by Lisa Unger
Bridget. When Pop first found her, she’d been the perfect mark. No family, few friends. An isolated loner, desperate for connection.
“Where’s her car?” asked Pearl. She rose and walked to the door, checking what she could see of the long, isolated drive. Maybe she’d passed it, not seeing it in the dark. But no. There was no car other than her own. “How did she get here?”
Gracie lifted slim shoulders in a helpless shrug.
Pearl checked for a ride-sharing app on the phone and didn’t find one. That would be a wrinkle, if there was a record of Bridget coming here. Pearl would go through her phone, her email, her social media feeds. Then she’d use the phone to create a digital trail away from the house.
“Her car,” said Pearl. “It must be nearby. We have to find it.”
She looked up at Gracie, who was staring at her, eyes wide.
“And,” she went on, “we have to get rid of the bodies.”
“Bodies,” Gracie echoed. She got a little glassy, slipping away again.
“Gracie,” said Pearl, her voice sharp. The sound of her name seemed to wake the girl up. She stood a little taller, looking at Pearl as if awaiting instruction. Pearl went on.
“I’m going to need you to plug in and help me handle this. Pop wouldn’t want us to curl up and die here. He’d want us to work together.”
Something passed between them, a knowing. Pearl had no idea what Pop had done to Gracie, or how he came to take her and why. But he was right, they were sisters. Sisters of circumstance, bound now by this ugly moment in time, by Pop and whatever he had been to each of them, for each of them.
Gracie looked down at the bodies, and then back to Pearl. This was the moment. Was she going to pass out? Collapse? Start screaming? Run? This was the moment when Gracie would decide who she was. For Pearl, the moment had been in Pecos, years earlier when she became Anne. She chose Pop; she chose the life, even if she didn’t understand then what the consequences would be later. Because of all the things Pearl was, most of all she was a survivor. She chose the path that kept her fighting another day.
But what about Gracie, this mousy little girl that Pop had chosen to be her sister. At her core, what was she?
Seconds ticked by and Gracie looked around. The confusion dropped from her face and her jaw seemed to settle, eyes clear. In the moment, Pearl saw in Gracie what Pop must have seen. She was one of them.
“Okay,” Gracie said. She looked square at Pearl. “What do we need to do?”
THIRTY-FIVE
Cora
“Why didn’t you ever tell us about this, Mom?” asked Selena. Her eyes were dark with recrimination. “Don’t you think we had a right to know?”
Cora felt a lash of anger. Selena just wasn’t getting it. Her younger daughter was angry at Cora for a hundred things, had been since her teens. Cora was too strict, didn’t understand the “modern” world, worried too much about nothing. They were at loggerheads from age thirteen until she left for college. On the other hand, Selena had worshipped her father; his fall from grace was brutal for Selena. Marisol was always a momma’s girl, tender and attached. Even now, they were closer than Cora was with Selena. Not that she loved her younger any less. It was just a chemistry thing.
“No,” said Cora, sharper than she intended. “I didn’t think you had a right to know. It was your father’s responsibility to tell you what he’d done. If you’re going to recriminate anyone, let it be him.”
Selena drew in and released a rush of breath. The look on her face—bewilderment, disappointment—put a squeeze on Cora’s heart.
“Mom,” she said. Selena put a hand to her forehead. “This woman—Pearl. She approached me on the train. I don’t know why, but I told her—things about my life.”
“What things?”
“About Graham. And since then—she’s been texting me. Now Geneva is missing.”
“Oh,” said Cora, feeling the weight of it. What was the girl capable of? She’d done so much damage already.
A few weeks after she saw the girl, Cora noticed a large sum of money disappear from one of the accounts Doug thought he had hidden from her. But Cora, for all her many failings, wasn’t one of those women who didn’t pay attention to money. Doug wanted to control everything, but she always had access to accounts. She made sure of it, snooping if she had to for account numbers and passwords. She kept records; she was biding her time, hoping to launch the girls, at least to college, before she left.
On a night when Selena was off sleeping over at a girlfriend’s house, Cora confronted Doug—about the money, about the strange, hovering girl. Cora had expected the usual denials, accusations of instability, a furious exit—that was the usual way of things. This time, though, she’d already called a lawyer. She was done.
But he didn’t deny. Instead he started weeping. All his little secrets and lies, they all came out. Pearl. Another family, a woman and two children in Atlanta. A third girlfriend. It was a sickness, he said. He was seeking help.
Could she forgive him?
No. She could not. Not again. Not anymore.
Dominoes. Tip one and they all fall down. That was what happened to their life when Pearl entered. Doug’s daughter from one of his many affairs. Selena and Marisol’s half sister. She didn’t just want money. She wanted revenge. She ruined Doug—it all came out.
Now, Cora told Selena everything that she had tried to hide. All of it.
And when she was done, they sat in silence. There was only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, Selena’s breath.
“I’m sorry,” Cora said when Selena said nothing, her eyes glassy, foot bouncing. “I’m sorry I kept so many secrets from you. I thought it was for the best.”
