“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 voice mail 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.”
CHAPTER 7
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 newfound 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 by 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.