by Lisa Unger
Pearl figured that was true.
“So, if no one spotted us, recognized us from the news, called in a tip—and we were careful...” He paused here, maybe thinking back to all the places they’d been, the precautions taken or not. “Then we should be okay here until we figure out what comes next.”
Even though he was much changed—thinner, cropped hair, goatee—those eyes were the same.
“Did you?” she asked.
“Did I what?”
“Did you kill her?”
His mouth dropped open, hand flying to the center of his chest. “No. Whoa, Pearl, no. You were there. You were with me all afternoon.”
That was true. But she’d been at school all day. She’d heard something in the night. Hadn’t seen Stella in the morning, though she’d heard movement. Was Stella dead in her room while Pearl was eating breakfast? Was her killer still there?
“Then who?”
“I-I-I don’t know,” he stammered. He leaned forward across the table. “Did you think that all this time? That I—killed your mother?”
“It crossed my mind.”
Charlie looked stricken, which was not what she expected from him. He was cool, slow in his speech, not reactionary. She’d expected him to calmly offer her a yes or a no.
“I—cared about Stella,” he said, his voice soft. “I wanted to be with her, but she didn’t want me like that. While I was with her, I grew to care about you. I’ve made mistakes in my life, done things I’m not proud of, yeah. But I’d never hurt anyone—not like that.”
She flashed again on Stella’s broken body. She did feel something, a twist in her gut. But the feeling didn’t have a name. She watched his face; he didn’t break her gaze. Finally, she looked away.
“So, if the police find who killed her, they’ll think that he did something to me, right?” she said. “They’ll assume I’m dead, too.”
Charlie watched her, some of the color returning to his cheeks. “Maybe.”
The sun was setting outside the picture window, the sky turning a painted pink, purple, and orange. She was still hungry. She felt like she could eat another full meal, and then keep eating until she’d devoured the whole world. And then she’d still be hungry.
“So far, they have no leads, except for the fact that I’m missing, too,” said Charlie. “That’s made me a person of interest. My DNA is not in the system; I don’t have a record. So even if they find it at the scene—and they will because I was there—it won’t matter.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t sure what he meant for a moment. Because they already knew who he was. The police wouldn’t need his DNA to identify him. Then it struck her. Charles Finch wasn’t his real name. What was it? Did it matter?
“So, we stay here for a while, lay low,” he went on. “We’ll keep track of what’s happening. Figure it out day by day.”
She tried to imagine Stella’s house sitting empty, Pearl’s locker at school deserted. The store unopened. The books collecting dust. What happened to all of that when you just walked away? She thought of the boxes of books, waiting for shipment. Who would dismantle their life? She had no friends to wonder what had happened to her; the neighbors were distant and unfriendly. There was no family—no worried grandparents, or gaggle of loving cousins.
The truth was, no one would miss them. She would just disappear and be forgotten.
“They’ll forget about me,” she said. “I barely exist.”
He drew in a breath, put down his fork.
“You exist here,” he said. “With me.”
“Yes,” she said. There was an essential truth to that, but she didn’t feel real. She felt like a ghost about to be absorbed into the ether.
“What about the bookstore?”
Charlie pushed his glasses up. “It’s bankrupt. Stella was about to go under, and she knew it. She had a pile of debt, hadn’t paid the property taxes in two years. She was about to lose the building.”
“Logistically, what will happen?”
She thought about all the beautiful books, crisp and fresh, waiting hopefully for their readers. The story nook, the counter cluttered with pretty pens, funny buttons, bookmarks, the shelves she and Stella had built together, the big prints with quotes from famous works.
“I imagine the items inside—books, furniture, computers—will get sold off to pay the taxes, and the building will go to a seizure auction.”
“And what about her bank accounts?”
Charlie shrugged. “Honestly, Pearl, she was living on credit. There was nothing except the cash in that shoebox. A little under three grand. It’s yours; save it for a rainy day.”
If rainier days were coming, she didn’t want to know about it.
Outside, something hooted, low and mournful.
“So now, the good part,” he said, standing with his plate. “This is where we recreate ourselves.”
“How’s that?”
She cleared hers as well, moved over to stand beside him at the sink.
“My father, I told you, was a monster,” said Charlie. “But he was a master con artist—until it got him killed.”
“How?” she asked.
“That’s a story for another night. But he taught me everything I know about making the most out of people, situations, and life.”
“You thought she had more, didn’t you?”
He rinsed the plate, washed it with the sponge and soap. The scent of lilac was strong and soothing.
“I did think she had more. When I first met her, she presented like someone with money. Expensive bag and shoes, a store that looked successful, a nice house.”
“You were going to con her?”
“No,” he said quickly. He rinsed the dish and put it in the rack. “Maybe. I don’t know. But it was clear pretty fast that Stella was no mark. She intrigued me. Then, I broke a few of my own rules. I stayed too long. I got—distracted from the game.”
