Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  The end of his marriage, the loss of his job, his reputation decimated. Selena had been away at school, watched from a distance somewhat. She’d almost experienced a kind of denial about it, blocked it out. Neither her mother nor father ever talked about it.

  “Pearl didn’t just want money. She burned my life to the ground.”

  She’s a destroyer, Cora had said.

  But was that the whole truth?

  “When did you last speak to her? Has she reached out to you for more?”

  “I haven’t spoken to her since I paid her,” he said. “Years ago now. I thought she got what she wanted—a big payday, my life destroyed.”

  Selena didn’t know what else to say. She was about to rise and leave when her father put a hand on her arm.

  “Whatever she wants now,” he said. “Don’t give it to her. It will never be enough. She’s dangerous. If she’s back, it’s because, for whatever reason, she has decided that she wants to hurt you. And she won’t stop until your whole life is in ashes.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Pearl

  It didn’t take Pearl and Gracie long to find the car Bridget had driven to the house. They’d set out in Pearl’s Toyota and found the vehicle about halfway down the isolated drive.

  Bridget must have pulled it off to the side, into a path that led through the trees, then approached the house on foot. That’s why Pearl hadn’t seen the car when she’d arrived. She hadn’t been looking, focused on whatever might be going on at the house.

  Pearl brought her car to a stop and climbed out, the night around her silent and cool, the drive beneath her boots soft. She was numb, head spinning. The other girl was practically catatonic again. Pearl wanted to slap her; her hand practically ached with the urge.

  Pop was dead. What did Pearl feel? Predictably, nothing. Just a siren in her head. A vague nausea. That sucking emptiness. She found herself thinking about Jason, who was probably still asleep. In the morning, he’d wake up, start looking for her. The girl she was with him. But she’d never see him again; she knew that. And Elizabeth, that self, was already fading. She felt a rush of anger toward Pop. He never wanted her to have a normal life and now he’d made sure of it.

  Pearl approached the slick late-model silver Mercedes, the key she’d lifted from Bridget’s body in her pocket. As she neared, the doors unlocked, headlights and interiors coming on. Chimes dinged softly. She slid into the spotless buttery leather interior and started the car; it hummed to life, the dash a glow of colored lights and gleaming screens.

  The GPS showed their location, just a blip off the main road. Pearl scrolled through the recent navigation history. Pop’s address was the only entry listed. Pearl deleted it. There were fewer than three thousand miles on the odometer—practically brand-new. She ran her hands across the dash, the center console. It was a sweet ride, an S-Class. 100K to start. Of course. Bridget had money, lots of it. Earned, inherited, hoarded. A Gucci tote sat in the well in front of the passenger seat. Pearl grabbed it; she’d go through it later.

  Pearl had a million questions.

  First, how had Bridget found Pop? That was the big question. He was so careful, always so sure that he could not be traced, followed, found. Obviously, there was a failure in his planning. The house was vulnerable.

  Next, who else knew that Bridget had come here? Would others follow when Bridget failed to return home? Police? A private detective, maybe?

  That seemed right. That Bridget had hired someone to help her. Someone who had been able to follow Pop’s trail from Phoenix to this house in the woods—over years and miles. Pop was sure that he was a ghost, that he was safe, that they were safe in this house. Where had he gone wrong?

  She sat a moment, wondering if there was a way she could keep the car. Probably not. Was it a lease? she wondered. If it was, it probably had a LoJack, which would allow the leasing company and thereby the police to find it when Bridget was reported missing.

  How long would that be? Was there a ticking clock?

  When Pearl knew Bridget, however briefly, the other woman had no family, a smattering of loose tie acquaintances, mainly connected to work. She was a lonely woman, with a prickly personality. An accountant, someone more interested in numbers than in people. A loner. Exactly Pop’s type. She’d opened to him like a flower. He lit her up with his attentions.

  She said I made her believe in love, he’d told Pearl proudly.

