Lydia’s phone rang. Claire didn’t slow as she answered, “What?”
Paul said, “Take a left. Go to the Hyatt Regency.”
Claire kept the line open. She took the left. She saw the Hyatt in the distance. Her knees hurt. Her legs were screaming. She was used to running on the treadmill, not up and down hills and over cracks in the concrete. Sweat dripped from her scalp and down her back. The waist of her jeans was starting to chafe. She gripped the phone in her hand as she ran. How was Paul tracking her? Was Mayhew tag-teaming Harvey? Were they trying to funnel her into a location where they could grab her?
The bellhop outside the Hyatt opened the door when he saw Claire round the drive. If he thought it was odd that a grown woman dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt had gone for a run at six in the morning, he didn’t say.
Inside the building, Claire slowed her pace. She followed the signs to the women’s restroom. She pushed open the door. She checked the stalls to make sure they were empty.
Claire locked the last stall door. She sat down on the toilet. She was panting for breaths when she said, “Let me speak to Lydia.”
“I can let you hear her scream.”
Claire put her hand to her mouth. What had he done? Twelve hours. He could have Lydia in Key West or New Orleans or Richmond by now. He could be torturing her and beating her and—
Claire couldn’t let herself think of the “and.”
Paul asked, “Still there?”
She fought back the overwhelming agony that came from knowing exactly what her husband was capable of. “You said you weren’t going to hurt her.”
“You said you were going to call me back.”
“I will drive over that fucking USB drive with a Mack truck.”
Paul had to know that Claire would do it. She had never been averse to burning bridges she was still trying to cross.
He asked, “Where is it?”
Claire tried to think of an area she was familiar with but Paul was not. “It’s at the Wells Fargo on Central Avenue.”
“What?” He sounded concerned. “That’s a very dangerous area, Claire.”
“Are you really worrying about my safety?”
“You need to be careful,” he warned. “Where is the bank exactly?”
“Near the main post office.” Claire had driven to the post office several times to drop off mailers for the Humane Society. “I’ll go get it right now. We can meet somewhere and—”
“It’s almost six in the morning. The bank won’t be open until nine.”
Claire waited.
“You can’t leave now. You’ll get carjacked if you park the Tesla on Central for that long.” She could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Stay in the hotel. At eight thirty, drive down to Hapeville. That should get you there right when the bank is opening.”
“Okay.”
“Traffic will be bad coming back. Get on seventy-five and wait to hear from me.”
Claire didn’t ask how he would know where she was because she was beginning to think Paul knew everything. “Nolan told me what you did.”
“Is that right?”
Claire didn’t elaborate, but they both knew Nolan had only seen what Paul wanted him to see. “He said you wanted to be in witness protection.”
“That wasn’t going to happen.”
“He said you wanted me to watch you die.”
Paul was quiet for a moment. “It had to seem real. I was going to come back for you. You know that.”
Claire didn’t respond.
Paul said, “I’m going to take care of this. You know I always do.”
Claire took a stuttered breath. She couldn’t stand the soft, reassuring tone of his voice. There was still an infinitesimal part of her that wanted her husband to somehow make it all better.
But Fred Nolan was right. The Paul she had known was dead. This stranger on the other end of the phone was an imposter. Or maybe he was the real Paul Scott, and her husband, her friend, her lover, had been the lie. It was only when he put on that black leather mask that the real Paul showed his face.
She said, “I want to speak to my sister.”
“In a minute,” he promised. “The battery on your phone is probably getting low. Did you bring the charger from the house?”
Claire checked the screen. “It’s at thirty percent.”
Paul said, “Go buy a charger. And you need to juice up the Tesla. There’s a charging station at Peachtree Center. I downloaded the app for you so just—”
“Let me talk to Lydia.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Put my sister on the Goddamn phone.”
There was a rustling sound, then the tinny echo of a speakerphone.
“Wake up.” Paul said. “Your sister wants to talk to you.”
Claire gritted her teeth. He sounded like he was speaking to a child. “Lydia?” she tried. “Lydia?”
Lydia didn’t answer.
“Please say something, Liddie. Please.”
“Claire.” Her voice was so flat, so lifeless, that Claire felt like a hand had reached inside her chest and ripped out her heart.
“Liddie,” Claire said, “please, just hold on. I’m doing everything I can.”
Lydia mumbled, “It’s too late.”
“It’s not too late. I’m going to give Paul the USB drive, and he’s going to let you go.” Claire was lying. They all knew that she was lying. She started crying so hard that she had to brace herself against the wall. “Hold on a little while longer. I’m not going to abandon you. I promised you—never again.”
“I forgive you, Claire.”
“Don’t say that now.” Claire bent at the waist. Tears fell onto the floor. “Tell me when you see me, okay? Tell me when this is over.”
“I forgive you for everything.”
“Pepper, please. I’m going to make this right. I’m going to make everything all right.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lydia told her. “I’m already dead.”