“Distracted by what?”
But she already knew the answer.
“Distracted by you.”
Pearl was fifteen but she looked older, she felt older. She knew more than people twice her age. Some of the men Stella brought home, they stared. If her mother noticed, the offender got kicked right out. It wasn’t like that with Charlie. There was something there, something between them. But it wasn’t weird. Not weird like that.
He washed her dish, too. She dried them and placed them back in the cabinet, wiped down the counter. It already felt like home.
“I cared about Stella,” he said. “I wanted to help her—and you. But she wouldn’t let me. She was already too far gone.”
Pearl knew what he meant. Her mother, always in a rush, seemed like she was either arriving or leaving too late. It never seemed as if she was there, present. She was always looking to make her escape. And now that she was gone, Pearl wasn’t sure what she’d left behind, what there was to remember her by. Even her more recent memories were blurred, fading fast.
“So, first, we’ll get you enrolled to finish school online. I’ll figure out the whole identity thing.”
The whole identity thing, as if who she had been was an outfit they could change.
“How? How does that work?”
“I have contacts, people who can help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s not important now,” he said. “But if you want to learn, I’ll teach you sometime. Things are harder than they used to be. But there are ways to live off the grid.”
It would be a while before he told her about his work, about the network of people he knew and how they all operated. She kept quiet now; she was tired. The world was something other than she imagined it to be, and it was exhausting to find her way.
“And, hey,” he said. “It’s okay to grieve for your mother. It’s okay to be sad or scared.
We’re going to get through this.”
She searched inside herself for feeling, and, as usual, she came up empty.
“I guess we all grieve differently.”
Or not at all. What if there’s nothing inside me? she wanted to ask. She felt like she could ask Charlie that, like he wouldn’t judge her. What if there’s just a sucking black emptiness where my soul should be? If that’s true, then what does that make me? Even those thoughts, those questions, didn’t frighten her—though she knew that they probably should. But, still, she kept quiet.
“But if you need to talk about it—”
He let the sentence trail.
“Yeah,” she said. “I get it.”
They finished cleaning in silence.
In the living room, Charlie made a fire with the small amount of wood he found outside the back door. She sat on the floor and held her hands up to the warmth, felt the heat on her face. He stayed on the couch behind her, reclining there with his eyes closed. The furniture was plush, comfortable, the place decorated tastefully, simply with a Southwestern flair—cow skull on the wall, oil paintings of deserts and sunset skies, starry nights and howling coyotes. Where were they? What was this place? How did they get here?
Maybe I’m dead, she thought. Maybe this is what comes next.
“You’re going to need a new name, okay?” he said into the quiet. “I will, too.”
A new name. A new self. That was interesting, an idea she liked. The girl in the mirror with the unfamiliar haircut and haunted eyes. Yes, she needed a new name.
“Portia? Delilah? Cleopatra? Scheherazade?” she offered to the flames, then turned to check his reaction.
He gave her a lift of his eyebrows, a wry smile.
“Something simple, nondescript. Something that doesn’t call attention.”
“How about Anne?”
He nodded. “That works. Like Anne of Green Gables. Not like Ayn Rand, right?”
“Right,” she said. “Sweet, innocent, good-hearted Anne. What about you?”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“Othello? Humbert? Mr. Knightly? Svengali?”
That earned her a guffaw.
“You’re officially off the name committee,” he said.
“How about Bob?” she offered.
“Closer,” he said. “For our purposes, though, as we move into whatever the next game is, it’s best if people think I’m your father.”
She didn’t know what he meant by “the next game,” but she had an inkling. She’d already learned to play along with him.
“So, you’re Bob the widower?”
“Widower is a bit high-profile—engendering too much sympathy attention; it can be an attractor for a certain type of woman. I think she left me, your mom. Maybe she left us. She remarried, isn’t much of a mother to you. But she’s in and out of the picture.”
“So you want me to call you Dad?”
“Are you okay with that?”
“It sounds a little normie, doesn’t it?”
“That’s what we’re going for,” he said with another chuckle. She liked the sound of his laughter; it was big and full-bodied. “What do you want to call me?”
“I think,” she said, moving over to lean against the couch where he was lying. “I think I’ll call you Pop.”
He dropped a hand on the crown of her head, let it travel over her hair to her shoulder. She took his silence as assent. They sat a while like that, and then she rose, her fatigue so heavy now she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Good night, Anne,” he said, his voice soft, the fire crackling.
“Good night, Pop.”
NINETEEN
Anne
Anne always thought of herself in the name she was currently using the most. She was Anne most of the time, or had been recently. Now that she was no longer working in Hugh’s office, and she was done with Hugh, that self would start to fade. Who would she be next? There had been so many names, so many selves, all of them lies, all of them true. Maybe it would be Martha. Sometimes inside, she still heard her true name, Pearl. But rarely. More rarely all the time.
