Confessions on the 7:45(100)

“Yeah, right,” she said. “You’re worse than he was. He never locked me up.”

There was a catalog of things that Pop had done to each of them. But the truth was, he was the closest thing to a father either of them had ever had. A terrible, manipulative, murderous, con artist father, who had loved them each in his way.

“It’s not so bad down here,” said Pearl. She wore that smile she had, sphinxlike, always laughing at a joke no one else got.

“It’s a dungeon, bitch,” said Geneva. “You locked me in the dungeon to keep me quiet and run your little game. That’s fucked. You know that.”

“You always had a flair for drama.”

Pearl dropped the big duffel on the floor.

“What’s that?” asked Geneva, eyeing it suspiciously. God only knew what was in there.

“Half,” she said. “Half of everything I made with Pop and since. There’s a clean identity from Merle—driver’s license, passport, and Social.”

Geneva dropped to her knees from the cot and opened the bag. It was stuffed with cash. How much? A lot. Enough. She opened the envelope that lay on top.

Alice Grace Miller. Nice and simple, just like Pop would have wanted it, with a nod to her past self. A girl that was so long gone, Geneva didn’t even remember her anymore.

“You can go anywhere now,” said Pearl. “You can be anyone. You’re free.”

Geneva looked up at Pearl—who were they to each other? Sisters of circumstance, Pearl had said once. Geneva figured that was right. She searched herself for feeling, found something that was like a grudging affection, a kind of pact they’d sworn without words. They’d suffered together, knew each other. It bound them somewhat. They’d keep each other’s secrets, take them to the grave.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about me,” Pearl said. “I’ll find my way.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Come on,” said Pearl. “I’ll give you a ride. We’re a long way from anywhere.”

There was something about the root cellar. It was cold and dark, but it was safe, predictable. Light shone in from outside from the door Pearl had opened, bright licking at the dark shadows. The whole big world was out there. Every place. All the possibilities of what her life could be, and damn if there wasn’t part of her that just wanted to stay hidden.

Instead, she stood and found her shoes, her jacket. She shouldered the bag and followed Pearl outside, shielding her eyes against the blinding sun. Pearl closed and locked the door behind them. It was all but invisible in the brush.

“If the shit ever hits the fan,” said Pearl, “just come back here, to the cellar. Text me.”

She nodded. But she was never coming back here. She was never going to text Pearl.

Just a few feet away, they’d buried Pop and the woman who killed him. Years ago. Five minutes ago. The grave site wasn’t visible to the eye, lost, grown over by time and forest detritus. Geneva wasn’t even sure where it was until Pearl stopped there for a moment, staring at the ground.

“I’m all done here, Pop,” she said.

There was something small about her voice when she said his name, something young and soft. But her face was set in the hard lines of determination. And after a moment, she kept walking.

Geneva—Alice—climbed into the car. As they drove from the property, she looked in the rearview mirror to see billowing clouds of black smoke where the house would be. The place Pop had brought her that night so long ago. Where she lived with Pearl after Pop was gone. It was their home, in a weird way.

She was about to say something, to ask Pearl what she had done.

But, of course, she’d burn it all to the ground.

That was her way.



FORTY-FOUR

Pearl

The divine nowhere of airports. The ultimate liminal space, neither here nor there. Not truly in the place you’re leaving, nor in the place you’re going. A bardo. Here there might be a breath, a pause between selves, between worlds.

Her last burner phone. She found a section of seats in an empty gate and dialed. The other line rang and rang again. It was early. She always took the earliest flight. Outside the sky was still dark, other travelers were dazed and groggy, with their smartphones and coffees taking up all available bandwidth. Not Pearl. She was wide awake.

In the reflection of the big window looking down on the tarmac, there was a slim woman with a honey-colored bob wearing black leggings, turtleneck, a bomber jacket, black running shoes. Her makeup was light and natural; her belongings, like her outfit, all basic black. She amped down her beauty for this last journey—no lipstick, no perfume, just a light brown eyeshadow. Not much skin exposed, glasses she didn’t really need.

Emily Pearl Miller. Her final identity.

She’d have to explain to Ben that her name wasn’t really Gwyneth. He’d understand why she felt she needed to protect herself. You can never be too careful with a man you meet over the internet. There were cons and criminals, bad men, lying in wait everywhere.

She was about to hang up when the call engaged.

“Hunter Ross.”

If he’d been sleeping, he didn’t sound it.

“It’s Pearl,” she said, “Pearl Behr.”

The name sounded off, felt awkward and stiff in her mouth like a lie. But it was the truest thing she’d said in a while.