EIGHTEEN
Paul was smiling when he put the phone down on the table beside the black hood. Lydia didn’t look at the phone, which she could not reach, but at the soaked black hood next to it, which she knew would eventually be wrapped around her head again. The spray bottle was empty for the third time. Paul was drinking filtered water so he could fill it back up again.
When he was ready, he would make her watch him fill up the bottle, then he would put the hood back over her head, then he would start spraying. Seconds before she passed out, he would shock her with the cattle prod or whip her with the leather belt or punch her or kick her until she gasped for breath.
And then he would start the process all over again.
He said, “She sounds good, right? Claire?”
Lydia looked away from the hood. There was a computer on a workbench like the one Paul had in his garage. Metal storage shelves. Old computers. She had cataloged everything in her head because she had been here almost thirteen hours—Paul updated her with the time every half-hour—and the only thing that was keeping her from going insane was reciting the inventory like a mantra while he tried to drown her in his piss.
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“I bet you want to know what’s on that USB drive, Lydia. I like to call it my ‘get out of jail free’ card.”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“Fred Nolan wants it. Mayhew. Johnny. Lots of other people want it, too. What a surprise. Paul Scott has something that everybody else wants.” He paused. “What do you want from me, Liddie?”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“Do you want some Percocet?”
The question pulled her out of her stupor. She could almost taste the bitter pill in her mouth.
He shook the prescription bottle i
n front of her face. “I found it in your purse. I guess you stole it from Claire.” He sat down in the chair across from her. He rested the bottle on his knee. “You were always stealing from her.”
Lydia stared down at the bottle. This would be it. She had told Claire that she was already dead, but there was still an ounce of life left inside of her. If she gave in to her desire, if she took the Percocet, that would truly be the end.
“This is interesting.” Paul crossed his arms. “I’ve listened to you beg and plead and squeal like a stuck pig, and this is the line you’re drawing? No Percocet?”
Lydia tried to summon the euphoria the pills would bring. She’d read somewhere that if you thought about a food long enough, you wouldn’t want it anymore. You would trick yourself into thinking you’d already eaten it. This had never worked with donuts or hamburgers or French fries or— Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“I could force the pills down your throat, but what would be the fun in that?” He stretched her legs wider apart with his knees. “I could put them somewhere else. Somewhere you could more easily absorb them into your system.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “What would that be like, I wonder? Would it be worth fucking you if I could use my cock to shove all of these pills up your fat ass?”
Lydia’s mind started to go blank. This was how it happened. Paul would push her and she would get too scared or too broken and she would just shut down.
His hand went to her thigh. His fingers drilled toward the bone. “Don’t you want the pain to go away?”
Lydia was too exhausted to cry out. She wanted him to get it over with—the punch, the jab, the slap, the electric cattle prod, the branding iron, the machete. She had seen what the masked man had done with the tools of his trade. She had seen what Paul’s father had done to Julia. She had experienced firsthand the type of torture Paul was capable of and she was certain that his role in the movies had been far from passive.
He was enjoying this. No matter what derogatory things he’d said, Paul was aroused by Lydia’s pain. She could feel the hard shaft of his prick when he leaned in close to gorge himself on her terror.
Lydia just prayed that she would be dead by the time he finally got around to raping her.
“New strategy.” Paul snatched the pill bottle off his leg. He placed it on the rolling table where he was keeping his tools. “I think you’re going to like this.”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
He stood in front of the metal shelves beside the computer. Her anxiety ramped back up, not because he was going to do something terrible and new but because he was going to mess up the order of the items on the shelves.
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
They had to stay that way—in that exact order. No one could touch them.
Paul dragged over a step stool.
Lydia nearly cried with relief. They were safe. He was reaching up to the top shelf, past the equipment, past the floppy disks. He pulled down a stack of notebooks. He showed them to Lydia. Her relief dissipated.
Her father’s notebooks.
Paul said, “Your parents are quite the prolific letter-writers.” He sat down across from Lydia again. The notebooks were in his lap. A stack of letters she hadn’t noticed before were on top. He held up an envelope for Lydia to see.
Helen’s handwriting—precise and neat and so sorrowfully familiar.
“Poor, lonely Lydia. Your mother wrote you tons of letters over the years. Did you know that?” He shook his head. “Of course you didn’t know that. I told Helen I tried to get them to you, but you were homeless and living on the streets or you were in rehab but you checked yourself out before I could get to you.” He tossed the letters on the floor. “I actually felt bad every time Helen asked me if I’d heard back from you, because of course I had to tell her that you were still a fat, worthless junkie sucking cock for Oxy.”
His words had the opposite effect. Helen had written to her. There were dozens of letters in the pile. Her mother still cared. She hadn’t given up.
“Helen would’ve been a great grandmother to Dee.”
Dee. Lydia couldn’t even summon her face. She had lost all images of her daughter the second time Paul had electrocuted her with the cattle prod.
