Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir

by Pamela Crane

  Outwardly I was as placid as a country lake. But in my murky depths lurked a beast that time forgot, secret and savage, with a thirst for blood. No one could see it, no one could sense it, but it was there, patiently waiting for the right time to show itself, to feast.

  Tonight was that time.

  I had planned it all out. As painless as possible, but final. I’d spare the children this fate, though maybe that was the greater reprisal. Let them understand loss, sending them off into the system, make them appreciate what they had. But no, not Denny. And not myself. I’d give us a death scene worthy of Romeo and Juliet to commemorate our twelve years together. It was hardly anything compared to the marriages of many others I knew. Some celebrating twenty years, others forty. And yet Denny could barely surpass a decade with me. Now it was out of his hands. We’d be together for eternity, whether he liked it or not.

  Out on the veranda he waited for me. I’d nearly begged him to come home on time tonight, to which he finally agreed after a brief debate. When I saw his car pull up the driveway, I ushered the kids upstairs to watch a movie and eat candy and popcorn, which immediately put a stop to their fussing over what I was making for dinner. Then I fluffed my hair, touched up my lipstick, gulped two glasses of liquid courage, and waited.

  I had lined the entryway with scented candles and rose petals that led to the sliding glass door—and me on the other side of it in a saucy little pose. More candles illuminated the space with a soft glow while jazz played from my iPod. For dinner, filet mignon, sour cream mashed potatoes, and grilled teriyaki Brussels sprouts—Denny’s favorite, and the kids’ least favorite—followed by an almond cream cake topped with honey-roasted almonds. As the kids happily settled into their playroom sofa, each holding a tub of buttered popcorn with a side dish of M&Ms, I led Denny to his seat on the veranda for a night of fine dining, seduction, and our last goodbye.

  The poison was the hard part to figure out. After a little research, I discovered the oleander tree in our very own backyard was the perfect weapon. Named after the trees that grew wild in our neighborhood, Oleander Way was brimming with them. I was amazed our HOA hadn’t outlawed them due to their poisonous properties. Crushing a handful of leaves and flowers into a paste, I let them soak in the wine bottle, along with a dose of antifreeze for good measure. All day the bottle sat, taunting me with the inevitable closure it would give me.

  We were now mere moments away from the grand finale.

  The table was set with our fine white china trimmed in silver, crystal glasses of poisoned red wine poured, meal steaming hot and meat perfectly cooked—Denny’s medium, mine medium-rare. With knife and fork in hand, he glanced up at me and smiled. Oh, the power of his smile! I melted like butter under a hot sun when he looked at me like that. Even now, brooding with hatred toward him, I found myself slightly wooed.

  “You’ve outdone yourself, gorgeous.”

  Damn him and his charm.

  “What’s the occasion, babe?” he asked, savoring a mouthful of steak. “And you look amazing, by the way.”

  It was an afternoon-long process perfecting my hair and makeup, picking just the right dress that looked appropriate for a dinner at home but sexy enough to make him want me again. The sleek green silk matched my eyes and complemented my shiny auburn hair. I looked as good as I felt, which was a new sensation for me.

  “Thanks, honey. No occasion—I just wanted a nice dinner together. I felt we were overdue.”

  He leaned over and kissed me, a tinge of my lipstick staining his lips.

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh?” My nerves sizzled at the cryptic tone. Was he about to confess everything? Was he planning to officially break up? I couldn’t let him say it. I needed more time. I only wanted one good last memory. Why was Denny so insistent on stripping that from me?

  That’s when I realized it was all a fantasy. I wouldn’t get the last date night I had wanted. It was over before it had begun. Skip to the end—that was the only choice I had left.

  “Before I say anything, I want to make a toast.” He hoisted his wine glass and I lifted up my own.

  It would only take a few minutes for the poison to work its way into the bloodstream, delivering a deceptively pleasant tipsiness and slurred conversation. That was when my plan to have one last night together would begin. We’d suffer together throughout the night as the headache set in, then the cramps and nausea and dizziness. By early morning we’d experience delusions as our heart rates slowed to a deadly lull. In a seamless crescendo we’d both fall into an endless sleep, together, dying as one. A perfect end to a perfect misery.

