by Lisa Unger
Gracie seemed to take this in with a slow blink of her eyes.
“Why did you go with him?”
“Because there was no place else, no one else.” That was the truth without being the whole truth.
A slow nod of understanding.
“Did you love him?”
“Yes,” said Pearl. And it was true. Whatever he was, Pearl loved Pop as much as she’d loved anyone. He was father, friend, partner in crime.
“I loved him, too,” said Gracie. “I don’t know why. He was the first person other than my mom to ever see anything special in me. He took care of her, of us. For a while.”
That was true for Pearl, too. She allowed a feeling of sadness to expand. Who were you really, Pop? But there was no answer for that because he was a changeling, something different to everyone who encountered him, someone different in every place they traveled. What was at the core? Maybe nothing, just a gaping black maw.
The house was utterly silent except for a ticking from the refrigerator, the hum of air through the vents.
“So, what happens now?” asked Gracie.
And for that matter, who was Pearl? At her core, was there the same emptiness?
“What do you want to happen?” she asked.
There was a moment where they could call the police, report the crime. Here they might tell their stories, what had happened, what Pop had done. It hovered between them, a possibility they both considered.
The whole ugly truth.
But then what? Then, they became defined by what had happened to them, instead of creating themselves. Gracie would go to foster care. Pearl would become a news media curiosity, her true identity outed. She’d belong to the world, instead of to herself.
They held each other’s eyes for a long moment.
No. It would never do. It was safer in the shadows of life.
“I want to stay here with you,” said Gracie.
The girl didn’t know what she was saying. She was a mouse. And the mouse was so afraid that she was looking to the cat for love.
Pop would want them to leave. It was the safe choice. After all, if Bridget had found them, anyone would be able to. She’d worked her magic with Bridget’s social media, disposed of the car. But they could never be sure they were safe. There were too many loose ends, Pop would say.
“He said we’d be sisters,” said Gracie. “He knew you were mad at him, but he was sure you’d come home again. That we’d be a family.”
Maybe that’s what he really wanted, deep down. A family. So in his own twisted way, he cobbled one together from the broken girls he found along his path.
The girl reached her hand across the table, and Pearl surprised herself by taking it in her own. The world didn’t always give you the things you wanted. You couldn’t choose your family, your circumstances, the unfolding of life. Often, things you loved were cruelly wrested away. But Pop was a master of creating a reality, for himself, for others. And he’d given that gift to Pearl.
Pearl and Gracie.
They would stay in the house that Pop promised her was home. And they would be sisters, just as Pop had wanted. Pearl would teach Gracie everything she knew about the game. And they’d play it together. Best of all, Gracie was malleable. She would do what Pearl told her to do. And Pearl liked that about her new sister. It would come in handy in all sorts of ways.
“Okay, Gracie. If that’s what you want,” said Pearl.
The girl nodded. Her posture softened a bit, shoulders relaxing, arms unwrapping from her middle.
“But Pop doesn’t want me to call myself that anymore.”
Present tense. Maybe he’d always be alive for each of them. A voice in their heads. A shadow, a trick of light.
“What does he want to call you?” Pearl asked.
“He wants to call me Gennie,” she said. “Short for Geneva.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Selena
Selena drove too fast, taking the winding back roads toward home.
A glance at her phone. No answer from Pearl. Selena’s text hung on the screen. The stranger on the train. A woman shadowing her life for who knows how long. Someone who might have been a friend, an ally, was a destroyer wanting to do damage. But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Selena reached for something that kept slipping away—a feeling, a thought.
“What do you want, Pearl?” she asked the empty car.
Her shoulders felt like they were cast from concrete, she was so tense, leaning forward toward the wheel as if that might get her there faster.
Her father’s voice, the things he told her, kept echoing back. She felt a twist of sadness, of compassion for Pearl, for the things she’d endured. Abandoned by her father, her mother murdered. No wonder she was a pain giver.
Selena pushed the pedal down. The night was thick and moonless, no streetlights. Selena knew that a deer could bound out of the darkness at any second. But she pressed her foot down harder still. The speed, the sound of the engine, the squeal of the tires as she took the turns; it felt good. What if I die on this road tonight? she thought. A spectacular crash, a blaze of glory. How would the headlines read? Jilted Wife Dies in Fiery Crash. Something about it appealed, like an escape hatch from the ugly mess of her life. Better than: Jilted Wife Struggles to Start Over as a Single Mom after her Husband Goes to Prison for Murdering his Mistress.
It was easier to die than to live, wasn’t it?
But no. Her boys. She couldn’t stand the thought of them alone in the world, broken by the reckless, terrible actions of their parents. She slowed her speed, drew in a breath.
Pull yourself together, Selena, she chided. Fix this. End this. Write a better headline.
Her headlights split the night, the world black around the unfurling ribbon of road. As her speed slowed, so did the racing of her heart, the adrenaline pulse. In the quiet, she wondered how much of her marriage—of any marriage—was built on a foundation of pretty stories, a narrative that you stitched together based on delusion and hope and wishful thinking.