“I wonder if she’ll check out when Dee goes missing the same way she did after Julia was gone.” He looked up. “You wouldn’t remember this, but Claire was all alone after Julia.”
Lydia remembered it. She had been there.
“Every night, poor little Claire was all by herself in that big house on Boulevard listening to your worthless-piece-of-shit mother cry herself to sleep. No one cared if Claire cried herself to sleep, did they? You were too busy stuffing every hole in your body. That’s why she fell so hard for me, Liddie. Claire fell for me because none of you were there to keep her from falling.”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“These.” Paul held up one of her father’s notebooks. “Your dad didn’t care about Claire either. All of his letters were to Julia. Claire read most of them, at least the ones he wrote before she went to college. Think about how that made her feel. Her mother was a borderline alcoholic who couldn’t get out of bed. Her father spent hours writing to his dead daughter when his living daughter was standing right in front of him.”
Lydia shook her head. It hadn’t been like that—at least not entirely. Helen had eventually pulled herself out of her depression. Sam had tried so hard with Claire. He had taken her shopping and to see movies and to visit museums.
“No wonder she didn’t want to go see him after he had the stroke.” Paul thumbed through the pages. “I made her go. I told her that she would regret it if she didn’t. And she listened to me, because she always listens to me. But the funny thing is, I really liked your dad. He reminded me of my own father.”
Lydia felt her jaw ratchet down so she wouldn’t scream at him.
“You never know with parents, do you? They can be selfish bastards. For instance, I thought Dad and I were close, but he took Julia without me.” Paul looked up from the notebooks. He obviously liked what he saw in Lydia’s surprised expression. “I gotta say, I was upset about that. I got home from Spring Break and there your big sister was in the barn. He hadn’t left much of her for me to enjoy.”
Lydia closed her eyes. Apple Macintosh. What came next? She couldn’t look at the shelves. She had to think of it on her own. Apple Macintosh.
He said, “Sam was smart. I mean, a lot smarter than any of us gave him credit for. He would’ve never found Julia’s body, I’m the only person left alive who knows where she is, but your father was on to me. He knew about my dad. He knew that I was somehow involved. Did you know that?”
Lydia had become anesthetized to surprises.
“Sam asked me over to his apartment. He thought he was going to trick me, but I did some reconnaissance before we were supposed to meet.” He held up her father’s notebooks like a trophy. “My advice: If you’re trying to trick somebody, don’t leave your playbook lying around.”
Lydia gripped the arms of the chair. “Shut the fuck up.”
Paul smiled. “There’s my little fighter.”
“What did you do to my father?”
“I think you know what I did.” Paul shuffled through the stack of notebooks. He checked the front pages. He was looking for something. “I arrived at his apartment at the requested hour. I poured us some drinks so we could talk like men. Your father liked doing that, didn’t he? Making sure we knew who the men were and who were the boys.”
Lydia could hear her father’s voice in his words.
“Sam drank his vodka. He called himself a social drinker, but we know he drank himself to sleep at night, don’t we? Just like Helen did while poor Claire was sitting alon
e in her room wondering why no one in her family noticed that she was still alive.”
Lydia swallowed. She tasted the sour burn of his piss.
“I guess the vodka masked the sleeping pills I ground up in his drink.”
Lydia wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to block him out. But she couldn’t.
“I watched his head dip.” Paul imitated her father falling into a stupor. “I tied him up with some sheets that I brought with me. They were torn into long strips. His hands were so limp when I tied him up that I was worried he’d died before the fun could start.”
Lydia felt every sense lock onto him.
Paul leaned back in the chair with his legs spread wide. Lydia forced herself not to look down because she knew exactly what he wanted her to see. “If you use strips of bed sheets to tie somebody up, then the marks don’t show when the coroner gets them. If you’re careful, I mean, because of course you have to fold the sheets properly, which I did because I had time with your father. I want you to hear that, Liddie: I had lots and lots of time with your father.”
Lydia’s mind had gone haywire. It was too much. She couldn’t take in what he was saying.
“When Sam woke up, we watched the tape together. You know the tape I’m talking about? The tape with Julia?” Paul rubbed the sides of his face. His beard was growing in. “I wanted us to watch all of the tapes together, but I was worried the neighbors would hear his screams.” Paul added, “Not that Sam didn’t scream a lot at night anyway, but still.”
Lydia listened to the steady in and out of her own breathing. She rearranged his words in her head until they fell into digestible sentences. Paul had drugged her father. He had made her father watch his oldest daughter being brutally murdered.
“At the end, I debated whether or not to tell Sam where Dad and I had dumped Julia’s body. What’s the harm, right? We both knew he was going to die.” Paul shrugged. “Maybe I should’ve told him. It’s one of those questions you still ask yourself years later. I mean, Sam was so tortured, right? All he wanted to know was where she was, and I knew, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”
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