Confessions on the 7:45(90)

“Did he kill your mother, too?” Gracie asked from the ground.

The question took Pearl by surprise. She almost didn’t answer.

“I don’t know,” said Pearl finally. “Maybe.”

“She loved me,” said Gracie. “She was a good mom.”

Her voice had a faint and faraway quality, as if she was talking to someone Pearl couldn’t see. “She, you know, did her best. She used to tell me stories. About owls.”

“That’s nice,” said Pearl, keeping her voice gentle.

Gracie was wobbly, unstable. Pearl knew that she couldn’t be trusted. She was going to have some kind of breakdown, if she wasn’t having one already. If Pearl was smart, she’d kill the girl, too, and throw her in the grave they’d dug together. What was it that Pop always said? Three can keep a secret if two of us are dead. One down, one to go.

But Pearl wasn’t that. She was a lot of things. There was ice water in her veins. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt the things that other people seemed to. But she was not a killer.

Instead, she helped the girl up to her feet.

She’d picked this spot for a reason.

There was an old root cellar out here. It was one of the main features that had attracted Pop. He called it the safe room. After they’d moved out to the house, they’d spent a couple of weeks stocking it with supplies, water, canned and other nonperishable foods, sleeping bags, battery-operated lights, shelves and shelves of books, games. A hoarder’s paradise.

If the shit hits the fan, this is where we go, okay? We can ride out any storm here. It’s totally off the grid, not on the property survey.

He’d marked the door in the ground with a piece of wood, a red flag tied at its tip.

Pearl found it now. She unlocked the latch while Gracie sat, rocking, and pulled open the door with a haunted house squeal.

“I’m going to take care of you, okay, Gracie?” she said softly as she helped the girl to her feet. “I don’t know what happened to your mom. And Pop is gone. But we’ll be okay. I promise.”

Gracie leaned heavily against Pearl, and allowed herself to be led down the stairs, and hardly made a peep when Pearl laid her down on the ground, covered her with a sleeping bag.

“Just rest, okay?” she said. “I’ll be back after a while, Gracie.”

“Okay,” she said. Her voice was a child’s whisper. She was a child. Just like Pearl had been once.

The girl didn’t move an inch as Pearl climbed the steps, then locked the door behind her. She’d go back for Gracie, after she’d taken care of Bridget’s digital footprint and her car.

The social media was easy. A Facebook post, using a selfie she found on Bridget’s phone: “All my life, I’ve done the right and careful thing. Now, I’m off on a grand adventure, going off the grid to discover the real world and myself. Wish me luck!”

The poor woman had fifteen friends, loose tie connections—coworkers, a distant cousin. She posted infrequently, had little engagement on her few entries—a stew she’d made one Sunday, a picture of her new car, a selfie after a new hairstyle. A smattering of likes and wan comments. Poor Bridget, she barely existed at all. This was good news for Pearl. No one knew where she was. No one cared enough to come looking.

Then, the car. She knew a guy. A friend of Pop’s, a guy named Les who they’d used before. She called him from Pop’s phone and he told her where to park the vehicle. She drove it there, then jogged the five miles home. The car, she knew, that beautiful shiny new thing, would be taken apart until there was nothing left. How, where the parts went, to whom they were sold, Pearl had no idea. It was a specialized skill, one that was best hired out.

By the time she got back to the house, it was midmorning. She briefly thought about school—right now she’d be in world economics. Jason had probably called her about five times. But Elizabeth, the student, the girlfriend, the normie—she was gone.

You think you can just lead a normal life? Pop had wanted to know. It doesn’t work like that. Not for people like us.

He was right, of course.

She’d known it all along.

  Finally, she retrieved a nearly catatonic Gracie from the root cellar and brought her back to the house. Pearl had made Gracie strip down and throw all her clothes into the wash. Then, Pearl stood outside the door while Gracie took a scalding hot shower. Through the door, she could hear the girl sobbing.

What had Pop seen in her? Pearl might have caught a glimpse of it when they were carrying the bodies, digging the graves. There was a mettle there, some will to survive despite the circumstance.

“Scrub,” Pearl said. “Don’t forget to clean under your nails.”

She’d given the girl clean clothes from a laundry basket Pearl had found in her room. A pair of underpants with hearts on them, faded leggings, an oversize NYU sweatshirt.

Then she’d showered herself, dumped all her clothes in the wash, put the cycle on as hot and as long as it would go, dumping in more detergent than was needed. Next, she’d have to clean the foyer. The blood would seep into the wood; it would be nearly impossible to remove all traces. Pop had taught her that about blood. Never shed it, if possible. Not that anyone was going to come looking today. But that was Pop’s number one rule: when the shit hits the fan, clean up and go. The act of washing it all away, the self that needed to be abandoned. It helped you to move on.