Pretty Ugly Lies: a gripping and chilling domestic noir

by Pamela Crane

  “I’m Casey,” she replied. It was the first time I’d heard her voice. A husky drawl, like it was tinged with years of tobacco and farming. It sounded like far too old of a voice for a woman her age.

  “June.” I held out my hand to shake and she limply touched it and released.

  “Why you here?” she asked me.

  “I did something horrible.”

  “Haven’t we all?”

  I didn’t want to explain that amid a psychological breakdown I had killed my best friend’s husband and children because I couldn’t kill my own. It wasn’t fueled by hatred or revenge. It was the culmination of years of exhaustion, frustration, stress, and depression that suddenly awakened an urge to end it all. When I couldn’t carry that out against my own family, it popped up like a Whack-a-Mole against Ellie’s family. I never saw the darkness coming. To me, it looked like justice.

  It was a distorted sense of virtue driving me, this urge to prove my love for Ellie by freeing her. I knew why I did it; what I had yet to understand was how I got to that point. In my cracked psyche, how did murder wear the guise of a solution?

  I couldn’t begin to explain the mental torment that drowned out any moral compass or logic. I didn’t want to explain it, because I couldn’t possibly justify it.

  Like being stuck in a house of mirrors, everywhere I turned I saw what I did—my hands covered in blood, crimson spatters on my clothes, the knife reaching out and getting caught in flesh. I still relived every moment, but over time it grew remote, like a disembodied version of me doing it until I became just a spectator. My only mercy was that with each day, I put more distance between me and that monster I had become.

  We were silent, Casey and I, neither of us knowing how to navigate the worst moments of our lives. Then she spoke, her voice hoarse and crackling.

  “I did it for love, y’know.”

  “Did what for love?”

  “Let my boyfriend rape my baby girl. Ended up killin’ ’er. I s’pose it’s best she didn’t live through it, though. I never wanted ’er to grow up like I did. Constantly strugglin’ to survive. I like to think she’s in heaven with the angels playin’ with blocks.” She paused, then said wistfully, “She loved blocks.”

  I imagined Casey was right. Perhaps her baby was better off gone from this insufferable earth. She’d spend eternity frolicking in heaven’s sunshine, all pain wiped from her memory, in endless bliss while her mother rotted down below.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean you did it for love?”

  “I let ’im take her ’cuz he asked and I loved ’im too much to say no. He was the only man who ever loved me. I mean, we was messed up together, ’im and me. Both of us high all the time. Always broke. But he made me feel special. Before ’im, I never had no one care whether I was alive or dead. I was whorin’ myself, livin’ in the streets, eatin’ garbage. Then he rescued me. Gave me his trailer and food and told me I was pretty. Didn’ judge me no matter what I done in my past … or what was done to me. I woulda given ’im anythin’ he asked … even my baby.”

  Her confession left me mute. Although we had come from different worlds—my middle-class privileged suburbia and her impoverished trailer park roots—we were more alike than I wanted to admit. The same motivation lurked behind every injustice: love. We either love ourselves too little, or we love ourselves too much.

  Addicts used because they loved their high more than they loved those they hurt. Abusers victimized because they loved control, feeding their beast with the tears of others. Mothers hurt their own children because they loved their freedom or uninterrupted television or full night’s sleep or boyfriend’s approval more than they loved their offspring. Tragic choices, all rooted in a twisted, disfigured need for love.

  Just like how I loved Ellie too much, and myself not enough. I sought Ellie’s happiness at the cost of my own. I hated how such a perfect soul suffered at the hands of a selfish husband and ungrateful children. Combined with my own depression and dissatisfaction with life, it turned out to be lethal.

  I still didn’t understand how the train flew off the tracks, other than it was a momentary thing. One horribly insane moment where I simply couldn’t take it anymore and mentally exploded. All because of a blind love for her that overpowered any love for my family or hers. I knew I’d get caught, be torn from my children, leave them motherless and Mike wifeless, and yet I still did it without blinking. Without a second thought … until it was done.

