Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir

by Pamela Crane

  As the kids scrambled up the stairs to find Logan and Darla, I slumped onto the sofa.

  “My poor Juney. Let’s get some coffee in you. What’s going on?” Ellie asked as she puttered around the kitchen, clinking dishes as she gathered two mugs.

  “My life’s in shambles, El. Mike lost his job.”

  “Again?” I could almost hear her eyebrows rise.

  “Yeah, and I couldn’t even afford groceries today. Twenty-three dollars. That’s all I needed and I didn’t even have that. Maxed out all my credit cards, no money in the bank. It was so embarrassing. And to make matters worse, that slut Eloise was there, rubbing my nose in it.”

  “Oh, Mike’s ex? Yikes! How’d that go?”

  “I practically took a swing at her. I think I’m losing it. I’m in a really bad place, El.”

  “Aw, sweetie, how much do you need?”

  “No, I don’t want your money. You have a family, too.”

  “Juney, stop. That’s what friends are for—to help in times of need. Let me help you. Please. What do you need? Groceries? Give me your list.”

  “I don’t know …” I hated to accept a handout from anyone. It meant I failed as a wife, a mother, an adult.

  I thought back to my childhood, when me, my sister, and my brother grew up with a single mother—and no one else—to raise us. No father to bring in the money. No grandparents to babysit. No neighbors coming to the rescue with a bag of groceries. My mother, a hero of a woman, singlehandedly raising three children and never once accepting aid. I couldn’t compete with the legacy she had created, for no matter how hard times got, she always found a way to provide. She was my blueprint for motherhood. I was supposed to stand on my own two feet, somehow make everything work out on my own. Yet her work ethic also killed my mother too soon, wiping out her life by age fifty-six.

  While other grandparents lived out their golden years doting on their grandchildren, my mother slipped into an early grave. She’d carried too heavy a burden for too long, and it eventually broke her heart. Literally. I found her in her crappy apartment already dead. Cause of death: heart attack.

  “No, I really should figure this out myself. I’m a grownup. It’s what grownups do.”

  “Just because you’re a grownup doesn’t mean you have to be alone in everything. Sometimes being an adult means accepting help from those who love you. If you don’t accept my money then I’m just going to drop bags of groceries off at your house when you’re not home. Don’t make me do that.” She grinned and I laughed.

  I couldn’t turn her down. Ellie’s insistence, along with her generosity, knew no bounds. I’d lost track of the number of times she had dropped by with casseroles or toys or garbage bags full of brand name clothes that her kids had outgrown—or in most cases never wore, as I cut tags off of them. She was the Giving Tree that I unknowingly kept taking from, and yet she found purpose in it, not resentment. No words could express my gratitude, though I often tried. I just didn’t deserve her.

  “Fine, if you insist. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it. My treat. It’s actually good therapy for me to do something nice—to help someone else. See? You’re reciprocating by getting my mind off my own troubles. Getting me out of my head.”

  Troubles—in Ellie’s life? As far as I knew, she was a goddess among women, though she was oblivious to this fact. Men wanted her, women wanted to be her—envying her beauty, her lifestyle, her gorgeous home, her normal kids, her handsome husband, her stable and perfect life. What could possibly be troubling Ellie? Was her private jet out of style?

  “Let me guess. Did your famous chocolate chip scones turn out too dry?” I winked, but her face remained stoic.

  She averted her gaze, staring at some faraway object, telling me it was something far worse. Something real.

  “Denny’s cheating on me.”

  “What?” I couldn’t have heard her right.

  “With a woman half my age and twice my beauty. I’m pretty sure he’s going to leave me for her. Even the kids are on his side. I can’t blame him. She’s gorgeous, elegant, fun. All things I’m not. I’d leave me for her.”

  “No, that’s not possible. You must be imagining things. Denny would never cheat on you. And your kids—they adore you! You’re Mom of the Year every day.”

  Ellie shook her head, sadness etched in tiny wrinkles I had never noticed before now.

