Confessions on the 7:45(45)

Woman murdered. Child missing.

That’s what the headlines said, all the newscasts they’d caught in roadside diners, what they’d read online.

True and not true.

Pearl wasn’t missing, she thought, looking at the world around her. She was found.

They unloaded the groceries they’d picked up in Albuquerque. He had a key, unlocked the front door as if it was a place well-known to him, flipped on the inside lights. The place was all windows—the living room, dining area and kitchen just one big room—vaulted ceilings that gave the impression of height. The walls dominated by glass inviting in views of the mesa behind them, the Santa Fe National Forest, the valley below.

He settled her in a simple room with a queen bed, a wood dresser. Placing her suitcase by the door. The walls were eggshell, no art. A blank slate. A big window. The bed was a white cloud, clean cotton sheets, comforter, pillows.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said. He’d said this a number of times like a mantra, wearing a worried frown. “I’m going to take care of you.”

They hadn’t spoken much about what happened; she’d barely uttered a word about anything. He panicked, he said, when they’d discovered Stella. Packed Pearl’s things—her bedding, her books, clothing, toiletries, her stuffed bear—and put them in his car. Pearl walked with him; he didn’t carry her. He’d repeated that a couple of times, like it was important that she’d walked under her own steam. Stunned, nonresponsive, Pearl let herself be led away from home.

“They’d have taken you, right? Into child protective services? Stella wouldn’t have wanted that. She’d have wanted me to take care of you. That’s why we ran,” he said the second day. He’d repeated this as well, a couple times. A narrative he was running. She supposed it was true. There was no one else to take care of her; she was a minor. Charlie wasn’t her father, not even her stepfather. Charlie wasn’t even her mother’s boyfriend, technically. Her biological father—she had no idea who he was. Pearl would have gone to foster care or something.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said again. “I promise.”

Now, she sat on the bed, nodded.

“I’m going to make some dinner,” he said. “We’ll talk more. When you’re ready.”

There was a mirror over the dresser. She didn’t recognize the girl she saw there. In Texas, they’d cut her hair in a short bob, dyed it black. Charlie shaved his dark mane down to a crew cut. He grew a goatee. They weren’t the same people they were when they were packing up boxes in the bookstore. It hadn’t even been a week. Could life change so fast? Could you be one person on Monday, and someone else by Sunday? She touched the necklace she wore, Stella’s locket. Charlie had taken it for her. That and a picture album, some journals that Pearl didn’t even know her mother kept. She hadn’t opened them. There was a shoebox of cash; he’d given that to Pearl, too. He’d grabbed files—her birth certificate, Social Security card. Everything she owned was in a single large suitcase.

She took a shower. The water was tepid, the flow flaccid. But she felt more alert, more focused when she was done. She got dressed, listening to Charlie move about the kitchen. Finally, she joined him. He’d already set the table, was serving the food.

“Sit,” he said.

Grilled chicken breast with a fresh green salad, mashed potatoes with butter. They ate and ate. It had been all burgers and fries, sodas, microwave burritos, chips for days. The food on her plate now was fresh and clean, healthy. They drank about a gallon of water. Neither of them spoke until they were both done.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” said Charlie. “I can only imagine how you must be feeling.”

But she wasn’t feeling anything. That was the strange thing. She wanted to feel something—grief, fear, rage. But there was just a floating numbness inside, an awareness of the present that wasn’t impacted by the past.

“But here we are,” he said. She saw it in him, too, that strange coolness, that ability to only look ahead. “If they don’t find us soon, their case will go cold. You have no family or connections that will put pressure on them to keep looking. No one’s going to hire a private investigator or anything like that.”

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?”