  Denny’s eyes glossed over, and I saw raw emotion in them.

  “To the most beautiful woman I know. I haven’t treated you the way you deserve, Ellie, but today I want to change that. I want to be the man you married—the man you fell in love with.”

  I sat in shock, uncertain about the changing tide of the evening. It sounded as if he was recommitting himself to me, to us. If he’d ended the affair, I could move past it. I loved him more than I loved myself. Was everything better? Or was I misreading him?

  If Denny still wanted to salvage our marriage, I would forgive him. I could get past the cheating, the lies, the deception. Together we would figure it out. Maybe there was hope for us after all. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Or was this all just more lies? Was I letting myself be duped yet again? Just for him to hurt me for another round? I had to decide. Now. Continue onward to this final goodbye, or fall back and try again. There was really only one true answer in my heart of hearts.

  Denny clinked his glass against mine, but as he tipped his glass up to sip the poisonous concoction, I dropped my glass to the patio floor, the glass shards scattering at our feet.

  “Oh shoot!” I yelped.

  Denny set his glass down and jumped up. “It’s okay, hon. I’ll clean it up. You sit and enjoy the amazing meal you cooked.”

  “Are you sure?” I cooed.

  “Absolutely. Sit tight while I get something to clean this up.”

  Denny ran into the house while I sat there, relieved I had stopped him in time. While Denny was inside, I heard his phone chirp. There it sat, on the table before me, with a new text. I wondered if it was her. I’d never found damning evidence on his phone before since he deleted his text history almost hourly—a suspicious act in itself. Maybe it was a small mercy. The thought of subjecting myself to the sexting and sickening endearments between my husband and his whore stayed my hand. Not to mention, Denny zealously guarded his phone, never letting it out of his sight. Until now.

  Checking behind my shoulder, I figured I’d have enough time to take a quick peek while Denny found the broom, so I picked up his phone and swiped across the screen to unlock it. A message from a mysterious “JW” scrolled across the screen. The phone immediately opened up the text history, so I scrolled up to the top to read it from the beginning of the conversation:

  Denny: I’m sorry, but I need to end things. I can’t keep doing this. Please forgive me, but I want to fix things with Ellie. She doesn’t deserve this. Goodbye.

  JW: Are you kidding me? You are NOT going to break up with me over a text! You talk to me face to face like a man.

  Denny: There’s nothing more to say, Janyne. It’s over. Don’t contact me again.

  Gotcha. So her first name was Janyne. I mentally catalogued it for future use. And then the text that had just come through:

  JW: If you think you can avoid me, just wait until I show up at your house and introduce myself to your wife. You can’t just walk away from me like we didn’t share something special. If you try to end things, I will take you and your whole family down with me. Choice is yours. See you tomorrow … or else.

  What did that threat even mean? Was she really planning to confront me with her husband-stealing, home-wrecking confession and expect me to just give up? If that was the case, I’d be ready for her. I wasn’t afraid t
o pull her hair, slap her face, or bite her. If Janyne wanted a catfight, she’d get a catfight. I couldn’t guarantee that Denny would end up picking me, I couldn’t ensure my children would ever think I was hip, but one thing I knew deep down in the marrow of my bones: I would go down fighting.

  I clicked on her name and revealed her cell phone number. Maybe I could even have a little fun with her. I grabbed my phone and typed in her number to text her. I hit the letters so fast and hard it was a wonder I didn’t crack my screen:

  Ellie: I know who you are, Janyne. Absolutely no one. You think you have Denny’s heart, but you’re wrong. He doesn’t love you, never has, never will. Save yourself from looking foolish and walk away while your kneecaps are still intact.

  I hit “send” and watched the message zoom off into cyberspace. It was the first time I’d ever done anything so confrontational, and it felt exhilarating. Or it could have been the two glasses of wine I’d already chugged before Denny got home that made me feel like I was on top of the world.

  My elation ended with an abrupt beep.