  “Have you ever loved someone so much you’d give up everythin’ for ’em?” Casey asked, her eyes burrowing into mine.

  “Yes. I guess that’s why I’m here too. But love should never require that kind of sacrifice.”

  She snorted at me then, her chuckle growing into an unsettling cackle.

  “You’re more naïve than ya’ look. Love always demands sacrifice. Ain’t no one loved another without givin’ something up. It’s all part of the deal—if ya want love, somethin’s gotta give. Some love takes a little, some love takes a lot. You gotta be willin’ to pay the price is all. ’parently our love took a lot. That’s why we here.”

  Such basic wisdom that I had never understood. I had wanted love, but from the wrong person. I had never bothered to consider the cost. Now I had life in prison to make up for it. I didn’t know how, exactly, but I’d figure it out.

  Epilogue

  Ellie

  One year later …

  It’s a redemptive day, the kind of day that reminds me life isn’t so bad after all. When the sun kisses my face and the cloudless sky brightens everything. I wonder if June is able to see the sky from her prison cell. We all need a little bit of blue sky to lighten our dark days.

  I once thought that my world revolved around Denny, I couldn’t exist without him. My purpose was being Mom, Cook, Maid, Wife. I’m glad to discover how wrong I was about myself. There is so much more to me than I imagined. June was the only one who saw this potential in me. And she lost her freedom trying to show me the truth.

  The Greeks believed in a mythical creature called a Chimera—a fire-breathing she-monster with a lion’s head, goat’s body, and snake’s tail. All incongruous parts, all part of the same woman. I understood this monster, having spent years feeling like the pieces of my life were strangely juxtaposed. I was a contradiction of parts, until a horrible blow shattered the illusion of my life. Then suddenly behind the fantasy I found something much better. June had exposed me to my true self.

  The self who loved to write. The self who loved to dance. The self who loved to sing. The self who loved to help others. It still hurts that I’ll never see Logan or Darla or Denny on this earth again. I miss them every day. I long to run my fingers through Darla’s platinum blond hair, to tussle Logan’s golden bedhead. And Denny’s lips I’ll miss the most. But day by day I’m unearthing more good memories and clutching them close to my heart.

  “Auntie Ellie!”

  The familiar call drew my gaze upward from my leather-bound journal. I capped my pen and slid it, along with my journal, into my purse. My solitary moment was gone, and I was perfectly happy with that.

  Austin came running toward me holding something covered in dirt and grass.

  “Look what he found, Auntie Ellie.” Austin shoved his hand up to my face, his fingertips brushing my chin.

  “Look what I found,” I corrected.

  “Look what I found, Auntie Ellie,” he amended.

  In his palm a black and gold insect slithered through the clump of earth. With a huge grin, his pride shined through at his latest treasure.

  “Cool. Do you know what kind of bug it is?”

  “He look it up—” then a pause, “I look it up.”

  “Yes, we’ll do that when we get home. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Auntie Ellie.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.” As he scampered off to find more creepy-crawlies, I called out to him, “I love you, bud.”

  Stopping mid-stride, he turned around and
smiled, affection reaching his eyes. “I love you, Auntie Ellie.”

  I had never been more proud of anyone than I was right then. I’d learned to love more, feel more, appreciate more because of the trials I’d suffered. No ribbon of words could articulate how much the flames had forged me, shaped me into something stronger than I knew I was. I felt the tremor of life around me now. No longer was life cruel and waspish, but gentle and nurturing. The mother in me hadn’t forgotten how to love.

  You can’t play in the rain without getting muddy. It had taken a downpour to awaken my soul, but in the process I learned to love both the rain and the mud. Where one soiled and stained, the other washed it all away. Following my family’s murder, my broken heart had been stitched up and ripped open again and again with each memory. My recovery became a story with lots of chapters, each day a new page of rebellion, religion, healing, self-affliction, and surrender. I was no longer myself. Maybe I was a better version. Maybe I wasn’t.

