Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  “No,” said Selena. “I don’t.”

  “Did Geneva mention anyone to you? Anyone bothering her, following her?”

  He’d asked that before. “No. But if she was in the habit of sleeping with her employers, then blackmailing them, she probably had one or two people who didn’t wish her well.”

  Her phone started ringing. She could see that it was her mother, told the detective so. Crowe gave her a nod.

  “Mom,” she said, answering.

  “It’s me.” Oliver sounding pouty and tired.

  “Hi, honey,” she said releasing a breath. “How was school?”

  “You said you’d have an answer for me, Mom. Can I come home?”

  “Sweetie, I have to call you back, okay? In fact, just sit tight. I’ll be there in a bit.”

  She heard him start to protest. “I love you, Oliver. Just sit tight.”

  She hung up with a twinge of guilt. Another text came through, pinging several times, but she stuffed the phone in her pocket. She only had to answer calls from her mom and her kids. Everyone else would have to wait.

  “As you know, Geneva Markson was allegedly blackmailing Erik Tucker,” said Detective Crowe, snapping Selena back to the moment. “He bought Geneva a car to keep her quiet about the affair.”

  “Okay.” Selena knew this but still couldn’t process it. Sweet, helpful Geneva. Now, the Naughty Nanny.

  “What about you?” asked Detective Crowe. “Are there any large sums of money missing from your accounts? Any purchases your husband made that you didn’t understand?”

  Selena almost laughed. She had always been the one to manage all their finances, set the budgets, meet with the advisors, schedule all their savings for college and retirement. Graham never wanted anything to do with it. All their various purchases popped up in their accounting program. That was a lesson she’d learned from her mother: never be the woman who doesn’t understand money.

  If Geneva wanted to blackmail Graham, she’d have been out of luck. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “You have knowledge of and access to all accounts.”

  “Yes,” she said. But what other secrets was he keeping? What other lies had he told? “If Graham has other money, or other cards, I’m not aware.”

  Crowe had his eyes on her, watchful but not unkind.

  “Are we done here?” she asked.

  “I have to be honest,” he said. “I’m getting the feeling that there’s still something you’re not telling me.”

  “And I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me,” she shot back.

  “See, that’s the difference between us,” he said. “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

  She wished that she could just sink into the soft folds of the couch, just disappear into chenille oblivion.

  “I didn’t hurt Geneva, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said. “I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never even been rude to anyone. And that’s not Graham in the photo, or anyone else I recognize. So maybe you should be looking elsewhere for what happened to Geneva. Obviously there were a number of people who wished her harm.”

  He stared at her a moment, and she held his gaze. She remembered something about herself in that moment, something that it was easy to forget. She was a fighter; she didn’t back down—not from bullies on the playground, not from mean girls in college, not from backstabbers at work. Marisol used to cry when people picked on her. Selena got mad—or she got even. She wasn’t afraid of Detective Crowe. He lowered his eyes to the floor, then rose.

  “We’re not done, Mrs. Murphy,” he said. “But we’re done for now. Stay easy to find.”

  She nodded but didn’t get up. Fuck you, Detective, she thought but didn’t say. She didn’t rise to show him out, just listened to his footfalls on the hardwood, the door open and close.

  She felt her phone buzz and pulled it from her pocket, stared at the screen.

  Great seeing you last night.

  I think we need to talk, don’t you?

  It’s Martha, by the way.

  From the train.

  Now it read like a dare, like a taunt. Selena felt the cold finger of dread press into her belly. Selena’s truth was all over the news. And Martha likely knew everything, and knew that Selena had lied about Graham. But everyone knew that now, even the police.

  Those images, that person on the street with Geneva. Was that Martha? What had she said during that first encounter on the 7:45?

  Maybe she’ll disappear. And you can just pretend it never happened.

  And now Geneva had disappeared.

  Bad things happen all the time.

  One thing was certain, the woman from the train wanted something from Selena. What was it? Who was this woman? And did she know something about what had happened to Geneva?

  Was it just last night that she’d called herself a solution architect?

  Beneath the dread was a current of hope. Who was she? What did she want?

  Selena sent her response.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pearl

  She’d been sleeping. She didn’t know for how long. This drive. It seemed like they had been on the road for months. They’d changed cars twice, and now they were in an old Dodge minivan that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and something else—something sickly sweet like spilled soda. She’d been vaguely ill since they’d left Indianapolis, nauseated and weak. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything but saltines and ginger ale.

  Pearl stayed still even after she opened her eyes, listening. She could tell what kind of mood Pop was in before he even opened his mouth, just by the way he breathed. He’d been in a bad place the last couple of days, quiet and moody, snappish. They were on the run. The Bridget thing.

  “Did I ever tell you about my father?” he asked. He must have sensed that she was awake.

  “Some,” she said. She shifted out of the awkward position she was in, head at a weird angle against the car door. Rubbing at her sore shoulders, she cracked her neck. Pop reached over and put a hand on her back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “About everything.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  “The place we’re going now,” he said. “It’s ours. It’s home. And we’ll be safe there. We’ll settle down.”