Little lies like the curated, filtered posts on social media that make your life together look so wonderful, just after you’ve had a big fight, the months of marriage counseling not doing much good. Faked orgasms—guilty. Sometimes, really, she just wanted to get it over with. After parenthood, sleep was the new sex.
Little things like telling him she liked his cooking. She didn’t.
It’s just nice that he cooks at all, said Beth, when Selena dared to complain.
God, women’s standards were so fucking low. But Selena bought in, always praised Graham’s efforts in the kitchen. Because, yeah, it was better than nothing. In her lifetime, she never saw her father prepare a single meal, run the dishwasher, sweep a floor.
So, sure, she praised Graham because he was present in the home—good with the boys, helped with the housework more than most, did the dishes after she cooked dinner. But his efforts were fractional compared to hers; and her praise was equal in measure to the encouragement she doled out to the children for their drawings that showed little talent, their stilted piano playing, or middling efforts on the soccer field. Not lies, exactly.
Then there were the big lies like Graham’s, like her father’s.
Infidelity. Secrets. Sins of omission.
But worst of all were the lies she told herself.
She knew what her husband was, didn’t she, even before they got married? His eyes followed other women. Once, even very early in their relationship, she’d seen him talking to another girl outside the bathroom in a club. He’d leaned in to her in a way that wasn’t appropriate when you’d come with someone else.
If she was honest with herself, the challenge of Graham excited her at first. She amped up her fitness routine, wore the sexiest underwear she could find. She made him chase. Blocked his calls sometimes, even
stood him up once. Once upon a time, she’d been the woman sending dirty texts.
His excitement excited her.
That’s why she thought she’d left Will for Graham. Because Graham excited her. Because life with him, what it would be, could be, seemed like a mystery, an adventure.
But maybe, she thought now, pulling into her own driveway, maybe, it was the lies.
Her dad was a liar, a cheater. He was a vacant father, a man-baby always looking for his own pleasure. And Graham, apparently, was just like him.
So, on some twisted, subconscious level, maybe that’s why Selena had chosen him. Because that’s what she knew about the love of a man, that’s what she craved. It was sick. But maybe they were all sick, acting from impulses that were barely conscious.
She killed the engine, drew in another breath and released it.
The house sat dark, deserted. It was funny how an empty house could radiate a kind of loneliness. The energy of their life, their family, their love was gone. It was a body without a soul. She felt the threat of tears, the wobble of a breakdown. But she fought it back.
Not here. Not now.
She needed to change, get a coat. She needed money; she kept a stash of cash in a lockbox in the closet. In that box, there was also a gun, a small off-duty revolver with five shots. She knew how to use it. When Detective Crowe asked her if anything was missing, she’d thought of that box. But when she checked, it was back deep on the top of the closet, buried beneath clothes. It hadn’t been touched since the last time she put some money in there—more than a year ago, she thought.
The gun had been a gift from Graham after they bought the house, along with lessons at the range. She’d been uncomfortable with it at first, but found she’d enjoyed the target practice, the instructor who taught her how to aim, breathe, fire. It felt good to know that she could defend herself if she needed to. But she never thought she’d use it; the whole thing was more of a novelty, a very Graham type of gift.
Once she had those things, she would meet Martha—or Pearl, or whatever her name was—and figure out what the woman wanted. She hadn’t texted back, and Selena had no idea how to find her, but she knew the other woman was waiting. That she wanted something and that she’d come after it. It was only a matter of when.
One more text: I’m waiting, Pearl. Just tell me what you want.
No answer.
Finally, Selena exited the car, the air around her cold on her skin. She was going to take control of the situation and do what was necessary to salvage what was left of her boys’ lives. Maybe it would be easy; maybe Pearl just wanted money. Selena would give it to her. Whatever she had to, she was going to do that. There was a surge of power in the decision.
As she walked toward the house, the trees whispered their little secrets, all the things they knew and had seen. Other homes were warm with landscape lighting, glowing windows. Safe, normal lives being lived in relative peace. Or at least that was the facade. That’s how it seemed from the outside looking in.
Her house was quiet, and she didn’t bother flipping on lights as she jogged up the stairs. In the master bath, she mopped off, then quickly changed. A pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, her wool peacoat, black running shoes. She had to get the bench at the foot of the bed and climb up on it to reach far in the back of the top shelf of the closet.
When she retrieved the box, it felt light as she sank with it to the floor. She punched in the code and the lid popped open with a snap. Her heart sank. The gun was gone. Maybe half the cash had been removed.
“Goddammit,” she whispered, counting the cash.
There had been five thousand dollars. Now there was less than two. Her money, cash she’d saved over the years from birthday gifts from her parents, work bonuses, anytime there was extra from the monthly budget. It was her security fund. She didn’t even think Graham knew about it. They never touched the gun. Or so she thought.