  So you’re the bitch he’s always complaining about. If anyone’s been the fool, it’s you. Your own husband cheating on you and you just take it. How noble. It sounds like you’re threatening me. If you want to play rough, you have no idea what I’m capable of. But I’ll be happy to show you.

  Suddenly I regretted instigating a war with an enemy I was not prepared to fight.

  Chapter 23

  Shayla

  I had called in sick, still buried beneath my 500-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and turquoise Pottery Barn comforter that I’d bought two hours and six hundred dollars ago. Alleviating my turmoil with a home décor shopping spree and maxing out my credit card on wall art and more baskets than I knew what to do with, I figured what the hell. I deserved something nice for once—my internal excuse I used any time I bought something I shouldn’t have.

  Trent would have a fit when he got home from work, his black, oily eyes narrowing into angry slits when he saw what I’d splurged on this time—especially after a new sofa had been delivered only yesterday. But I didn’t give a shit. I was going to ride out this storm in style.

  After tossing the incriminating pregnancy test in the across-the-street neighbor’s trashcan by the curb, I decided to live in denial for the rest of the day … or maybe the whole nine months. I couldn’t deal with the bastard child of an affair growing inside my belly. I needed it gone, but the nausea that sent me to the toilet every couple hours reminded me that it wasn’t going anywhere … unless I terminated it. It was an option, wasn’t it?

  Pulling my blanket up to my face, I inhaled the sweet fresh linen scent. It reminded me of when I’d first brought Arion home from the hospital. A tiny, dark baby with jet-black hair swaddled in freshly laundered baby blankets. I hadn’t put him down for two straight days, as if he was a new limb I had grown. I’d never felt such love, like my heart would burst with it. I could never find the words to explain it to Trent, that sense of awe and pride and bliss you feel when you push the baby out and hear that scream that tells the world he’s alive. Men could never understand it, after carrying a baby for nine months, finally meeting that newborn face to face.

  I had spent months imagining what those tiny fists that pummeled my bladder looked like, or what those skinny legs stretching from my pelvic bone to my ribs would kick like once outside of my womb. For nine months I planned, imagined, felt every moment of the baby’s life. And here I was, pregnant with another. I couldn’t go through with giving it up, no matter how much I hadn’t wanted it five minutes ago. Because right now I wanted this baby with every fiber of my being. But the cost … I couldn’t begin to calculate the cost of keeping it.

  Up until now I’d been able to hide my trysts. But this was a secret that I’d have to confess with each month of my growing belly. This baby was a nail in my marital coffin.

  A roiling in my stomach sent me running for the toilet, where I dry-heaved for several agonizing minutes until my body was too weak to purge the dry cereal I’d eaten an hour earlier. As I hung my head over the ceramic bowl, the doorbell rang.

  Who could that possibly be? If it was Kelsey I was going to kill him. He was very possibly the reason I was in this condition, putting murder on my mind.

  Again the bell rang, a chipper chime that zapped my nerves.

  I shuffled my way to the front door, wondering what doom awaited me on the other side. I opened it and gasped.

  “Bev?”

  My sister, Beverley Hopper, both my friend and enemy. We were so different yet so alike. Her the goody-goody, me the rebel. But both of us stubborn as mules. She whisked past me, nearly spinning me off my axis.

  “You didn’t have to come over,” I mumbled. Of course she had to—it was in her nature to get involved. If there was drama, you could bet Bev was sniffing around nearby to help, in her own high-handed way. She fed on drama like a mosquito on blood.

  “Sure I did. You called me. You’re in trouble, so here I am.”

  That was Bev—matter-of-fact and to-the-point. A diamond in the rough with a heart of gold and entertaining quirks out the wazoo. Despite our sisterly rivalry, I loved her more than anything. I owed her my life. I even respected her, a sentiment I didn’t dole out often.

  Bev raised me when our alcoholic mother couldn’t. While Mom slept off another drinking binge, Bev cooked hotdogs to fill our grumbling tummies. When Mom missed another shift at work due to a hangover, Bev skipped school to stock shelves at the local Food Lion to cover our rent. Through good and bad we carried each other, though the bad seemed to surface more frequently than the good.