  They had been driving east to this promised place. A pretty house in the woods, not some ticky-tacky suburb home that they would have to leave again. It had been two years since she had become Anne and started calling Charlie Pop. She had graduated online high school. She was about to turn eighteen. What’s next for you? he wanted to know. What will you do now that you’re nearly of age? She thought maybe college. Pop thought that was the biggest con of all. You’re already smarter and have read more, know more, than most people with advanced degrees.

  Stella was always big on college. It wasn’t a question of if Pearl would go, but where. Pearl had the grades, the brain, the work ethic, the test scores. She had some money, since Pop had split all of his scores with her. She wondered: Could you just show up at the bursar’s office with a big bag of cash?

  They’d closed out all of their accounts. Pop was anxious about how much they were holding. All of it. All of their money was in two suitcases in the back seat.

  “Tell me about your dad,” she said. “You said he was a drunk and a con. That he died in prison.”

  Pearl had seen a picture. Pop had a single photo album among his few belongings. She’d flipped through it a couple of times. Her favorite was a picture of his parents on their wedding day running down the steps of a church, the air full of rose petals—everyone smiling. And there was a black and white of Pop in his father’s arms in front of a Brooklyn brownstone. Pop’s face looked the same—earnest with big blue eyes. His father, balding, with eyebrows like caterpillars, wiry in a wifebeate
r T-shirt, looked away. He wore a scowl, had a blurry tattoo on his arm that Pop said was a mermaid.

  There were other pictures—women, some girls. All of the women had a particular look—a kind of forgotten starlet angst, big eyes, buxom, thick, wavy hair. Like Stella. And the girls, all willowy, fair—like Pearl had been, though these days she was sporting a jet-black fade, with long bangs that hung over her eyes.

  “All true,” he said. “But he taught me a lot.”

  “And beat you, right?” she said, though she knew it was borderline goading. Lately, as she approached her eighteenth birthday, there was an edge to him that there hadn’t been. They squabbled some. He got terse with her, and she had the urge to push at his boundaries. “I’ve seen the scars.”

  “Maybe that’s the best lesson of all,” he said, staring at the road. “That you can’t trust anyone, even the people who are supposed to love you.”

  They were on a dark, rural road that wound through thick forest. They hadn’t seen another car for—she wasn’t sure how long, since she’d been sleeping. But it seemed like they were someplace other, an enchanted wood, another planet. And it was only them forever, just the beam of their headlights, a blade splitting the night ahead.

  “Take your father, for example,” he said.

  “I don’t know who my father is.”

  “Exactly,” said Pop. “Your father is supposed to be the person who protects you from everything dark and scary in this world. But he didn’t, did he?”

  “No.”

  When she was small, she used to make up stories about her father. He was a spy on a secret mission in Russia (where else?), and one day he was going to come home a hero, and take care of her and Stella, bringing money and toys. He was an astronaut on a seven-year journey to Mars. When people asked, she told them he’d died in a motorcycle crash. Or that he was in Afghanistan, which she’d heard people say. Thank you for your sacrifice, one woman had said to her, touching her cheek. And Pearl had no idea what that meant. She told her teachers so many different things, that the lies caught up and Stella was called.

  “Don’t fantasize about your father,” Stella told her. “He wasn’t anything special.”

  When Pearl grew older, Stella told her the truth. That she’d had an affair with a married man, and when she got pregnant, he wouldn’t leave his wife. But he paid support and promised that he’d take care of them financially until Pearl graduated college—which was more than most men would do, according to Stella. He had a family, other children. But he didn’t want contact with Pearl and Stella. He just—couldn’t handle it.

  “I want to meet him,” Pearl had said.

  “Why would you want to meet someone who doesn’t want to meet you?” she said. “Let it go.”

  But there was money—for food, clothes, education, braces. Later, Pearl figured that was how the store stayed in business. Money from her mystery father. Who was nothing special. Who didn’t want to meet her.

  “What else did he teach you?” Pearl asked Pop now.

  “Never stop looking over your shoulder.”

  “Nice one.”

  “Don’t ever let them take you alive.”

  “Wow,” said Pearl. “This conversation has gone really dark.”

  Pop smiled at her, and then he laughed, some of his light coming back. He hadn’t been himself since Phoenix.

  “What if I told you that I know who your father is?”

  Pearl shrugged, but something tingled inside her. “What if?”

  “I found some paperwork in Stella’s bedroom. I know who he is. There’s a name and an address.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think you should reach out to him.”

  Pearl felt a notch in her throat. “He doesn’t want me.”

  “That may or may not be true. But I think he owes you.”

  Pearl could see where he was going with this. The con always needed a mark. Even when the wolf was at his heels. Even though there was enough money to be quiet, comfortable, lay low for a good long time. He was the shark that couldn’t stop swimming.

  “And he’ll pay,” said Pop. “Because you’re his little secret.”