  Birds pecked at the crumbs Juliet tossed to them from her seat next to me on the park bench. On the playground I watched Arabelle and Kiki play a game of tag, weaving in and out and around the colorful assortment of slides and ramps. In my lap was a copy of Arabelle’s latest literary creation, The Girl Who Got Kidnapped, a story about the little girl in the news who was abducted, the one who had lived on my very own Oleander Way. I shivered at the thought of how close to home the horrors can be—one in my own house, another just down the street. How could I have been surrounded by so much suffering and not have noticed?

  After her mother’s conviction, Arabelle had begun writing at my suggestion, something I found therapeutic that released the weight of my thoughts. While I journaled about real life, Arabelle wove tales about things she observed, heard, or imagined. I was glad to have imparted some useful advice on a child who had lost so much because of me. I hoped she found comfort in writing the way I had. Perhaps it would be her salvation.

  Mike Merrigan was supposed to meet me almost thirty minutes ago to pick up the kids for the weekend, but he was late like usual. I didn’t mind, though. Against all odds he was getting his life back together, had found a good job, and was making strides toward being a better father in his wife’s permanent jail-time absence.

  After being charged with murder in the first degree, June had received a lenient sentence of life in prison—which was better than death row, I suppose, though living with the guilt of what she’d done to her family and mine was a fate worse than death. June wasn’t a hardened criminal. She was simply a mother who snapped. With too big a heart and too heavy a burden, the ache of watching us both drown in misery had become too much for her to bear. I loved her and yet hated her for it, because in the end, she destroyed us both with her version of justice and freedom. Only one of us would survive the aftermath.

  June would be serving time while Mike’s life fell apart. I’d kept my promise to foster their kids until Mike could handle single parenthood of four young kids, particularly his autistic son, who needed more attention than Mike could give right now. Despite all the pain, in the end things were getting closer to okay one day at a time.

  Thanks to our daily sessions, Austin’s speech and behavior had improved by leaps and bounds, and he even had a friend in his kindergarten class. Drawing upon my college studies, I’d figured out how to work through the tantrums, and while it wasn’t easy, we had a connection. I understood him, and in his own unique way he understood me. We relied on positive reinforcement to encourage good behavior, and I picked my battles. When he listened and obeyed, he earned a reward. When he calmed down during a tantrum, he earned a reward. I dealt out a lot more hugs than threats, and it seemed to work for him. It also worked for me. I’d become the parent I always wanted to be. It helped me through my guilt and regret.

  Over the past few months Austin grew into a happier kid, and I got to be a part of it. For the first time in a long time I made a difference in a life, and it felt good.

  My last morsel of closure happened when Janyne Wilson contacted me out of the blue to express her condolences for my loss. She never outright apologized for what she’d done to my family, but her guilt fell between the lines. The domino effect of Denny’s infidelity and my reaction had led to this conclusion. I blamed her for her part in my family’s murder, but I also blamed myself. It was a complicated emotion I couldn’t pinpoint.

  While Juliet’s legs swung back and forth wildly, another mother sat down next to me, hugging her newborn to her chest as she released her other two children off to the playground. Without being obvious, I looked her up and down. Something about her seemed familiar behind her oversized sunglasses. I recognized her from somewhere. Her brown poker-straight hair was pulled up in a neat ponytail, and her full lips were colored with a muted shimmery lipstick.

  While I was racking my brain about who she was, her husband—I could tell from their matching wedding bands—sat down next to her. One close look and I instantly knew who he was. My neighbor back on Oleander Way before I sold it at a loss—taking the first and only offer I’d gotten for the home now dubbed “the Triple Murder House.”

  “Trent and Shayla Kensington?” I asked. I couldn’t believe I remembered their names after so long, but odd things tended to tunnel into my memory bank.

  The woman looked up from her baby. “Yeah? You know me?”