Her words sounded weak, watery on the air.
“So,” said Selena. “Has she been watching us—watching me—all these years?”
The thought made Cora go cold. Had she?
Cora had let that part of her life fall away. In her new world, the one she built with Paulo, she’d let the past retreat into memory. Doug—his affairs, his nasty controlling ways—they faded into the distance. She rarely thought about him—or about Pearl, the lost girl who wanted to hurt her father and did.
“What does she want?” asked Selena.
“More money maybe,” said Cora. “Your father; I’m not sure he’s managed his assets well. I don’t know what he has left. If he’s been giving her money. I just don’t know.”
But even as she said it, she knew that money wasn’t what Pearl wanted. It was never what she wanted. She was a pain giver. She wanted to hurt people, acting from whatever psychic wound she carried inside. Cora saw that in the girl in the grocery store, the one hovering by the yard. And now, years later, the one on the street in front of Selena’s house. An injured animal, desperate, in pain, dangerous.
Was she stalking Selena? Had she orchestrated the encounter on the train? What did she want from Selena now?
Selena was staring at the picture on Oliver’s iPad.
“She looks like him,” Selena said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Or I guess on some level, I did. Maybe that’s why I subconsciously hooked in to her. There’s a connection.”
A connection. Yes, Cora had felt it. A pull to that lost girl. Maybe she wanted money. Maybe she wanted to cause harm. But beneath it all, there was something more. She wanted to connect, and this was the only way she knew how.
“We should call the police,” said Cora. “Whatever game she’s running, for whatever reason, it needs to be stopped.”
“No,” said Selena, leaning forward. “Who knows what she’ll do if we call the police?”
“She’s a destroyer,” said Cora. “What if she killed Geneva? What if she wants to hurt you?”
“No,” said Selena again, grabbing at Cora’s hand. “We can’t call the police, not yet.
”
“Sweetie,” said Cora. “What do you think you’re going to do, then?”
There was a look her daughter got, a stubborn set to her face.
“I’m going to find out what she wants,” her daughter said, tone cool and practical. “And then I’m going to give it to her and get our life back.”
Her daughter was delusional.
The clock chimed one. Selena wasn’t going to “get her life back.” Surely, she knew that. Her marriage was over at least. The body of a young girl had been discovered. Things weren’t going to go back to the way they were a week ago, even a day ago. And in some ways, Cora was responsible. If she’d told Selena about Pearl, she wouldn’t have been vulnerable to whatever plan the other woman had.
“How?” Cora asked.
“I—I don’t know. But what if I can give this woman what she wants—and this nightmare just goes away? Maybe that’s what she’s been trying to tell me. All of this—maybe it’s just extortion.”
Cora shook her head. Nightmares rarely went away. In Cora’s experience they usually got worse.
“She’s playing with you,” said Cora.
Selena shook her head. “I think it’s more than that.”
Cora didn’t say anything, just watched as Selena rose and took her bag from the back of the chair, still in her running clothes. She was tall, like her father, with his athleticism and strength. Cora and Marisol were petite. Maybe it was something to do with size, it made Selena bolder.
Selena picked up her phone and started to text. Cora walked behind her to see what she was doing.
I know who you are, Pearl.
So just tell me what you want.
They both waited. But no answer came.
Cora’s heart started to thump; she reached for Selena. Selena took her hand. Cora had always felt powerless against the wills of the stronger people in her life. Her throat was dry with anxiety, palms tingling.
“Don’t do this,” said Cora.
“I have to, Mom,” she said. “If you don’t hear from me in two hours, call Will, call the police. Tell them everything.”
She let go of her daughter’s hand and followed her to the door, then watched as the car glided from the drive and disappeared up the road.
THIRTY-SIX
Selena
Selena pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, where her father Doug now lived alone. She remembered once thinking the house was so big, so grand—with its white pillars and big door. But tonight, it seemed smaller. The yard, which her mother had carefully tended, was neglected, grass brown, shrubs anemic, weeds pushing up through the paving stones of the walkway. It was dark, shabby, whereas the other big houses on the block were bright with elaborate landscape lighting, meticulously maintained. Her father, getting older, must be having a hard time keeping things up. Marisol—who was closer to him—had said as much. But Selena had barely listened. Her sister forgave their father for his transgressions. Selena couldn’t—wouldn’t.
Now this. His sins come back to haunt, not him but Selena and her family.
She exited the car and marched up the path. She paused at the door a moment, the adrenaline of anger pulsing, then started aggressively ringing the doorbell. Once, twice, three times. After a moment, lights started to come on—upstairs, then on the stairway she could see through the side window. Finally, she saw her father making his way down, a frail old man in a robe and slippers.
When was the last time she’d seen him?
He peered through the window with a scowl. Then surprise softened his features. He swung the door open.
“Selena,” he said, peering behind her into the night. “What’s going on?”
God. What was she doing here? Why had this seemed like the right thing to do?
“I need to talk, Dad.”
He rubbed at his thinning hair. “Selena, it’s the middle of the night.”