  “It’s not my imagination. I have proof: receipts, lipstick stains on his shirts. I’ve even caught them together.”

  “Oh, El. I’m so sorry.” I grieved with her, pulling her into a comforting embrace, a stifled sob escaping her lips.

  “It’s all a lie—my whole life. I never told you Logan got kicked out of school—permanently. I played it off like it was just a temporary suspension, but he’s done. Stuck at home with me and hating every minute of it. And now Denny doesn’t love me anymore. The kids tell me they want a new mom, saying how beautiful and cool Denny’s mistress is and how I’m not. I have no job, no worth in this family. I can’t compete. And I don’t want to compete. I just want … I want to die, Juney.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. All the secrets, the lies—why would she hide this from me?

  “Why didn’t you tell me this stuff? Here I go thinking everything’s perfect and meanwhile you’re going through a rough time and I haven’t been here for you. This is what best friends are for, so we don’t have to go through it alone.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know why I was secretive about it. I guess I didn’t want you to think I was messed up.”

  “You mean like me? Hey, at least we can be messed up together.” I chuckled, but we both knew the truth behind the joke. Both of us had left our families to follow our husbands to a place where we would end up isolating ourselves from the only people who cared about us. We were fortunate we at least had each other, but it was hard to feel lucky when life continued to crumble.

  “I just can’t deal with Denny, with the kids anymore. I’m done. I’m just tired of feeling unloved, unwanted, unappreciated. I just want it to be over.”

  Ellie, in all her glorious flawlessness, was giving up. If Ellie had no chance of happiness, what did that mean for the rest of us? What hope did I have?

  “Don’t you dare say that! You’ll get him back. And your kids are just … kids. My kids say stupid things all the time.”

  “It’s not just kid talk, though, June. They really seem to despise me lately. They were with me when I caught Denny in the act, and they were happy for him.”

  “No. I’m sure that can’t be it. Maybe they’re hitting puberty early. I hear the teen years are a bitch.” I forced a laughed, trying to lighten the mood, but Ellie remained silent. Contemplative. Sad.

  Ellie picked at the shredded seam of her Target yoga pants, a new look for her. Normally she dressed Ann Taylor Loft; even her workout clothes were Victoria Secret sexy. The wrinkled shirt and scruffy pants reflected the state of her soul—tattered and worn out.

  “I don’t think I want him back. It’s over. And the kids—they’ve never liked me. They tolerate me because I’m their mother, but they don’t love me. We’ve never had that connection that other moms have with their kids. It’d be better if I just left the picture.”

  “Just because you’re not a warm and fuzzy mother doesn’t mean there’s no love there. Look at me and my hellions—it’s constant chaos and loudness and tears. But we still love each other.” As I said this, though, a dark cloud hovered beneath the words. Sure, there was a pool of love somewhere inside me, but it had grown awfully shallow lately, and hard to find. With Austin’s autism struggles, Arabelle’s defiance, and the two little ones who constantly vied for attention, my well of love was tapped dry. What was once a lake—I’d never quite felt the ocean that other moms did—was now a stagnant puddle, the source having been insufficient for the constant siphon until it fully desiccated. Now with each subsequent d
raw, the shores receded further and further, with nothing to replenish it. Some days I found it impossible to face them. Almost daily the urge to flee chased me. Or worse. But I couldn’t escape them; my children had become my prison, my husband my jailer, and my life the executioner of my soul.

  It was a horrible, unthinkable feeling as a mother, but it was as real as the conversation I was now having.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Juney. With all the burdens you have to carry … I would have given up long ago. You’re a tough chica.”

  I smiled feebly. I wasn’t tough at all. I crumbled a little more each day as my edges became sharp crags. I don’t know how I hid it so well. “I’ve got you. You’re my strength. And I’ll be your strength, okay? We’ll get through this crap together.”

  “But what if I don’t want to get through it?”

