Lydia knew that she should rage against him. She should try to kill him. But she couldn’t move. Her lungs were wet with urine. Her stomach was filled. Her body was seized by pain. There were welts on her arms where he’d electrocuted her. The cut on her forehead had been opened. Her split lip had been torn in two. Her ribs were so bruised that she felt like the bones had turned into knives.
He said, “I used Nembutal. You know what that is, right? They use it to put animals out of their misery. And he was miserable, especially after he watched the tape.” Paul had found the notebook he was looking for. “Here you go.” He held up the page so Lydia could see. The bottom half was torn away. “Look familiar?”
Her father’s suicide note had been written on a torn off-sheet of notebook paper. Lydia could still see his shaky words in her head:
To all of my beautiful girls—I love you with every piece of my heart. Daddy
Paul said, “I think I chose a good line. Don’t you?” He put the notebook back in his lap. “I chose it for Claire, really, because I thought that the line was particularly true about her. All his beautiful girls. You were never really beautiful, Lydia. And Julia—I told you I still visit her sometimes. She’s no longer beautiful. It’s been sad watching her decay over the years. The last time I checked in on her, she was just rotten bones with long strands of dirty blonde hair and those stupid bracelets she used to wear on her wrist. You remember those?”
Bangles. Julia had worn bangles on her left wrist and a big, black bow in her hair and she’d stolen Lydia’s saddle oxfords to complete the outfit because she’d said they looked better on her anyway.
Suddenly, Lydia had too much saliva in her mouth. She tried to swallow. Her throat spasmed. She coughed.
“Don’t you want to know where Julia is?” Paul asked. “It’s really the one thing that broke you all apart. Not her disappearance, not her probable death, but the never knowing. Where is Julia? Where is my sister? Where is my daughter? The not-knowing completely destroyed every single one of you. Even Grandma Ginny, though the old bitch likes to act like the past is past.”
Lydia felt herself start to slip back into that in-between space. There was no use listening to him anymore. She already knew everything she needed to know. Dee and Rick loved her. Helen had not given up. Lydia had forgiven Claire. Two days ago, she would’ve panicked if someone had told her that she had a finite amount of time to settle all of her affairs, but when she got down to it, her family was really the only thing that mattered.
“I visit Julia sometimes.” Paul was studying her face to gauge his words. “If you had a dying wish, wouldn’t it be to know where Julia is?”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
“I’m going to read you some selections from your father’s journals, and then I’m going to waterboard you again in …” He looked at his watch. “Twenty-two minutes. All right?”
Apple Macintosh, dot-matrix printer, five-inch floppy disks, duping machine, disk burner.
Paul rested the notebook in his lap on top of the others. He started reading aloud, “‘I remember the first time your mother and I walked you through the snow. We wrapped you up like a precious gift. The scarf was wound so many times around your head that all we could see was your little pink nose.’”
His voice. Paul had known her father. He had spent hours with him—even up to his last hours—and he knew how to read Sam’s words with the same soft cadence that her father had always used.
“‘We were taking you to see your Grandma Ginny. Your mother, of course, was not pleased with this particular errand.’”
“Yes,” Lydia said.
Paul looked up from the page. “Yes what?”
“Give me the Percocet.”
“Sure.” Paul dropped the notebooks on the floor. He unscrewed the top from the spray bottle. “But first you have to earn it.”
NINETEEN
Claire sat on the toilet with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She had cried herself out. There was nothing left inside of her. Even her heart labored to beat in her chest. The slow thumps were almost painful. Every time she felt the pulse, her brain silently said the word: Lydia.
Lydia.
Lydia.
Her sister had given up. Claire could hear it in Lydia’s voice, which had no tone except the tone of complete and utter surrender. What terrible thing had Paul done that made Lydia believe that she was already dead?
Thinking about the answer to that question would only drive Claire deeper into despair.
She rested her head against the cold wall. Her eyes closed. She was punch-drunk with exhaustion. The God’s honest truth was that Claire desperately wanted to give up, too. She felt the desire with every fiber of her being. Her mouth was dry. Her vision was blurred. There was a high-pitched tone ringing in both of her ears. Had she slept inside the interrogation room? Could she count being knocked out by Paul as resting?
All that Claire knew was that she had been awake for almost twenty-four hours. The last time she’d eaten was when Lydia made her egg bread yesterday morning. She had two and a half hours before she was supposed to go to the bank in Hapeville—for what? Adam had the USB drive. He was the one Claire should be talking to. The Quinn + Scott offices were ten blocks away. Adam would be there in a few hours for his presentation. Claire should be waiting in front of the office doors, not sitting on the toilet in the Hyatt. If her Hapeville lie had been designed to buy more time, then she’d bought herself another useless four or five hours.
She still didn’t know what she was going to do. Her mind was refusing to run around in the familiar circles. Mayhew. Nolan. The Congressman. The gun.
