Confessions on the 7:45(88)

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.”

The end of his marriage, the loss of his job, his reputation decimated. Selena had been away at school, watched from a distance somewhat. She’d almost experienced a kind of denial about it, blocked it out. Neither her mother nor father ever talked about it.

“Pearl didn’t just want money. She burned my life to the ground.”

She’s a destroyer, Cora had said.

But was that the whole truth?

“When did you last speak to her? Has she reached out to you for more?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since I paid her,” he said. “Years ago now. I thought she got what she wanted—a big payday, my life destroyed.”

Selena didn’t know what else to say. She was about to rise and leave when her father put a hand on her arm.

“Whatever she wants now,” he said. “Don’t give it to her. It will never be enough. She’s dangerous. If she’s back, it’s because, for whatever reason, she has decided that she wants to hurt you. And she won’t stop until your whole life is in ashes.”



THIRTY-SEVEN

Pearl

It didn’t take Pearl and Gracie long to find the car Bridget had driven to the house. They’d set out in Pearl’s Toyota and found the vehicle about halfway down the isolated drive.

Bridget must have pulled it off to the side, into a path that led through the trees, then approached the house on foot. That’s why Pearl hadn’t seen the car when she’d arrived. She hadn’t been looking, focused on whatever might be going on at the house.

Pearl brought her car to a stop and climbed out, the night around her silent and cool, the drive beneath her boots soft. She was numb, head spinning. The other girl was practically catatonic again. Pearl wanted to slap her; her hand practically ached with the urge.

Pop was dead. What did Pearl feel? Predictably, nothing. Just a siren in her head. A vague nausea. That sucking emptiness. She found herself thinking about Jason, who was probably still asleep. In the morning, he’d wake up, start looking for her. The girl she was with him. But she’d never see him again; she knew that. And Elizabeth, that self, was already fading. She felt a rush of anger toward Pop. He never wanted her to have a normal life and now he’d made sure of it.

Pearl approached the slick late-model silver Mercedes, the key she’d lifted from Bridget’s body in her pocket. As she neared, the doors unlocked, headlights and interiors coming on. Chimes dinged softly. She slid into the spotless buttery leather interior and started the car; it hummed to life, the dash a glow of colored lights and gleaming screens.

The GPS showed their location, just a blip off the main road. Pearl scrolled through the recent navigation history. Pop’s address was the only entry listed. Pearl deleted it. There were fewer than three thousand miles on the odometer—practically brand-new. She ran her hands across the dash, the center console. It was a sweet ride, an S-Class. 100K to start. Of course. Bridget had money, lots of it. Earned, inherited, hoarded. A Gucci tote sat in the well in front of the passenger seat. Pearl grabbed it; she’d go through it later.

Pearl had a million questions.

First, how had Bridget found Pop? That was the big question. He was so careful, always so sure that he could not be traced, followed, found. Obviously, there was a failure in his planning. The house was vulnerable.

Next, who else knew that Bridget had come here? Would others follow when Bridget failed to return home? Police? A private detective, maybe?

That seemed right. That Bridget had hired someone to help her. Someone who had been able to follow Pop’s trail from Phoenix to this house in the woods—over years and miles. Pop was sure that he was a ghost, that he was safe, that they were safe in this house. Where had he gone wrong?

She sat a moment, wondering if there was a way she could keep the car. Probably not. Was it a lease? she wondered. If it was, it probably had a LoJack, which would allow the leasing company and thereby the police to find it when Bridget was reported missing.

How long would that be? Was there a ticking clock?

When Pearl knew Bridget, however briefly, the other woman had no family, a smattering of loose tie acquaintances, mainly connected to work. She was a lonely woman, with a prickly personality. An accountant, someone more interested in numbers than in people. A loner. Exactly Pop’s type. She’d opened to him like a flower. He lit her up with his attentions.