Pretty Girls: A Novel

by Karin Slaughter

  Rick asked, “Who is buried in an Argentine cemetery under the name Maria Maggi?”

  “Eva Perón. Give me something harder.”

  Rick shuffled through the cards again. “Where is the tallest mountain on earth?”

  Lydia put her hand over her eyes so she could concentrate. “You said tallest, not highest elevation, so it can’t be Everest.” She made some thinking noises that caused the dogs to stir. The cat started making biscuits on her stomach. She could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.

  Finally, Rick said, “Think ukulele.”

  She peeked through her fingers. “Hawaii?”

  “Mauna Kea.”

  “Did you know the answer?”

  “I’m gonna say yes because you have no way of knowing.”

  She reached up and pretended to smack his cheek.

  He bit at her hand. “Tell me what your sister’s like.”

  Lydia had already told him about surprising Claire at the cemetery that afternoon, though she’d left out the unseemly bit about squatting over Paul’s grave. “She’s exactly how I thought she would be.”

  “You can’t just say she’s a Mother and leave it at that.”

  “Why not?” The words came out sharper than Lydia intended. The cat sensed her tension and moved to the arm of the couch. “She’s still thin and beautiful. Obviously she works out all the time. Her outfit cost more than my first car. I bet she has her manicurist on speed dial.”

  Rick stared down at her. “That’s all there is to her? A gym membership and designer clothes?”

  “Of course not.” Lydia bristled, because Claire was still her sister. “She’s complicated. People look at her, and they see how beautiful she is, but they don’t realize that underneath she’s smart and funny and …” Her voice trailed off.

  Was Claire still smart and funny? After Julia disappeared and Helen checked out, Lydia had taken over the mothering responsibilities. She was the one who made sure Claire got to school on time, had lunch money and clean clothes. She was the one Claire had always confided in. They were best friends until Paul had forced them apart.

  She told Rick, “She’s quiet. She hates confrontation. She’ll walk halfway around the world to avoid an argument.”

  “So, she’s adopted?”

  Lydia slapped his arm. “Trust me, she was very sneaky. It might look like she was agreeing with you, but then she’d run off and do whatever the hell she wanted.” Lydia waited for another comment, but Rick held his tongue. She said, “Before the rift, I used to think that I was the only person in the world who really understood her.”

  “And now?”

  Lydia tried to remember exactly what Claire had told her in the cemetery. “She said I don’t know a damn thing about her. And she’s right. I don’t know Claire with Paul.”

  “You think she’s changed that much?”

  “Who knows?” Lydia said. “She was thirteen when Julia went missing. We all dealt with it in our own way. You know what I did, and what happened to my mom and dad. Claire’s response was to make herself invisible. She just agreed with everybody— at least on the surface. She never caused any problems. She made solid grades in school. She was co-captain of the cheerleading team. She tagged along with all the popular girls.”

  “That doesn’t sound invisible to me.”

  “I’m saying it wrong, then.” Lydia searched for a better way to explain. “She was always holding herself back. She was co-captain, not captain. She could’ve dated the quarterback, but she dated his brother instead. She could’ve been top in her class, but she’d purposefully turn in a paper late or miss an assignment so she’d fall closer to the middle. She would know about Mauna Kea, but she would say Everest because winning would bring too much attention.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia said, not because she didn’t know, but because she didn’t know a way to explain it that made sense. No one understood striving for second place. It was un-American. “She just wanted peace, I guess. Being a teenager is so hard. Julia and I had two great parents growing up. All Claire had was turmoil.”

  Rick asked, “So, what did she see in Paul? He wasn’t exactly in the margins. His obituary made him out to be a pretty successful guy.”

  Lydia had seen the photo in Paul’s obit. Claire had somehow managed to put pearls on the proverbial pig. “He wasn’t that way when she met him. He was an obnoxious grad student in thick glasses. He wore black socks with sandals. He laughed through his nose. He was really, really smart, maybe even a genius, but he was maybe a five and Claire’s always been a solid ten.”