  Ellie left me lingering on that thought as she got up to refill our coffee cups. The scariest part was that I had no idea what Ellie’s ominous question meant. Could my secret be hers as well?

  Chapter 21

  Jo

  Detective Tristan Cox had fed me lies. “We’ll find her,” he had told me. “We’ll do everything in our power to bring Amelia home,” he had promised. Three days had passed and my baby was still missing. Though no one said it, I knew what that meant.

  There was little chance I’d ever see her again … unless it was at the morgue.

  It was early afternoon when Detective Cox knocked on my door, sending me running to answer it. When I saw it was him, I wasn’t sure whether to be devastated or elated. But he was empty-handed, which couldn’t be a good sign.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said as he sailed in, leading me into my own living room like I was a lost puppy.

  And yet I obediently followed him, a sense of dread flowing in my wake.

  We both sat on the sofa, him next to me, slightly turned to face me. I appreciated that he didn’t try to distance himself from me, though I wasn’t sure why it mattered.

  “Do you have news?” I asked. I wanted news. And yet I didn’t.

  He sighed before he spoke, a heavy groan that meant no. “Nothing yet. We couldn’t pull any prints from the park, but we hadn’t expected to turn up anything from those anyways. We’ve sent out an Amber Alert with her picture all over the news and social media. We’ll need to wait and let that gain some traction, then hopefully we’ll hear something.”

  “Hopefully?” I choked on the word. “Hopefully isn’t good enough, Detective. Hopefully isn’t going to bring my daughter home.”

  “Everyone’s looking for her. There’s only so many resources at our disposal. But we’ve contacted every police department in the area, and we’ll all keep looking until we find her. Please don’t give up hope, Jo.”

  I didn’t know what to say or feel anymore. Was a part of my past linked to Amelia’s abduction? That possibility gnawed at me—especially after the letter I had received earlier that morning. It was nothing, yet maybe something. I hadn’t told anyone about it. It would destroy my already devastated life. But the timing couldn’t be ignored. I hadn’t even known his name and suddenly now, amid Amelia’s disappearance, he contacted me. Was it coincidence? Or was it a clue?

  The silence between us lengthened as I pondered the significance of the letter. The postmark was three states away—a Pennsylvania zip code. If he was eight hours away, how could he have orchestrated a kidnapping? And why? It didn’t make sense that he was involved. Yet I knew, I just knew I needed to tell Detective Cox, but if I did … I couldn’t fathom the aftermath of the truth coming out.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me.

  I nodded numbly. I wasn’t okay. Not even close to okay.

  “Is there something you need to tell me?” he probed. The guilt must be written on my face. I wondered if Jay had seen it too.

  I shook my head, felt my tear ducts swell, ready to gush. As if looking down from above, I watched myself unravel. My skin felt clammy, and I was one breath away from sobbing on this man’s shoulder. I was alone in this battle for my child. I couldn’t face my demons and I couldn’t save my child.

  Jay hadn’t even bothered to call off work today—he’d already taken too many days off this year, he claimed—and I was left to deal with cops and flyers and press calls on my own. And naïve Preston and Abby—they had no idea what to think of all this. At age seven Pres understood a bit of what was going on, that his sister was missing, but he didn’t recognize the evils of the world. He just thought she’d gotten lost.

  Abby, only five, didn’t comprehend much of anything. She knew her little sister was gone, but she kept thinking she’d just show up at the front door. How do you explain rape and murder to a child? Even my own stomach couldn’t tolerate it.

  So I was left to digest the reality of my worst fears on my own. Every day I fought for Amelia alone. Every night I tossed and turned with visions of her being tortured, alone, in the dark. Here I floundered, on my own isolated island of anguish. I yearned for a comforting embrace. A tender kiss. A man’s touch.

  “Do you have children, Detective?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t. But I’ve seen this scenario enough times to sort of understand what you’re going through.”

  “And do you find most of the kids who go missing?”

  With a shrug he said, “Most of them, yes. It’s often a family member who kidnaps a child.”

