Confessions on the 7:45(89)

She said I made her believe in love, he’d told Pearl proudly.

If Bridget had held a grudge this long, gone to such lengths to find Pop, the chances were she hadn’t improved her social life much. She was probably lonelier and more disconnected than ever. Decisions like the one Bridget had made—to hunt and kill someone who had wronged her—were made in a vacuum, where there were no dissenting voices. No one who cared enough to lead her down another path.

Pearl climbed out of the car, left it running, and walked back to hers—which had seemed like a perfectly fine car this morning and now, compared to the Mercedes, looked like a piece of junk. She knocked on the window and the girl lowered it. Her eyes were glassy. She was going to cry again. Or maybe that’s how she always looked.

“How old are you?” she asked Gracie. “Can you drive?”

The girl nodded. “I’m fifteen.”

“Follow me back to the house.”

Gracie slid into the driver’s seat, and Pearl climbed back into the Mercedes. She pulled out, Gracie following behind as they headed back to the house.

For Pop, it was never just about the score, but about how well you played the game. He was like one of those vampires who tried not to drink human blood. He believed you could scam a person, take their money, but leave them with something they didn’t have before. He believed you could run your con with kindness, with respect. You could give a lonely woman love, romance, pleasure—for a time. You could give a family the joy of believing they’d found someone they’d lost. You could make a person believe they were going to receive an unexpected windfall, a big win after a life of failed enterprises.

He didn’t view himself as just a con. He saw himself as a dream weaver.

He wove a dream for Bridget. When he yanked it away, she got mad. Mad enough, apparently, to tirelessly look for him for years, find him, and eventually kill him.

“You screwed up, Pop,” she said to no one.

In the garage, she found some tarps, two shovels. There was an unopened container of lye. Why would he have that in his garage? But she already knew there were lots of things she didn’t know about Pop. Things she didn’t even want to know.

The lye would certainly come in handy now. When mixed with water, it aided in the decomposition of tissue. There were shelves of gallon jugs of water; Pop was a bit of a hoarder when it came to supplies. He liked to know there was enough—enough food, water, cash to get them through hard times. She took five jugs, loaded them in the car.

When she got back to the Toyota, the girl was still sitting there, immobile and pale as a statue, staring ahead. God, she was useless.

“I’m going to need your help,” Pearl said. “I can’t do this alone.”

The job ahead of them was big and physical. It would take hours and probably more strength than either of them possessed.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” said Gracie, turning to look at Pearl. “She killed him.”

“The police?” said Pearl softly. “What do you think will happen to you if we call the police?”

Gracie shook her head, her wheat locks shimmering. She gazed at Pearl with wide eyes. “That’s exactly what he said. When we found my mother.”

Pearl stayed quiet.

“Someone killed her,” Gracie went on. “Pop brought me here. He said if he didn’t that they’d take me away, put me in foster care or someplace worse.”

Pearl was back there again, that night they found Stella. She did feel something, something sharp and tight in her heart.

Pearl didn’t know what to say to the girl. What’s done is done, Stella would surely say. There was nothing to do but manage the situation and try to move forward.

“Are you going to help me or not?” she asked the girl. The night expanded all around them.

Gracie nodded finally.

Four hours later, the sun was rising, painting the sky a milky gray.

Bridget and Pop lay in the same shallow grave, back in the woods on the ten-acre property. The grave—it needed to be deeper, a lot deeper—Pearl knew this. But neither one of them were strong enough to do more.

No trails crossed this land. It was private; they’d be safe out here. Bridget and Pop, together forever just like Bridget wanted. Well, maybe not just like she wanted.

Pearl and Gracie were both covered in grime, hands raw and blistered. Pearl emptied the container of lye over the bodies—a blizzard covering them in white. She dumped the water into the grave. There was a sizzling sound as the water reacted with the chemical.

She should say something, shouldn’t she?

“I’m sorry, Pop,” she said. “I’m sorry it ended like this.”

Gracie wept, lying on her side on the ground. Anyone could see she was spent, finished. She’d vomited twice—once back at the house when they were moving the bodies; once when they’d dropped Pop carrying him from the car. Pearl didn’t even bother to try to make her finish shoveling the dirt back into the grave.

Pearl worked, her shoulders and back aching until Bridget and Pop were covered with earth. Then she used the shovels to scrape leaves, sticks, other forest floor debris over the site. In the dim light, it looked like all the rest of the forest around them. Pop would be pleased with the job she’d done, Pearl thought. She’d thought clearly, acted fast. All she had to do was deal with Bridget’s digital footprint and the car.