  Lydia remembered the first time she’d met Paul Scott. Her only thought was that Claire could do so much better. But the fact was that Claire had never wanted to do better.

  Lydia said, “She always flirted with the good-looking, popular guys, but she went home with the geeky ones who practically slobbered with gratitude. I think they made her feel safe.”

  “What’s wrong with feeling safe?”

  “Because the way Paul made her feel safe was by pushing everybody else out of the way. He was her savior. He made her think that he was all she needed. She stopped talking to her friends. She stopped calling me as much. She didn’t go home anymore to visit Mom and Dad. He isolated her.”

  “Sounds like a classic abuser.”

  “As far as I know, he never hit her or even raised his voice at her. He just kept her.”

  “Like a bird in a gilded cage?”

  “Sort of,” Lydia said, because it was more than that. “He was obsessed with her. He’d look at her through the window when she was in class. He’d leave notes on her car. She’d come home and there would be a rose on her doorstep.”

  “That’s not romantic?”

  “Not if you do it every single day.”

  Rick didn’t have a response to that.

  “When they were out in public, he was always touching her— stroking her hair, holding her hand, kissing her cheek. It wasn’t sweet. It was creepy.”

  “Well,” Rick put on his diplomatic tone, “maybe she liked the attention. I mean, she married him and stayed married to him for almost twenty years.”

  “It’s more like she gave in.”

  “To …?”

  “The wrong type of guy.”

  “Which is …?”

  “Someone she could never be passionate about or lose sleep over or worry about running around. He was safe because she would never really give all of herself to him.”

  “I dunno, babe. Twenty years is a long time to put up with somebody you don’t like.”

  Lydia thought about how devastated Claire had looked at the cemetery. She certainly seemed to be grieving. Then again, Claire was always really good at behaving exactly the way people expected her to behave—not out of duplicity, but out of self-preservation.

  She said, “Back when I was thin and beautiful, guys like Paul were always hanging around. I made fun of them. I teased them. I used them, and they let me use them because being around me meant that they weren’t losers.”

  “Damn, babe. That’s harsh.”

  “It’s the truth. I’m sorry to be blunt about it, but girls don’t like guys who are doormats. Especially pretty girls, because there’s no novelty to it. Guys are hitting on them all of the time. They can’t walk down the street or order a coffee or stand on a corner without some idiot making a comment about how attractive they are. And the women smile because it’s easier than telling them to go fuck themselves. And less dangerous, because if a man rejects a woman, she goes home and cries for a few days. If a woman rejects a man, he can rape and kill her.”

  “I hope you’re not giving Dee this excellent dating advice.”

  “She’ll learn it on her own soon enough.” Lydia could still remember what it felt like back when she was fronting the band. Men had fought for the privilege of accommodating her. She never had to open a door for herself. She never had to buy a drink or a bump or a baggie. She said
she wanted something and it was placed in front of her before she could finish the sentence.

  She told Rick, “The world stops for you when you’re pretty. That’s why women spend billions on crap for their faces. Their whole life, they’re the center of attention. People want to be around them just because they’re attractive. Their jokes are funnier. Their lives are better. And then suddenly, they get bags under their eyes or they put on a little weight and no one cares about them anymore. They cease to exist.”

  “You’re using a mighty broad brush to paint a whole bunch of people.”

  “Back in high school, did you ever see a guy get shoved into a locker? Or watch someone slap a lunch tray out of his hand?”

  Rick said nothing, probably because he had been the one terrorizing the poor kid.

  “Imagine if that guy dated the homecoming queen. That’s what it was like when Paul started dating Claire. You could totally see what he was getting out of it, but what was in it for her?”

  Rick stared at the muted television as he thought it over. “I guess I see your point, but there’s more to people than how they look.”

