Wicked Beautiful

by J. T. Geissinger

  I keep right on ignoring him, encouraged by Tabby’s expression, which hovers somewhere between wary interest and full-blown surprise. I can tell I’ve got her hooked.

  “I also caused my girlfriend to commit suicide. I left her without even saying good-bye, because my father blackmailed me into it because he hated her guts, which is why I later blackmailed him about the drug thing, because by then I hated his guts. But to make a long story short, by the time I realized what a stupid thing I’d done by agreeing to leave her, she was already dead. Because of me.”

  This is when Tabby’s face takes on an expression I can’t accurately describe, because I’ve never seen it on another human being. It’s outrage, hate, pity, disgust, and more hate. A lot more. With a side order of serial killer.

  She shakes her head and begins to laugh softly, a sound utterly lacking in humor.

  “It’s uncanny how good you are at that,” she says. “Seriously, you should become an actor. Oh, right—you already are! You get an Oscar for that performance. Wow. Just wow. You really had me going. Congratulations: you’re the fucking bullshit artist of the century.”

  Blood rushes to my head. I shoot to my feet. Connor grabs my arm, probably thinking I’m following his directions and getting ready to leave, but I’m not leaving.

  I’m fucking losing my fucking mind.

  “I’m not lying!” I roar.

  Tabby hollers back, “I already know there’s no dead girlfriend, you piece of shit—I checked! You are lying!”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? You think I’d make up something like that?”

  “I know you did, assface! There’s no goddamn death certificate for any goddamn former girlfriend of yours anywhere in the world, so don’t you dare stand in this goddamn kitchen and try to tell me there is!”

  “What? Wait—what?”

  Connor, who’d been about to remove me bodily from the room, stops and says impatiently, “OK, what’s this bullshit about a dead girlfriend?”

  Tabby points at me. “This douche nozzle told Victoria one of his girlfriends offed herself so Victoria would feel sorry for him—can you believe that?”

  It’s clear from Connor’s expression when he looks at me that he’s put two and two together. He says softly, “So that’s what you were so messed up about the night we met.”

  Tabby’s eyes widen. “Oh my God, he told you the same story?” She cuts her vicious gaze to mine. “You’re pathological!”

  “I’m not a liar!”

  Sneering, Tabby crosses her arms over her chest. “Oh, really, fuckwad? Then what was this dead girl’s name?”

  My head feels as if it’s a pressure cooker, and my brain is an artichoke being turned into mush. I lose the last remaining shred of my self-composure and shout so loudly my voice breaks, “Her name was Isabel Diaz, and she was the goddamn love of my life!”

  The air in the room turns to ice.

  Every drop of color drains from Tabby’s complexion. She whispers, “Who told you she killed herself?”

  Confused by Tabby’s reaction, and her question, I glance at Darcy. She’s frozen in her chair, staring at me wide-eyed, her open mouth in the shape of a perfect O.

  “Her mother did. Why?”

  The squeak of horror that emits from Tabby is so high-pitched, I imagine every dog in a five-mile radius just leapt to its feet and started barking.

  The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Whatever’s happening here, I have to keep talking.

  “I showed up on her mother’s doorstep after I’d been living in Europe for a few years. I couldn’t stay away anymore and was going to confess the truth: that my father had finagled the deed to her family’s farm through a fixed poker game, and made me choose between staying with Isabel and destroying her family, or going away to school and never seeing her again. But I never got the chance to explain myself. As soon as her mother saw my face, she started screaming. She told me Isabel was dead. That she’d shot herself with her father’s gun when I left, and had been cremated. Then she slammed the door in my face. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

  Tabby crumples into the nearest chair as if her legs have given out, and raises shaking hands to cover her mouth.

  Darcy exhales hard, shaking. “Sweet baby Jesus. The tangled webs we weave.”

  Frowning, Connor looks back and forth between the two stunned women. “What?”