What if Geneva had taken it? But, no, only Selena and Graham knew the code. He might have told Geneva, or given her the money, the way Erik Tucker had bought her a car. When Detective Crowe had asked her about their finances, she’d been so sure she was in control of that at least.
She pocketed what was left of the cash.
More secrets and hidden things. Her husband a thief as well as a liar, an adulterer, an abuser of woman. Where was the gun? It was hers, registered to her name, had her fingerprints on it. Her heart thudded as she remembered Detective Crowe’s questions, his pointed stare. Did she ever think about hurting Geneva? No, she never did. But who would believe that now?
The room around her seemed to spin. Fear and self-doubt crept up behind her and whispered in her ear. What are you doing? You’re out of your league here. It took her a moment to register the ringing of her phone, which she’d left on the bed.
She rose and walked over to glance at the caller ID. Will.
Her mother probably called him. She hesitated before answering.
“Selena.” His voice was taut with tension. “Where are you? Your mom’s freaking out. She said you took off.”
She was about to answer, but he interrupted her. “Look, it doesn’t matter. The body—police were able to identify it. It’s not Geneva Markson.”
Relief crashed over her like a wave. Thank god—for Geneva, for her family. She nearly wept with gratitude. Graham—whatever he was, he wasn’t that.
“How?” she asked. “I thought you said it could take weeks.”
“There was another missing woman. Her family was able to identify the body by a tattoo on her shoulder.”
Another missing woman.
“Her name was Jacqueline Carson. Do you know her?”
It had a familiar ring, but she couldn’t place it. “No.”
“She worked with Graham. She was the woman who accused him of harassing her, the reason he was fired from his job.”
The news knocked the wind out of her. A crushing fatigue followed, like someone drained all her energy from her. She sank onto the mattress.
“Have you seen Graham?” asked Will.
She struggled for breath, for words. “Isn’t he—still with the police?”
Will blew out a sigh. She could tell that he was driving by the echo of his voice. “They had to let him go, just about an hour before they identified the body. They’re looking for him now. Where are you?”
“I’m home,” she said. “At our house.”
“Just—get out of there, Selena. Go home to your mom. I’ll meet you there.”
Yes, that was right. She had to go home to her mom. Her father and her husband were monsters. She was being stalked by some woman she thought was a stranger on a train, but who was really her sister. She had to go with Will to Detective Crowe and tell him everything. That was the only way out. The truth. Whatever hard consequences might follow. Problems didn’t just go away. You had to face them down and solve them. Every grown-up knew that.
There was a sound from downstairs, the familiar creak from the hallway floorboard. The noise moved through her body like electricity.
“Will,” she whispered into the phone.
But the cell had gone dead in her hand. She hadn’t charged it since—she didn’t even know when. She moved over to the bedside and rifled around in the drawer for her charger. Found it. She plugged it into a wall socket. The red battery icon appeared on the screen. It would take a while to come back to life.
More noise from downstairs, footfalls, something dropping, the squeak of the door into the kitchen. Graham. It must be.
She should run; she knew that. She should do exactly what Will said she should do—go home to her mom. Right now, with him in the kitchen, she could race down the stairs and get to her car and drive. Even if he tried, he’d never be able to catch her.
Some clanging in the kitchen, the opening and closing of cabinets. He was hungry, rifl
ing like a bear through cupboards looking for food. Or booze.
She could get out of there and never look back. Go to Will, go to the police, come clean about everything. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Because even through all the lies, there was something there. Her husband—he’d loved her, she’d loved him. Graham was a better father than her father had been. He wasn’t perfect, but he loved the boys and they loved him.
And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t a monster. It was possible, wasn’t it, that this whole thing had been orchestrated by Pearl—that she’d kidnapped Geneva, that she’d killed Jacqueline Carson? She was a destroyer. She was doing what she did best, taking a wrecking ball to Selena’s life. Why? Because Pearl hated Selena for being a happy, normal person, when life had treated her so unfairly.
Selena took her phone and charger with her. Downstairs, she plugged it into the wall by the hallway console table. Then she pushed through the door into the kitchen to confront her husband.
THIRTY-NINE
Selena
Graham was sitting at the table, an open bottle of bourbon before him, an empty glass in his hand. Another on the table, as if he knew she was there and he was waiting for her. In the dim light, he was just a shadow.
She drew closer and saw the darkness of his gaze.
“What have you done?” she asked him.
“Nothing,” he said, looking up at her. “I swear to god. I never hurt her. I never hurt anyone.”
The refrigerator dropped ice cubes into the tray, causing her to jump.
“That’s a lie,” she hissed. “The woman in Vegas.”
“The stripper.” He poured more bourbon in his glass, and in the other. He took a deep swallow.
She tried to remember the man she met and fell in love with. He made her laugh with his charm, connected her to the wild, adventurous side of herself. But that guy, the one she married, he was a con. This man before her someone blank, someone dangerous, he was always inside, waiting to get out. Bait and switch.