  She nodded. She’d do what he wanted her to do. Because as much as she could love anyone, she loved him.

  The car slowed and they pulled off onto a dirt drive that seemed to go on and on, tires crunching, darkness piling onto darkness. Once a pair of yellow eyes as something darted across the road. Finally, a house rose out of the distance—a low, late-century modern with a flat roof and big windows. It was dark, but there was something welcoming about it, as if it had its arms open wide to them. She felt something release, and Pop heaved a sigh.

  “This is it,” he said. “We’re home.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Hunter

  If people knew the truth about investigative work, there wouldn’t be so many books and television shows about it. There was a crushing heaviness to the work, an emptiness that wasn’t apparent at first but later took its toll on a person. It could be a terrible slog—long hours sitting and waiting, watching, eating bad food, maybe with a partner who you couldn’t stand. Mountains of paperwork. Bad leads, dead ends.

  The people you chased, those you caught, often they were no criminal masterminds, no born bad thugs. Sometimes they were kids. Sometimes they were intellectually impaired, just folks not smart enough to make good choices. Often, they were victims themselves. He left the job after twenty-five years, and he never told anyone—not even his wife, Claire, who he thought knew on some level—that he had wasted his life.

  People were so hung up on the concept of justice, of wrongs punished, streets safe, criminals put where they belonged. But the system was broken, like so many systems. And the world was so impossibly vast, even now with technology tightening the net, that some people just stayed lost.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” said Andrew from the passenger seat.

  They sat in Andrew’s driveway with the sun dipping low. The search for Hunter’s runaway had yielded nothing, except a foray into the dregs that had left them both wondering what had happened to the world. The tattoos, the piercings, the blank-faced young people staring into screens. Tommy’s Cove used to be a biker bar, a wild place, lots of brawls and gang violence. That seemed tame, old-fashioned compared to what had become of the place. Permanent midnight with windows blacked out. Blaring music, weird strobes. And everyone—so blank. Hopped up on pills, or that new thing, kratom—opium’s legal cousin. Lots of lost kids looking like zombies, stumbling, dead-eyed. No Jennie.

  Hunter didn’t want to face Jennie’s mother with more bad news.

  “Do you ever think about retiring?” said Andrew. The gloaming had settled on the pretty manicured lawns of his street. Somewhere a lawnmower buzzed. “Like really retiring.”

  “And do what? Work on my backhand?”

  Andrew shrugged. He was a big guy who had lost a lot of weight. Now he was a skinny guy who looked like he was waiting to get big again. He hadn’t updated his wardrobe, so his clothes hung off of him. “That’s what people do. You could take a class. Woodworking. You used to do that, right?”

  Claire wanted him to fully retire, as well. She wanted to travel. Take ballroom dancing classes. “Maybe.”

  “I’m just saying. You look tired.”

  He was tired.

  But. But. How did you stop being the sheepdog? There were sheep in this life. And there were wolves. He’d heard it in a movie, and it struck him as true. And then there were the men and women on the job—the ones in the squad cars and the ambulances, the firetrucks, those fighting on the front lines at home and overseas. They were guarding the perimeter between bad and good. The sheepdogs, on the lookout for the predators, and bringing the lost lambs back into the fold.

  Andrew climbed out of the car, rubbed shyly at his balding head. “Cal
l me if you ever want company again.”

  Hunter drove home, through the quiet of Andrew’s middle-class neighborhood, up a rural road to his own house. Claire was always the high earner working in medical sales; that’s why they could afford the big house they had, set back on five acres of land—idyllic with big trees and a stream at the edge of the property. He parked in the garage and killed the engine, checked the mail—all catalogs and fliers—walked inside.

  He expected to find his wife at home, in the kitchen with the television on, cooking something or another. Instead there was a note reminding him that she had book club and that there were leftovers in the fridge. He was guiltily glad for it.

  He wanted to pull out his old files on the Behr case and didn’t want to do it under the disapproving stare of his wife.

  Some of this stuff, Hunt, you just have to let go.

  Everyone was all about letting go these days. But, in this world, it seemed to Hunter that way too much was just let go. Pearl—there was no one to hold on to her. And she—a teenage girl, flesh and bone, heart and soul, just disappeared. Hunter prided himself on being the only one holding on to her.

  Missing people. Missing children. There was always a big fuss at first. A media feeding frenzy, search parties and helpful volunteers, endless news loops, press conferences with tearful parents. Then, as the days and weeks wore on, leads ran cold, people went back to their lives. They had to. Because the ugly truth was that some things—even people—got lost and were never found. There was a special kind of hell to that for folks. An always waiting, always wondering, end to life as they knew it.

  In the spotlessly clean kitchen, he nuked the lasagna Claire had left for him and ate way more than he would have if she’d been there. After he’d finished, going back for seconds and even thirds—Claire would have called him out on his stress eating. He always had a huge appetite after a bad day. After the lasagna, he inhaled a half a box of Girl Scout cookies—Tagalongs—then cleaned up the mess like a good husband.