  “But you only get to know somebody because you like what you see.”

  He smiled down at her. “I like what I see.”

  Lydia wondered how many chins she had from lying on her back and whether or not her roots showed in the glow of the television. “What on earth could you possibly see?”

  “The woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” Rick put his hand on her stomach. “This belly you’re always complaining about? This is where Dee spent the first nine months of her life.” He pressed his palm to her chest. “This heart is the kindest, gentlest heart I’ve ever known.” He let his fingers trace up toward her neck. “And this is where your beautiful voice is made.” He lightened the pressure as he touched her lips. “These are the softest lips I’ve ever kissed.” He touched her eyelids. “These eyes see straight through my bullshit.” He stroked back her hair. “This head is full of thoughts that surprise me and enlighten me and make me laugh.”

  Lydia guided his hand back to her breasts. “What about these?”

  “Hours of pleasure.”

  “Kiss me before I say something stupid.”

  He leaned down and kissed her mouth. She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. Dee was spending the night at Bella’s. Tomorrow was Sunday. They could sleep in. Maybe have a second go round.

  Her cell phone chirped in the other room.

  Rick knew better than to ask her to ignore the phone when Dee was away.

  She told him, “Keep going without me. I’ll catch up.”

  Lydia picked her way past the dogs and a pile of laundry as she made her way into the kitchen. Her purse was in a chair. She dug around in the bag for several seconds before spotting her phone on the counter. There was a new text.

  “She all right?” Rick was standing in the doorway.

  “She probably forgot her math book again.” Lydia swiped her thumb across the screen. There was a text from a blocked number. The message listed an unfamiliar address in Dunwoody.

  Rick asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Lydia stared at the address, wondering if the text was sent by mistake. She ran a small business. She didn’t have the luxury of clocking out. The voicemail at work gave her cell phone number. The work number was on the side of her van alongside a photo of a giant yellow Lab that reminded her of the dog her father had rescued after Julia was gone.

  “Liddie?” Rick said. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Claire,” Lydia said, because she felt it with every ounce of her being. “My sister needs me.”

  SEVEN

  Claire sat in her office because she couldn’t stand being in Paul’s anymore. Her desk was an antique Chippendale secretary that she’d had painted a soft eggshell white. The walls were pale gray. The rug on the floor was patterned with yellow roses. The overstuffed chair and ottoman were covered in a muted lilac velvet. A simple chandelier hung overhead, but Claire had replaced the clear crystals with amethysts that spotted the wall in a purple prism when the sun hit it just right.

  Paul never came into her space. He only stood at the doorway, afraid that his penis would fall off if he touched anything pastel.

  She looked down at the note Adam Quinn had left on the car.

  I really need those files. Please don’t make me do this the hard way. AQ

  Claire had stared at the words so long that she could see them when her eyes were closed.

  The hard way.

  That was certainly a threat, which was surprising because Adam had no reason to threaten her. What exactly was the hard way? Was he going to send some goons around to rough her up? Was there some sort of sexual innuendo intended? Her dalliances with Adam had been a little rough sometimes, but that was mostly because of the illicit nature of their affair. There had been no romantic hotel rooms, just quickies up against the wall at a Christmas party, a second time at a golf tournament, and once in the bathroom inside the Quinn + Scott offices. Honestly, their clandestine phone calls and secret texts had been more titillating than the actual acts.

  Still, Claire couldn’t help wondering which files Adam meant—work files or porn files? Because Adam and Paul had shared everything, from a dorm room in college to the same insurance agent. And Claire supposed she belonged on that list of shared items, but who the hell knew whether Paul had figured that out?

  Then again, what exactly had Claire figured out?

  She had looked at the movies again—all of them this time. Claire had rigged up Paul’s laptop in the garage so she wouldn’t have to sit in his office. Halfway through the first series of movies, she’d found herself somewhat anesthetized to the violence. Habituation, Paul would’ve explained, but fuck Paul and his stupid explanations.