  After a long, excruciating pause, Darcy stands slowly, as if it pains her to move, walks to the counter and grabs a crystal decanter of scotch. She turns back and looks at me.

  What I see in her eyes gives me the willies.

  “I think it’s time for you to get that strong-ass drink, Parker. You’re gonna need it.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ~ Victoria ~

  Mexico.

  I visited once when I was little on a trip with my father to his hometown. I loved the color and the noise and the people, the happy, chattering people, who all looked just like me.

  I’ve never forgotten the feeling I had as a child, stuffing my face with antojitos from a street vendor as I walked by my father’s side on our way to the church where the grandfather I’d never met was displayed in a coffin draped with a Mexican flag, surrounded by bouquets of white roses and wailing women in black lace veils.

  I felt as if I’d finally come home.

  I belonged in that exotic land of life and splendor with its pungent smells, tangled streets, gridlock and pollution. Mexico City should have been overwhelming for a small child, but somehow it felt freer to me than all the wide-open spaces of Texas. Somehow I felt less a stranger in a country I’d never set foot in than in the town where I grew up.

  So it seemed like a good place to open the third act in the tragicomedy play of my life.

  It took three days to get to Miami from St. Thomas. Three hellish days of sailing rough Atlantic waters with a grizzled old captain from Barbados who looked as if he’d been born at sea. He had a ragged white beard and skin the color of midnight, and only smiled once, when I bribed him for a ride with my Rolex. He started drinking rum at six a.m. with his coffee, and didn’t stop until he passed out when the sun went down.

  The first night I’d been terrified, convinced the boat would capsize or run aground while the captain slept, but apparently its navigational system was sound because we never ran into trouble. After that, I felt more comfortable about the trip but was plagued by thoughts of discovery. I’d been careful to take only half the cash in my wallet, careful to fling the extra shirt and skirt I’d donned over my jeans into the sea, careful to stay out of sight on the winding, rain-swept road that led from Casa de la Verdad to the port. I’d arrived soaked and shivering at five in the morning and went straight to the big catamaran I’d noticed on the trip in, the one that had a sign on its jib that read, “Charter Me.”

  Luckily, Captain Stone Face woke up as early as he passed out. He was on deck when I approached, eyeing me warily. I told him my name was June and my husband had tried to kill me so I needed safe passage off the islands, but all he cared about was the timepiece on my wrist, a chunk of rose gold glittering with diamonds.

  I figured it was a small price to pay to avoid jail. I gave it to him after making sure he understood that if he pawned it, he’d say he found it washed up on the shore. He said he didn’t care if I wanted him to say it arrived from outer space, and he knew how to keep his mouth shut anyway.

  I got the feeling I wasn’t the first person to pay for a charter with unusual means.

  From Miami I took a Greyhound to the main bus terminal in Newark, New Jersey, where I then hired a cab—with the last of the money from my wallet—to take me to the storage locker I’d rented nearby. I had a change of clothing along with other necessities in the large duffel bag I’d stashed there years before in case of an emergency like this one. Thankfully I hadn’t gained any weight; the clothes smelled a bit musty, but they still fit.

  I should’ve sealed them in vacuum-packed plastic
like I did the cash.

  I’d already hacked off all my hair on the boat, but then bleached it with peroxide in a grungy gas station bathroom before I rented a car and got on I-40, headed west. My fake driver’s license and passport photos showed me bespectacled, wearing a short blonde wig, so I picked up a pair of cheap reading glasses at a convenience store. I arrived at the US/Mexico border in Brownsville, Texas, after another three days of driving.

  And then I paid a small toll to a sweating immigration agent and walked across a bridge into my new life.

  Well, the toll was small. The wad of cash I pressed into his hand so he wouldn’t search my lumpy duffel bag was not.