  “It’s Ellie Harper. I used to live across from you on Oleander Way.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Shayla chirped. She instantly exchanged her grin of recognition for a sympathetic “I’m so sorry about what happened with your family.”

  “Yeah, well, it was hell trying to sell the house,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Hope I didn’t bring down everyone else’s real estate values.”

  The couple grinned stiffly, unsure how to respond. Most people had no idea how to navigate the waters of pity. “I feel bad I didn’t get to know you better when you were living there. Did you move far away?”

  “Not too far. I’m actually fostering four kids right now, and their dad lives nearby, so I wanted to stay close by for now.”

  “Four kids? Sounds like you’re pretty busy … or losing your mind,” Shayla said, smiling sincerely.

  “Sanity is overrated. Kids are worth the sacrifice.” And I meant it.

  June had thought that I needed to be freed from these chains of marriage and children. But they had never been chains to me. They were a choice. They had given me purpose, joy, pain, suffering, sleeplessness, endurance, and strength. What is pleasure if we’ve never felt anguish? What is courage if we’ve never been tested?

  If only June had understood that. If only she’d realized sooner that sacrifice could teach us how to live fuller, that being true to oneself wasn’t about temporary happiness, but about enduring the hardships and finding strength within. Even I learned that lesson too late.

  The baby cooed, and as Shayla unwrapped him from his swaddle, a shock of black hair just like his daddy’s poked out.

  “Congratulations on your little one.”

  “Thanks. This little guy saved my life.” Shayla kissed him on his fist-sized head, then turned to her husband. I didn’t know their story, but whatever it was, it had a honey-sweet ending.

  My isolated little bench soon became a hub of activity when another woman approached, waving at Shayla.

  “Hey, Jo.” Shayla stood and greeted her with a hug. “I’m glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to handle coming back here.”

  “Baby steps, Shay. But we can’t stop living just because something bad happens, right?”

  No truer words … and from a stranger.

  “Jay keeps telling me to face my fears, so here I am,” Jo added. “All I know is that one stupid secret from ten years ago almost cost me my daughter. No more skeletons.”

  All of us carried our own secrets, buried our lies, and hid our ugly pasts. But we also grew more beautiful from it—overcoming pain, starting anew, and venturing out past our discomf
ort to challenge ourselves. Fire could burn us or temper us: the choice was ours. Some stumbled through their pain and crumbled like ash. Others walked through the flames stronger, courageous, with renewed empathy. I chose to live. It was the only life I had and I wanted to make the most of it. Clearly the two other moms chatting next to me had made the same decision.

  We each shared the labor pains of life, but we birthed something new: hope for a better tomorrow. And tomorrow looked pretty damn good.

  The Girl Who Got Kidnapped

  By Talia C.

  While Arabelle Merrigan didn’t actually write this story, my real-life seven-year-old daughter, Talia, did. Much like her thriller-writer mother, my firstborn has a passion for crafting mysteries of her own. I hope you enjoy this short story that she’s written for your enjoyment, depicting what she thinks actually happened to Amelia Trubeau …

  Once a little girl did not want to listen to her parents. She’d rather go to a family who always listened to her, so one day she was at the park wondering what family she could run away with. But she did not hear a small creeping of a man, and she got kidnapped by the man!

  Soon she fell asleep right in his arms. She thought that man was a nice man, but he was not, and the man put her in his home and got ready to kill her. So when she woke up, she acted nice because she still thought he was nice. And then she noticed that he was a mean man, so she acted even nicer so that he wouldn’t hurt her.

  The next morning after he woke up she asked, “What’s for dinner?”

  The man went out to catch some worms for dinner. The little girl knew something was wrong but she ate the worms anyways. Then she wanted dessert, and the man went out to find some dead birds, and again the little girl knew this was strange. But she still ate the dead birds to make him happy.

  Then the man had a brilliant idea. When the little girl fell asleep, he was going to put her on the stove and put some vegetable and fruit on her—since he knew how healthy fruits and veggies were—and he would cook her for a feast for Thanksgiving.