  Bev knew me too well to leave me alone right now. She’d seen the worst of my bipolar disorder, when the meds mellowed out my manic episodes but also zombified me when I felt depressed. My sister was the calm but firm hand on my shoulder.

  Her short wavy hair appeared freshly trimmed and styled as it shined a chocolate brown. Her cheeks were rosy red as if she’d run all the way to the door. Pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up, she plopped her overstuffed purse to the floor, swung her beige coat off her shoulders, and hustled me to the sofa.

  “Tell me everything.” It was more a demand than a request as she shoved me onto the cushion, then dropped down next to me.

  “There’s nothing more to tell. I told you the situation—I was having an affair, I got pregnant, I’m not sure who the baby’s daddy is, and now I gotta deal with it.”

  “Jeez, Shayla, you act like this is no big deal. You’re ruining your life and sitting here talking about it like it’s a grocery list.” Bev’s brow furrowed as she pursed her lips at me.

  “What do you expect me to do? Bemoan my crap-ass decision-making skills? You can thank Mom for passing that trait on to me, by the way.”

  Her eye roll told me what she was thinking. “Don’t blame Mom for your stupidity. You learned that all on your own.”

  “You’re not making me feel better, you know.”

  “I’m not here to make you feel better about cheating on your husband. I’m here to tell you to get your act together and fix this.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to drag you into it. I should just deal with it on my own.”

  “You don’t have to deal with it alone, Shay.”

  Bev stood and bustled to the kitchen, her hands quickly grabbing mugs, teabags, and creamer. After setting a kettle of water on to boil, she fell back into the sofa, tucked her legs up under her, and stared at me.

  “What?” I grumbled.

  “I’m curious what your plans are. You cheated on your amazingly perfect husband and now you’re pregnant. What now?”

  I groaned irritation. “I don’t know. That’s the whole reason I’m freaking out. Should I tell Trent? Should I tell Kelsey?”

  “It would be a good idea to let your home-wrecker know, just in case you need a paternity test.”

  I had forgotten to mention to Bev that I had accused Kelsey of raping me,
so I doubted he’d be interested in fathering a child with me. Even if he did, the feeling wasn’t mutual. I wanted him as far away from me as possible.

  I knew he was pissed when he called me after leaving the station to say they let him go and he wasn’t going to let my little game go unchallenged. I wasn’t sure what that meant other than I knew it wasn’t the last I’d see of him. But it was a minor detail I’d keep to myself. I had enough on my plate to deal with, and anything more would only send Bev into an overbearing frenzy.

  “And by the way, Trent isn’t as perfect as you seem to think he is.”

  “You wouldn’t know because you’re blind to how incredible he is.”

  “And how would you know how incredible my husband is?”

  Bev sat in uncomfortable silence. I watched as she glanced away, chipping at her peeling nail polish.

  “Bev?” I said again, trying to break through her avoidance. “Do you … love Trent?”

  She coughed, and that’s when I caught a glimpse. Her eyes moistened with emotion. I recognized that look. I used to look that way at Trent, long ago. Back before a house mortgage and full-time jobs and kids. My own sister was in love with my husband.

  “Answer me!” I demanded.

  Sorrow flooded her eyes as she finally looked up at me. The whistle of the kettle jarred us both, and Bev beat me to the kitchen to pour mugs of steaming chai. She scooped heaps of sugar into each cup, a drizzle of milk, then carried them over to the living room. She sat one down in front of me and nursed the other before speaking.

  “I’m sorry, but yes. I’ve loved Trent since I met him. But you got to him first. You won, I lost, and now you’re treating him like garbage. I just don’t get it. You have no idea what you have.”

  I remembered the day we’d met Trent. We’d been on a girl’s night out, karaokeing at the local bar. There Trent sat, dressed in black, his charcoal hair slicked back in a sexy pompadour like a James Dean throwback, his face smooth and his grin mischievous like a boy’s, but his charm well cultured like a man’s. That night Bev and I flirted, teased, and eventually invited him to buy us drinks all night, which he generously did.