digging.

  Claire finally moved enough dirt to wedge her fingers underneath the cover. She squatted down like a weight lifter and pulled so hard that the muscles on her neck stood out.

  Nothing.

  “Dammit.” Claire tried again. Her arms shook from the effort. Lydia tried to help, but she couldn’t make her arm move in that direction. The rain was doing them no favors. Everything felt heavier.

  Claire’s fingers slipped. She fell backward into the grass. “Shit!” she screamed, pushing herself back up.

  “Try pushing it.” Lydia braced her feet against the cover. Claire helped, using the heels of her hands, putting her back into it.

  Lydia felt herself slipping. She dug in the heel of her good hand and pushed so hard that she felt like her legs were going to break in two.

  Finally, eventually, they managed to move the heavy piece of wood a few inches.

  “Harder,” Claire said.

  Lydia didn’t know how much harder she could push. They tried again, this time with Claire beside her, using her feet. The cover moved another inch. Then a few more. They both pushed, screaming out the pain and the effort until the cover had moved enough so that their legs were dangling over open earth.