  If Bridget had held a grudge this long, gone to such lengths to find Pop, the chances were she hadn’t improved her social life much. She was probably lonelier and more disconnected than ever. Decisions like the one Bridget had made—to hunt and kill someone who had wronged her—were made in a vacuum, where there were no dissenting voices. No one who cared enough to lead her down another path.

  Pearl climbed out of the car, left it running, and walked back to hers—which had seemed like a perfectly fine car this morning and now, compared to the Mercedes, looked like a piece of junk. She knocked on the window and the girl lowered it. Her eyes were glassy. She was going to cry again. Or maybe that’s how she always looked.

  “How old are you?” she asked Gracie. “Can you drive?”

  The girl nodded. “I’m fifteen.”

  “Follow me back to the house.”

  Gracie slid into the driver’s seat, and Pearl climbed back into the Mercedes. She pulled out, Gracie following behind as they headed back to the house.

  For Pop, it was never just about the score, but about how well you played the game. He was like one of those vampires who tried not to drink human blood. He believed you could scam a person, take their money, but leave them with something they didn’t have before. He believed you could run your con with kindness, with respect. You could give a lonely woman love, romance, pleasure—for a time. You could give a family the joy of believing they’d found someone they’d lost. You could make a person believe they were going to receive an unexpected windfall, a big win after a life of failed enterprises.

  He didn’t view himself as just a con. He saw himself as a dream weaver.

  He wove a dream for Bridget. When he yanked it away, she got mad. Mad enough, apparently, to tirelessly look for him for years, find him, and eventually kill him.

  “You screwed up, Pop,” she said to no one.

  In the garage, she found some tarps, two shovels. There was an unopened container of lye. Why would he have that in his garage? But she already knew there were lots of things she didn’t know about Pop. Things she didn’t even want to know.

  The lye would certainly come in handy now. When mixed with water, it aided in the decomposition of tissue. There were shelves of gallon jugs of water; Pop was a bit of a hoarder when it came to supplies. He liked to know there was enough—enough food, water, cash to get them through hard times. She took five jugs, loaded them in the car.

  When she got back to the Toyota, the girl was still sitting there, immobile and pale as a statue, staring ahead. God, she was useless.

  “I’m going to need your help,” Pearl said. “I can’t do this alone.”

  The job ahead of them was big and physical. It would take hours and probably more strength than either of them possessed.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” said Gracie, turning to look at Pearl. “She killed him.”

  “The police?” said Pearl softly. “What do you think will happen to you if we call the police?”

  Gracie shook her head, her wheat locks shimmering. She gazed at Pearl with wide eyes. “That’s exactly what he said. When we found my mother.”

  Pearl stayed quiet.

  “Someone killed her,” Gracie went on. “Pop brought me here. He said if he didn’t that they’d take me away, put me in foster care or someplace worse.”

  Pearl was back there again, that night they found Stella. She did feel something, something sharp and tight in her heart
.

  Pearl didn’t know what to say to the girl. What’s done is done, Stella would surely say. There was nothing to do but manage the situation and try to move forward.

  “Are you going to help me or not?” she asked the girl. The night expanded all around them.

  Gracie nodded finally.

  Four hours later, the sun was rising, painting the sky a milky gray.

  Bridget and Pop lay in the same shallow grave, back in the woods on the ten-acre property. The grave—it needed to be deeper, a lot deeper—Pearl knew this. But neither one of them were strong enough to do more.

  No trails crossed this land. It was private; they’d be safe out here. Bridget and Pop, together forever just like Bridget wanted. Well, maybe not just like she wanted.

  Pearl and Gracie were both covered in grime, hands raw and blistered. Pearl emptied the container of lye over the bodies—a blizzard covering them in white. She dumped the water into the grave. There was a sizzling sound as the water reacted with the chemical.

  She should say something, shouldn’t she?

  “I’m sorry, Pop,” she said. “I’m sorry it ended like this.”