What the hell was she going to do with the gun? All the certainty from before had drained away. Claire could not rekindle the steely resolve she’d felt when she first held Lydia’s revolver. Could she really shoot Paul? A better question might be could she shoot him and actually hit him. She wasn’t Annie Oakley. She would have to be close enough to hit him, but not so close that Paul could take the gun away.
And she would have to throw it at his head because she didn’t have any fucking bullets.
The bathroom door opened. Instinctively, Claire pulled up her feet and rested her heels on the toilet bowl. She heard the light tread of soft-soled shoes on the porcelain floor tiles. Harvey? Claire assumed such a large man would have a more lumbering tread. A stall door was pushed open, then another, then another, until Claire’s locked door rattled.
Claire recognized the shoes. Brown Easy Spirit loafers for walking through the stacks. Light tan pants that wouldn’t show dust from old magazines and paperbacks.
“Mom.” Claire unlocked the door. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”
“I looped back around the building after I got rid of your tail.”
“You what?”
“I saw that man running after you. I went around the other side of the building and clapped my hands to get his attention and—” Helen was holding on to the door. Her face was flushed. She was breathless. “They let me cut through the main lobby. The guard at the side entrance told me you’d just left. You were running so fast I almost lost you, but then the bellman outside said you were here.”
Claire stared in open disbelief. Helen was wearing a colorful blue Chico’s blouse with a chunky necklace. She should be hosting a book signing, not running through the streets of downtown Atlanta drawing off a tail.
Helen asked, “Do you still want me to move your car?”
Claire shook her head, but only because she didn’t know what she wanted Helen to do.
“I know Paul was accused of stealing money.” Helen paused, as if she expected Claire to protest. “That Agent Nolan was at the house yesterday afternoon, and that police captain, Jacob Mayhew, dropped by almost as soon as he left.”
“He did it,” Claire said, and it felt good to tell her mother even the tiniest bit of truth. “Paul sto
le three million dollars from the company.”
Helen seemed appalled. Three million dollars was a hell of a lot of money to her mother. “You’ll pay it back. You’ll move in with me. You can get a job teaching art at the school.”
Claire laughed, because she made it sound so simple.
Helen pressed together her lips. She obviously wanted to know what was going on, but she only said, “Do you want me to leave you alone? Do you need my help? Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know,” Claire admitted, another slice of truth. “I have to leave for Hapeville in two hours.”
Helen didn’t ask why. She simply said, “All right. What else?”
“I need to charge the Tesla. I need to get an iPhone charger.”
“I have one in my purse.” Helen unzipped her purse, which was brown leather with flowers embroidered around the strap. She told Claire, “You look awful. When was the last time you had something to eat?”
Lydia had asked her that same thing two nights ago. Claire had let her sister take care of her and now she was Paul’s captive. His bargaining chip. His victim.
“Sweetheart?” Helen had the charger in her hand. “Let’s go to the lobby and get something to eat.”
Claire let her mother lead her out of the bathroom the same way she had led her out of the FBI interrogation room. Helen took her deep into the hotel lobby. There were several groupings of large couches and overstuffed chairs. Claire practically fell into the closest one.
Helen said, “Stay here. I’ll go to the cafe and get something.”
Claire leaned back her head. She had to get rid of Helen. The only reason Lydia was in trouble was because Claire had involved her in Paul’s madness. She would not lead her mother down that same path. She had to think of something that would get them all out of this. Paul would want to meet somewhere isolated. Claire should have an alternative space to suggest. Somewhere open with a lot of people around. A mall. Claire knew all of the high-end stores inside Phipps Plaza. She imagined herself walking through Saks with dresses folded over her arm. She would have to try them on because some of the brands were running smaller than usual, or maybe Claire was running larger since she’d stopped playing tennis four hours a day. She wanted to look at the new Prada bags, but the display was too close to the perfume counter and her allergies were acting up.
“Honey?”
Claire looked up. The light had changed. So had the scenery. Helen was sitting on the couch beside her. She had a paperback in her hand. She was using her thumb to mark her place.
She told Claire, “I let you sleep for an hour and a half.”
“What?” Claire sat up, panicked. She scanned the lobby. There were more people now. The front desk was fully staffed. Suitcases were being rolled across the carpet. She checked the faces. No Jacob Mayhew. No Harvey Falke.
“You said you had two hours.” Helen put the book in her purse. “I charged your iPhone. The Tesla is plugged in one street over on Peachtree Center Avenue. Your purse is right beside you. I put the key in the zippered pocket. There’s some clean underwear in there, too.” She indicated the coffee table. “The food is still warm. You should eat. It’ll make you feel better.”
Claire looked down at the table. Her mother had bought her a large cup of coffee and a chicken biscuit.
“Go ahead. You have time.”
Her mother was right. She needed to get something of caloric value in her system. The coffee she could handle. Claire wasn’t sure about the food. She took the plastic lid off the cup. Helen had poured in enough milk to turn the liquid white, just the way Claire liked it.
Helen opened a napkin and put it on Claire’s lap. She said, “You know that revolver takes .38 Special ammunition, right?”
Claire sipped the coffee. Her mother had been inside the Tesla. She would’ve seen the weapon in the door pocket.