Whoever she was, she settled in before the crackling fireplace as darkness fell outside. She had her laptop open, a steaming cup of tea on the table beside the couch. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the wind howled.
She lifted the computer onto her lap, started scrolling through her emails. Since she arrived home, she’d closed down a couple of the games she was running—deleted email accounts, ditched burner phones, erased a fake Facebook profile.
Pop wasn’t a fan of multitasking. And truly, as she got older, she was starting to see why. It was draining to keep track of so many different lies, so many selves, so many people wanting. She needed to focus.
Now that she was done with Hugh and Kate, she only had two things going. One that wasn’t progressing as planned. One that was humming along nicely.
People didn’t fall in love with other people. They fell in love with how other people made them feel about themselves. And so, it was easy to get someone to love you—if you knew how they wanted to feel.
Take Ben, for example, a childless fifty-five-year-old widower in Ottawa. Bespectacled, roundish, but sweet-faced, not unattractive. A pediatrician. He fostered rescued greyhounds until he could find them good homes. He wanted, she knew almost right away from his dating profile, to come in for the rescue. He wanted to be a hero. He had a soft spot for the creature in need.
After a blazing online romance, she and Ben were supposed to meet for the first time this weekend—a romantic Montreal rendezvous. But then Anne (who was known to Ben as Gywneth—he had a preference according to his profile for willowy blondes so no point in being subtle) became so worried about her bipolar sister. A strange late-night phone call was her first warning that something was amiss. Then, her sister didn’t turn up for work. All sure signs that sis was off her meds, devolving. Gwyneth might not be able to make their getaway. How could she take a romantic vacation? When her sister might need her?
She logged on to her messages and saw that he’d texted a while ago: Thinking about you. Here to help if you need me.
I’m so sorry, Ben. I have no choice, she typed. I’m going to have to cancel. There’s still no word. I have to go see if she’s all right.
She waited. Would he become angry in his disappointment? If so, she’d have to cut him loose. Then his reply:
I’ll meet you.
Of course, he’d meet her and help both Gwen and her fictional sister. The nicest, kindest people made the best marks because they believed that everyone was as goodhearted as they were. Sad, really.
No. She wouldn’t be able to handle a stranger in the mix. I’ll call you when I get there.
Again, she waited, the little reply dots pulsing. No response. She dashed off another sentence.
She’s all I have. I’m so sorry, Ben.
Then:
Don’t be silly. I understand. She’s lucky to have a sister like you.
I’m so worried.
When’s your flight?
Early tomorrow.
Can you talk?
Maybe later.
Okay. Don’t worry too much. I can be there if you need me.
Poor Gwyneth; she was down on her luck, too. Just lost her job, but no, she wouldn’t accept an airline ticket from Ben. She always made her own way. She’d made that clear to Ben. Since their parents died in a car crash, she and her sister Esme had taken care of each other. They’d never accepted any help. She was eighteen at the time of the accident, Esme sixteen. She took care of her sister, made sure she graduated from high school. Gwen worked as a waitress to put herself through community college. They had some money, though, a small inheritance. It had helped them survive, evened out some of the rough patches.
; Things just seem so much easier since I met you, she typed. Thank you for being you.
That’s what friends are for.
Friends...
You know what I mean.
I do, she typed. I know exactly what you mean. And I can’t wait to hold you in my arms and show you how much your friendship means.
She could almost feel his passion pumping in those little pulsing dots.
I never thought I’d care about anyone again.
Neither did I. We’re so lucky to have found each other.
He hadn’t said the L word. But he was close. Very close. They’d talked on the phone. He’d demurred from FaceTime—which probably meant he was a lot heavier than his profile photo. And it was fine, because it was better if they never saw her face. Not just because they wouldn’t be able to identify her. They wouldn’t; she looked different all the time. It was just better if they created a fantasy woman, someone who perfectly matched their deepest inner desires. She kept her texts simple, even avoided emojis. That way they could imbue her words with any imagined tone they needed or wanted.
His response took longer than usual.
I’ll call you tomorrow.
She used to wonder about those silences when they first started chatting. But after talking to him, she realized that he was the kind of guy who got jammed up by emotion, fell silent in conversation, even virtual conversation.
The dots pulsed. Was he going to say it? No. He was waiting until they saw each other, she suspected. Until they made love—in the flesh. Which was never going to happen. Of course, she was never going to meet him in Montreal or anywhere. But no doubt he had run the fantasy a thousand times. He wasn’t one to sext, send photos, or talk dirty. He was a nice man, looking for someone to care for, someone to love. Poor orphan Gwen, beautiful and brave, was his dream girl.
I’ll be thinking about you.
Oh, I know you will, Ben, she thought but didn’t type.
Good night.