  Now, a week after I left the Caribbean, I’m sitting on a rented sofa in a rented room in Mexico in the wee hours of the morning, watching my rented black-and-white television. It’s tuned to an American news station, which features a story about the tragic death of one Victoria Price, author and celebrity hand-holder—and celebrity in her own right—who, according to her suicide note, decided to take her own life after being diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. The perky news anchor is trying desperately to appear solemn, but her mouth keeps breaking into a toothy smile.

  A celebrity’s death is always good business for the news industry.

  “After an exhaustive search, the body still hasn’t been found,” says the anchor, blue eyes twinkling. “Officials have stated it’s possible that it will never be recovered. The storm that hit St. Thomas the evening of Ms. Price’s disappearance was strong, and her remains may have washed far out to sea. For now the case remains officially open as that of a missing person, but inside sources say the authorities have found no evidence of foul play, and they are convinced it is indeed a suicide, in spite of the lack of identifiable remains.

  “Parker Maxwell, owner of the home Ms. Price was staying in, and her rumored lover, has refused to speak with the press, but Luciano Mancari, star of the popular television cooking show Mangia with Mancari, and another rumored lover of Ms. Price’s, has given several passionate interviews wherein he has challenged Mr. Maxwell to a duel, of all things, for what Mr. Mancari insists is his alleged rival’s part in Ms. Price’s disappearance. No word yet from the Maxwell camp if they’ll accept the challenge, or file a lawsuit for slander. We’ll return after this.”

  The station breaks for a commercial. When they return, the beaming blonde anchor moves on to a story about global warming.

  So there you have it: I’m dead.

  It’s funny how easy dying is.

  Compared to living, it’s an absolute breeze.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ~ Parker ~

  When faced with the inconceivable, the human brain has a tendency to immediately do one of two things.

  One: release copious amounts of the stress hormone cortisol into the bloodstream, kick-starting the fight-or-flight response so important decisions can quickly be made.

  Two: go completely blank.

  After hearing the impossible, incredible, and outright horrifying story told to me by Tabby and Darcy, my brain opts for number two. I stand staring at them, blinking rapidly, my body as numb and lifeless as all the gray matter in my head.

  Then blankness turns to denial. I say no more times than I can count.

  “I’m sorry, Parker, but it’s true.”

  Tabby is subdued now. I suppose admitting my employer had conspired to ruin her lover’s life in history’s most tragic case of mistaken identity, love-obstructing parents, selective obliviousness and revenge romance would put a damper on my spirits, too.

  It’s Shakespearean in scope. My mind is simply failing to wrap itself around the truth.

  I protest weakly, “Victoria doesn’t even look like Isabel.”

  It’s all I can come up with on short notice.

  Tabby sighs. “Fifteen years make a big difference. Especially when you’ve grown a few inches, had your nose and teeth fixed, ditched your glasses for contacts, started wearing couture, and started earning millions of dollars a year. And changed your name. And invented an entirely new history for yourself. And—sorry—were supposed to be dead in the first place. It’s no wonder you didn’t recognize Victoria as Isabel. She really wasn’t Isabel anymore.”

  I think of the feeling of familiarity I always had around Victoria. The way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear, the way she felt when I held her, the constant sense of déjà vu.

  This is crazy. This can’t be happening. I’m having a bad dream.

  “Isabel’s mother would never have told me Isabel killed herself just because I broke up with her.” I shake my head. “That makes no sense. It’s too cruel. Why would she do that?”

  Tabby and Darcy exchange another of their loaded glances. I instantly know whatever I’m about to hear will be worse than what I’ve heard so far.

  Still, when it comes, I’m totally unprepared.

  “Because Victoria—Isabel—was pregnant when you left.”

  My knees buckle. The room narrows and starts to go black. I feel Connor’s arm supporting me, leading me to a chair, helping my dead weight fall into it, but I can’t feel or hear anything else.

  I also can’t breathe, which is inconvenient, because the urge to scream is overwhelming.