“It’s in your purse. It didn’t seem safe to leave a gun in your car while it’s parked on the street. I couldn’t find a place downtown or I would’ve bought ammunition for you.”
Claire put down the cup. She unwrapped the biscuit to give her hands something to do. She expected the smell to turn her stomach, but she realized that she was hungry. She took a large bite.
Helen said, “Huckleberry called me. I know you know about the tape.”
Claire swallowed. Her throat still hurt from screaming in the back yard of the Fuller house. “You lied to me about Julia.”
“I protected you. There’s a difference.”
“I had a right to know.”
“You are my child. I am your mother.” Helen sounded resolute. “I won’t apologize for doing my job.”
Claire bit back a sharp comment about how refreshing it was to hear that Helen was back on the job.
Helen asked, “Did Lydia show you the tape?”
“No.” She wasn’t going to let her sister take the blame yet again. “I found it on the Internet. I showed it to her.” Lydia’s phone. Helen had seen the unfamiliar number on her caller ID. “I took her phone. Mine was stolen during the robbery, and I needed one, so I took hers.”
Helen didn’t press for a better explanation, likely because she had investigated countless thefts when the girls were growing up. She only asked, “Are you all right?”
“I feel better. Thank you.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder because she couldn’t bring herself to look her in the eye. Claire couldn’t tell Helen about Lydia, but she could tell her about Dee. Her mother was a grandmother. She had a beautiful, accomplished grandchild who was hopefully being hidden somewhere that Paul would never find her.
Which meant that, right now, Claire couldn’t let Helen find her, either.
Helen said, “Earlier, when Wynn and I were looking for you, I remembered something your father told me.” She gripped her purse in her lap. “He said that children always have different parents, even in the same family.”
Family. Helen had more than she knew about. Claire felt the weight of her own guilt pressing down on her chest.
Helen continued, “When Julia was little and it was just the three of us, I think I was a pretty damn good mother.” She laughed, because the memory obviously made her happy. “And then Pepper came along and she was such a handful, but I loved every frustrating, challenging minute of it because she was so opinionated and strong-willed, and she knocked against Julia all the time.”
Claire nodded. She could remember the screaming arguments between her older sisters. They were too much alike to get along for more than a few hours at a time.
“And then there was you.” Helen smiled sweetly. “You were so easy compared to your sisters. You were quiet and sweet-natured and your father and I used to sit up at night and talk about how different you were. ‘Are you sure they didn’t mix up the babies at the hospital?’ he would say. ‘Maybe we should go down to the county jail and see if our real child has been arrested for being a public nuisance?’”
Claire smiled, because this sounded just like something her father would say.
“You watched everything. You noticed everything.” Helen shook her head. “I would see you sitting in your highchair, and your eyes would follow my every move. You were so curious about the world, and so keyed into everybody else—the tempers and the passions and the overwhelming personalities—that I was afraid you’d get lost. That’s why I took you on our little outings. Do you remember?”
Claire had forgotten, but she remembered now. Her mother had taken her to art museums in Atlanta and to puppet shows and even participated in an ill-fated pottery class.
Just the two of them. No Pepper to ruin Claire’s perfectly formed clay bowl. No Julia to spoil the puppet show by commenting on the patriarchal structure of Punch and Judy.
Helen continued, “I was a really good mother to you for thirteen years, and then I was a really bad one for about five, and I feel like I’ve spent every day since then trying to find my way back to that place where you see me as a good mother again.”
So she asked, “What did you think of Paul?”
Helen twisted the ring on her finger. Paul had been wrong. Claire twisted her own ring because she had seen her mother do it so many times.
She said, “You won’t hurt my feelings. I want to know the truth.”
Helen didn’t hold back. “I told your father that Paul was like a hermit crab. They’re scavengers. They don’t have the ability to make their own shells, so they cast around until they find abandoned shells, and then they move in.”
Claire knew better than anyone that her mother was right. Paul had moved into her shell, the one that had been abandoned by her grief-stricken family.
She told Helen, “I’m supposed to drive to Hapeville in half an hour. To a bank up from the Dwarf House. It needs to seem like I’m there, but I have to be somewhere else.”
“What bank?”
“Wells Fargo.” Claire took another bite of biscuit. She could tell her mother was desperate for more information. “They’re tracking me. I can’t go to Hapeville, and I can’t let them know where I’m really going.”
“Then give me your phone and I’ll drive to Hapeville. I should probably take the Tesla. They might be tracking that, too.”
The phone. How could Claire have been so stupid? Paul had known she was in the FBI building. He had known her exact location on the street. He had told her to take a left toward the hotel. He was using the Find My iPhone app because he knew that Claire would not go anywhere without her only connection to Lydia.
She told her mother, “I need to be able to answer the phone if it rings. It has to be my voice.”
“Can’t you use call forwarding?” Helen jabbed her thumb toward the hotel gift shop. “They have a display for pre-paid phones. We can buy you one of those, or I can give you my phone.”
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