  With her new-found distance, Claire was able to see that each movie series told the same linear story. At first, the chained girls were fully clothed. Subsequent installments revealed the masked man slowly cutting or slicing away their clothing to reveal leather bustiers and crotchless panties that they had obviously been forced to wear. Sometimes, their heads were covered in a black hood made of a light fabric that showed their desperate inhalations as they gasped for breath. As the story progressed, the violence ramped up. There was beating, then whipping, then cutting, then burning them with a branding iron, then the cattle prod.

  The girls were unmasked toward the end. The first woman’s face was exposed for two of the movies before she was butchered. The girl who looked like Anna Kilpatrick was hooded until the very last movie on Paul’s secret hard drive.

  Claire had closely studied the girl’s face. There was no way of telling whether or not she was looking at Anna Kilpatrick. Claire had even pulled up a photo from the Kilpatrick family’s Facebook page. She had positioned them side by side and still been unsure.

  Then she had clicked the PLAY button and watched the last movie all the way through. Claire had the sound on at first, but she couldn’t take the screaming. The man entered wearing the same unnerving rubber mask. He had the machete, but he didn’t use it to kill the girl. He used it to rape her.

  Claire had nearly been sick again. She’d had to take a walk down the driveway and up again just to get air back into her lungs.

  Was it real?

  Captain Mayhew had claimed there was a wire running down the girl’s side that controlled the release of fake blood. Claire had found a magnifying glass in one of Paul’s drawers. All that she could see at the girl’s side were pieces of flayed skin sticking out like broken glass. There was certainly no wire on the floor, and surely if there was an operator standing off-camera with a control unit, the wire would have to be connected somehow.

  Next, Claire had searched the Internet for information on squibs, but as far as she could tell, all of them were remotely controlled. She had even done a general search for snuff porn movies, but Claire had been terrified to click on any of the links. The descriptions were too
unsettling: live beheadings, cannibalism, necrophilia, something called “death rape.” She’d tried Wikipedia, but gathered that most recorded murders were frenetic and amateurish, not carefully framed and following a set progression.

  So, did that support Mayhew’s assertion that the movies were fake? Or did it mean that Paul had found the best snuff porn the same way he found the best golf clubs or the best leather for his custom-made office chair?

  Claire hadn’t been able to take any more. She had left the garage. She had gone inside the house. She had taken two Valium. She had held her head under the kitchen faucet until the cold water had numbed her skin.

  If only she could numb her brain. Despite the pills, her mind would not stop racing with conspiracies. Were these awful movies the files that Adam wanted? Was he in cahoots with mustachioed Captain Mayhew? Was that why Adam was at the police station? Is that why Mayhew had been so strange at the end of their meeting, going out of his way to confirm that there were no more copies of the movies when he’d just told Claire that they weren’t real and she shouldn’t worry about them?

  What if they really were fake, and the girl wasn’t Anna Kilpatrick, but an actress, and Adam was at the police station tonight because he had a key to the house and Mayhew knew about the Law of Truly Large Numbers because he’d seen a special on the Discovery Channel and Claire was some kind of paranoid housewife with nothing better to do than smear the reputation of the man who had spent his every waking moment trying to please her?

  Claire looked at the orange prescription bottle on her desk. Percocet. The top was off because she’d already taken one. Paul’s name was on the label. The directions said: TAKE AS NEEDED FOR PAIN. Claire was certainly in pain. She used the tip of her finger to topple over the bottle. Yellow pills spilled onto her desktop. She placed another Percocet on her tongue and washed it down with a sip of wine.

  Suicides ran in families. She had learned this during a class on Hemingway taught by an ancient professor who seemed himself to have one foot in the grave. Ernest had used a shotgun. His father had done the same. There was a sister and brother, a granddaughter, maybe others whom Claire could not recall but she knew that they’d all died by their own hands.