  I couldn’t keep from asking the unaskable. “Do you think Amelia is still alive?”

  He rested his hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch tingled my skin through my shirt. “I hope so.”

  I looked up at him, mere inches away, and saw genuine caring in his eyes. He wanted to find my baby as much as I did. I was sure of this. Our connection buzzed, and I closed my eyes against it. Yet I needed to feel alive. The motion happened before I knew what I was doing—my subtle lean into him, my hand rising to cup his chin. I couldn’t pull back until my lips met his with just a whisper of a kiss … and then it was too late.

  He jerked back, startled by my advance.

  “Jo, I understand you’re hurting, but—” He stopped, unable to put words to what just happened.

  Embarrassed, my cheeks flooded with a warm blush that spread down my neck. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

  “You’re hurting. You’re just trying to find comfort. I’m not upset. I just can’t, y’know?”

  I was mortified, speechless. “I don’t even know what to say. I’m not myself.” I turned away from him, hiding the tears that welled in my eyes. What was happening to me? Who was I without Amelia?

  “Hey, Jo,” he soothed, approaching me from behind. “Go easy on yourself. You’ve got to stay optimistic, okay? Don’t fall apart on me.”

  “It’s been over three days now. I’ve seen the stats on finding her alive after two days. It’s not good. What hope do I have, Detective?” I turned to him, searching him for the truth, no matter how harsh or ugly.

  He looked at me with pity and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  All along I had sensed my daughter’s life force, knew she was out there waiting for me. It’s what drove me with an obsession to do anything and everything to find her at any cost. But then comes that moment a mother feels the soul connection to her child dissipate. In this moment Amelia’s presence lifted from my heart, and I knew the worst was done. I felt her departure, and I crumbled to the floor.

  Chapter 22

  Ellie

  My body aches. My head throbs. My brain is exhausted. All day my thoughts circle round and round, wondering what Denny is doing now, if he’s with her, what she’s like, whether she makes him happy, what he plans to do with me, what about the kids, what about our home, what about our future. The cycle is grueling, and yet I can’t stop its centripetal force.

  These thoughts, they torment me. I’m pretty sure my own mind is out to get me. Am I crazy for still loving him, regardless of all his abhorrent behavior? Or is he the
crazy one, picking some cheap slut over a wife who adores him and would do anything and everything for him? I suppose it doesn’t matter who’s crazy, does it? In the end I’m going to lose everything while Denny saunters off into the sunset with that fake-boobed charlatan draped on his arm. Over my dead body.

  I’ve decided to end it. I can’t stomach the idea of him leaving me, a husk I don’t recognize anymore. Like a vulture picking at a carcass, he’s consumed every last shred of my identity and left me with nothing but brittle bones. I can’t let that slide.

  We’ll be together once more tonight. It’ll be special, romantic, passionate, vulnerable, intense, purifying … and it will mold us as one for eternity. We’ve lived together, now we’ll die together, and we’ll be remembered together. I didn’t want it to come to this, but I’m weak. Oh, I’m painfully weak. I had no idea how pathetic I was until now. My life value clings solely to a man who loathes me, resents me, doesn’t give a crap about me. How could I let this happen to myself? How could I wrap myself so tightly around him that I suffocated my very own existence, leaving me dead without his breath through me? He did this to me.

  I’m ashamed of what I am—his puppet. Once upon a time I had dreams, personality, passion, ideas. Now my dreams have become nightmares. My ideas are insanity. All I can think about is putting this lie of a life out of its misery, razing this toxic marital badland. And I’m not going alone.

  The sting of rejection hung on me like cheap perfume. For the entire day I’d managed to plaster a pleasant smile on my face. “Sweetie pies” and “love yous” dripped from my lips like honey. Behind this mask was a grotesque caricature of the dutiful wife and mother I used to be. I didn’t recognize myself anymore through the haze of anger and the lust for revenge that twisted in my gut like a knife.