  Connor rushes to the sink, pours me a glass of water from the tap, rushes back to me and thrusts it into my shaking hand. “Drink,” he orders. His voice booms and bounces around inside my vacant skull. I manage to choke down a few swallows before I lose my grip on the glass. Connor, catlike reflexes on full display, catches it before it hits the floor and shatters.

  I manage to gasp, “Pregnant? She had…she had an abortion?”

  Tabby does this thing with her face that’s part grimace, part prevomit cringe. “Well…not exactly.”

  And the horrible day I’d been having proceeds to get worse.

  * * *

  “Parker. Say something. What’s going on inside your head?”

  Connor’s tone indicates he’s not entirely convinced I’m hanging onto my sanity.

  Which makes two of us.

  It’s been about half an hour since Tabby finally revealed all the sordid details of our little melodrama, and in that time I’ve charged through three of the five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining—those all came and went with lightning speed. At the moment I’m mired in depression, and I doubt very much that I’ll ever arrive at the final stage, acceptance.

  Acceptance requires forgiveness. And I will never, ever forgive myself for what I’ve done.

  I should have stood up to my father. I should have refused to leave her. I should’ve told Isabel…Victoria—Christ, I can’t keep it straight in my head—the truth from the beginning. We could’ve worked it out together. And the way I spoke to Victoria in St. Thomas, the way I worded everything…Tabby was right. I did drive her away. First I abandoned her when she was pregnant with my child, and then, fifteen years later, I forced her to abandon the life she’d built for herself, out of fear I’d turn her into the police for her extracurricular cyberspace career.

  On the bright side—which is about as bright as midnight at the bottom of the ocean during an eclipse—at least I finally found out what Victoria was doing in Laredo.

  I have a daughter. We have a daughter: the woman I forced to run away and I.

  God, what a bloody mess.

  “Parker?”

  I lift my head from my hands and stare up at Connor. He’s standing over me, concern written all over his face. Darcy and Tabby are sitting at the kitchen table with me, one on either side. They look almost as wrecked as I feel.

  “It’s gonna be OK, brother. We’ll find her,” he insists.

  I drain the dregs of the glass of scotch Darcy poured me, swallow the burn, and set the glass on the table. When I speak, my voice is so low it’s nearly inaudible, even to me.

  “We haven’t been able to find any trace of her in St. Thomas, except the washed-up clothes she obviously wanted to be found. No one spott
ed her in Newark, though we know she went there to get the bug-out bag, which means she wasn’t spotted anywhere on the way from the Virgin Islands to New Jersey. She’s obviously traveling in disguise. She has a new identity and, according to Tabitha, a million bucks in one-hundred-dollar bills, and another five million in unregistered bearer bonds. She has the means to live more than comfortably for the rest of her life.

  “And if she thinks she’s being followed, or thinks the police are getting close, she can simply create any new identity she wants, along with an entirely new history to match. She knows how to become someone else. Even you couldn’t find a hint of her, Connor, and you’ve been looking for a week. And if you can’t find her, no one can.”

  I exhale, hard, and close my eyes. “It’s over. She’s gone.”

  Tabby says, “Um…”

  I crack open an eye. Tabby is looking at me sheepishly, twirling a lock of her red hair between her fingers.

  Now both my eyes fly open. “Please tell me there isn’t more,” I beg, instinctively knowing there is by the look on Tabby’s face.

  “First I need you to promise me that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

  At the same time I insist, “Absolutely!” Connor snaps, “Spit it out, woman!”

  Tabby drops the lock of hair from between her fingers. She gazes up at Connor with fire in her eyes. “You have to promise, too, jarhead,” she says, and smiles. Her grin looks a little like something an alligator would be proud of, dangerous and toothy.

  “He promises. He signed a contract with me, right now he’s on the job, and anything that’s said in the course of his work for a client is completely confidential.”

  Tabby’s smile grows wider. She appraises Connor with a challenging look. “Is that right, jarhead? No matter what I say, you can’t tell anyone? Not even the police? And you can’t use it against me?”