  Gracie wept, lying on her side on the ground. Anyone could see she was spent, finished. She’d vomited twice—once back at the house when they were moving the bodies; once when they’d dropped Pop carrying him from the car. Pearl didn’t even bother to try to make her finish shoveling the dirt back into the grave.

  Pearl worked, her shoulders and back aching until Bridget and Pop were covered with earth. Then she used the shovels to scrape leaves, sticks, other forest floor debris over the site. In the dim light, it looked like all the rest of the forest around them. Pop would be pleased with the job she’d done, Pearl thought. She’d thought clearly, acted fast. All she had to do was deal with Bridget’s digital footprint and the car.

  “Did he kill your mother, too?” Gracie asked from the ground.

  The question took Pearl by surprise. She almost didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know,” said Pearl finally. “Maybe.”

  “She loved me,” said Gracie. “She was a good mom.”

  Her voice had a faint and faraway quality, as if she was talking to someone Pearl couldn’t see. “She, you know, did her best. She used to tell me stories. About owls.”

  “That’s nice,” said Pearl, keeping her voice gentle.

  Gracie was wobbly, unstable. Pearl knew that she couldn’t be trusted. She was going to have some kind of breakdown, if she wasn’t having one already. If Pearl was smart, she’d kill the girl, too, and throw her in the grave they’d dug together. What was it that Pop always said? Three can keep a secret if two of us are dead. One down, one to go.

  But Pearl wasn’t that. She was a lot of things. There was ice water in her veins. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt the things that other people seemed to. But she was not a killer.

  Instead, she helped the girl up to her feet.

  She’d picked this spot for a reason.

  There was an old root cellar out here. It was one of the main features that had attracted Pop. He called it the safe room. After they’d moved out to the house, they’d spent a couple of weeks stocking it with supplies, water, canned and other nonperishable foods, sleeping bags, battery-operated lights, shelves and shelves of books, games. A hoarder’s paradise.

  If the shit hits the fan, this is where we go, okay? We can ride out any storm here. It’s totally off the grid, not on the property survey.

  He’d marked the door in the ground with a piece of wood, a red flag tied at its tip.

  Pearl found it now. She unlocked the latch while Gracie sat, rocking, and pulled open the door with a haunted house squeal.

  “I’m going to take care of you, okay, Gracie?” she said softly as she helped the girl to her feet. “I don’t know what happened to your mom. And Pop is gone. But we’ll be okay. I promise.”

  Gracie leaned heavily against Pearl, and allowed herself to be led down the stairs, and hardly made a peep when Pearl laid her down on the ground, covered her with a sleeping bag.

  “Just rest, okay?” she said. “I’ll be back after a while, Gracie.”

  “Okay,” she said. Her voice was a child’s whisper. She was a child. Just like Pearl had been once.

  The girl didn’t move an inch as Pearl climbed the steps, then locked the door behind her. She’d go back for Gracie, after she’d taken care of Bridget’s digital footprint and her car.

  The social media was easy. A Facebook post, using a selfie she found on Bridget’s phone: “All my life, I’ve done the right and careful thing. Now, I’m off on a grand adventure, going off the grid to discover the real world and myself. Wish me luck!”

  The poor woman had fifteen friends, loose tie connections—coworkers, a distant cousin. She posted infrequently, had little engagement on her few entries—a stew she’d made one Sunday, a picture of her new car, a selfie after a new hairstyle. A smattering of likes and wan comments. Poor Bridget, she barely existed at all. This was good news for Pearl. No one knew where she was. No one cared enough to come looking.

  Then, the car. She knew a guy. A friend of Pop’s, a guy named Les who they’d used before. She called him from Pop’s phone and he told her where to park the vehicle. She drove it there, then jogged the five miles home. The car, she knew, that beautiful shiny new thing, would be taken apart until there was nothing left. How, where the parts went, to whom they were sold, Pearl had no idea. It was a specialized skill, one that was best hired out.