She pushed her way into the towering foyer. A pile of mail sat by the door, a stack of newspapers tilted near the table where everyone used to put their keys and pile book bags, purses. The air smelled musty and still, making the inside of her nose tickle. She heard Marisol’s voice: He’s letting the place go. He’s letting himself go. Don’t you care about him at all? I mean, I get it, he’s made some huge mistakes. But none of us is perfect.
She spun to look at him. “This can’t wait, Dad.”
Her father, too, seemed smaller. Always a big man, athletic, powerful, he was suddenly shrunken and gray. His striped pajamas hung off of him. The pocket of his robe was ripped.
Some of the anger she held against him dissipated. Some. Before her was an old man, not the powerhouse he had been. But someone frail and suffering. She told her own boys, Parents are just people. We make mistakes.
Selena often forgot about that when it came to Doug and even Cora.
She softened, put a hand on his arm. “I need to talk to you about Pearl.”
He drew in a breath, closed his eyes a moment. Then he waved her toward the kitchen. She followed him over floors that needed cleaning, into the kitchen, where dishes were piled in the sink, potted plants wilted on the windowsill. Marisol said that the woman he was seeing had moved out a few months ago. I think he’s clinically depressed, Marisol had said. Selena hadn’t even cared enough to call.
“Everything okay here, Dad?” she asked now. There was a smell, something in the garbage.
He looked around at the mess. “The cleaning lady comes tomorrow,” he said.
“The yard’s kind of a wreck, too.”
“I fired the service,” he said gruffly. “They were ripping me off.”
“I can call around for you,” she said. “Find someone else.”
His thinning hair was a wild tangle; he seemed to catch sight of it in the reflection of the window over the sink, moved to smooth it out.
“Did you come here in the wee hours to discuss my home maintenance skills, Selena? Because that can wait until morning.”
“No,” she said. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“So, tell me about Pearl,” he said. “What’s she done?”
She pulled out a stool at the island and her father put on a pot of coffee, while she told him everything that had happened. When she was done, they were both silent. The coffee he brewed and put in front of her was strong. She drank it gratefully, felt the caffeine pulse through her veins.
“I’ve made mistakes in my life, Selena,” he said. “Big ones. I know that won’t come as news to you.”
He’d taken a seat beside her.
“Pearl is my daughter,” he said. “By a woman named Stella Behr. Stella—was a fling, an affair I had when I was married to your mother.”
His candor surprised her. They’d never talked about the things he’d done, or why. She never wanted to hear his side or understand why he’d been the kind of husband and father he’d been. She just wanted to put as much distance between herself and the mess her parents had made as possible.
“I supported the child financially,” he said. “But then Stella was murdered, and Pearl went missing. And it was years before I heard from her again.”
He delivered the information so flatly that she wondered if she misheard him. His indifference now was chilling; Selena shifted away from him.
“I’m sorry—you said her mother was murdered?” she breathed.
“That’s right,” he said, looking into his cup. If he felt anything at all about this, he didn’t show it.
“Who—who killed her?” Selena asked.
He shrugged. “Stella was, you know, a loose woman. There were a lot of men in and out of her life. It could have been any one of those.”
“Did you ever look for Pearl? Or try to find out what happened to her mother?”
“No,” he said. He looked down into his cup. “I was concerned tha
t the police would find out I was her father and come looking for me. But that never happened. My name wasn’t on her birth certificate. And Stella, for a price, promised she’d never tell Pearl who I was.”
Selena thought of Stephen and Oliver, how loved they were, how wanted. She tried to imagine turning away from one of her children. She couldn’t. The silence between Selena and her father expanded. The distance that had grown between them increased. Who were these men in her life?
“When Pearl turned up years later,” he said finally, “I figured she just wanted money.”
“And did you give it to her?”
“I did,” he said. “I paid her a large sum of money with the agreement that she leave me alone for good.”
He paid his daughter to go away—forever. Did that hurt Pearl? Selena called up the memory of Pearl’s face—Martha’s face. Was there pain there, longing? A desire to belong? Is that what drew her to Selena? Was this whole thing just her twisted way of trying to connect, to be part of a family?
“But she was your daughter,” said Selena. “Didn’t you want to know her?”
He offered a bitter laugh. “I had enough problems at that point.”
Problems? Did he mean his children? His other family? The wife he betrayed. Something hollow and sad opened inside her. She always wanted to feel close to her father, envied women who had warm and loving relationships with their dads. Even when she was younger and worshiped him, he always seemed just out of reach. A stiff hug, a peck on the cheek, money from his wallet—but never time, never affection. Maybe, she thought now, he simply had nothing inside to give.
“So, what happened?” she asked.
“I paid her off,” he said. “But she didn’t go away. It took me a while to figure out that it wasn’t money she was after.”
“What did she want?”
“She wanted revenge. I paid her, but it wasn’t enough. She filed a complaint with my office anonymously—but of course it was her—claiming I was harassing employees. A few women came forward, too, with claims as well, encouraged, I think, by Pearl. She contacted the local gossip columnist, revealing that I had another family. Your mother left me.”