  By the time she got back to the house, it was midmorning. She briefly thought about school—right now she’d be in world economics. Jason had probably called her about five times. But Elizabeth, the student, the girlfriend, the normie—she was gone.

  You think you can just lead a normal life? Pop had wanted to know. It doesn’t work like that. Not for people like us.

  He was right, of course.

  She’d known it all along.

  * * *

  Finally, she retrieved a nearly catatonic Gracie from the root cellar and brought her back to the house. Pearl had made Gracie strip down and throw all her clothes into the wash. Then, Pearl stood outside the door while Gracie took a scalding hot shower. Through the door, she could hear the girl sobbing.

  What had Pop seen in her? Pearl might have caught a glimpse of it when they were carrying the bodies, digging the graves. There was a mettle there, some will to survive despite the circumstance.

  “Scrub,” Pearl said. “Don’t forget to clean under your nails.”

  She’d given the girl clean clothes from a laundry basket Pearl had found in her room. A pair of underpants with hearts on them, faded leggings, an oversize NYU sweatshirt.

  Then she’d showered herself, dumped all her clothes in the wash, put the cycle on as hot and as long as it would go, dumping in more detergent than was needed. Next, she’d have to clean the foyer. The blood would seep into the wood; it would be nearly impossible to remove all traces. Pop had taught her that about blood. Never shed it, if possible. Not that anyone was going to come looking today. But that was Pop’s number one rule: when the shit hits the fan, clean up and go. The act of washing it all away, the self that needed to be abandoned. It helped you to move on.

  Down in the kitchen, Pearl made tea while Gracie sat quietly at the kitchen table. Now, she just had a glassy look again, her shoulders hunched in, her arms wrapped around her middle. She’d stopped crying, at least.

  She brought the tea, sweet with honey, over to the table and then sat across from Gracie. Pearl stared at the other girl’s wheat-colored hair, her too-blue eyes, the delicate turn of her neck, the full pink of her lips. Yes, there was an ethereal kind of prettiness, the unformed beauty of a child. Maybe Pop liked that. A lump of clay he could mold. Pearl knew that she’d never been as malleable as Gracie, but mold her he had. How much of what s
he was now was because of the things that Pop had done, taught her, showed her?

  “What happens now?” asked Gracie.

  “How old are you?” She’d asked before. But she’d forgotten the answer.

  “Fifteen.”

  The answer sent a little jolt through Pearl. A child. Why had Pearl thought she was older? Maybe in her twenties, at least eighteen. An adult, someone with agency. Not a child as she had been when Stella died and she went with Charlie.

  “I think maybe,” Gracie said when Pearl was quiet. Apparently she wasn’t going to be able to let this part go. “I think he killed my mother.”

  I think he killed mine, too, Pearl wanted to say but didn’t. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe she would have left with him anyway, if he had asked. Maybe Stella would have let her go. There was no way to know any of this now. Pop was dead. And the past was gone.

  “Why do you think that?” asked Pearl.

  “We found her,” she said, voice shaking. “Someone strangled her. I don’t know—who else could have done it.”

  Pearl flashed again on the moment they found Stella, how the world faded out and went wobbly. How the ground felt like air beneath her. Pop—Charlie, as she knew him then—leading her away.

  “He said that they’d take me,” said Gracie. “With my mother gone, no relatives, I’d go to foster care.”

  Did he know before he chose? Did he pick women and girls with no safety net beneath them, no one who cared, no one to ask questions? Of course he did. He was the king of recon. A predator, patient and careful. He chose the ones that couldn’t get away, who in some real sense didn’t even want to.

  “He said he’d take care of me,” said Gracie sadly.

  And he would have, in his way. Like he took care of Pearl.

  “Did he kill your mother, too?” Gracie asked. She held Pearl in a watery gaze that managed a surprising intensity.

  “I don’t know,” said Pearl. “Maybe. There were other men.”