Pretty Girls

Claire opened her mouth so that she could breathe. She could almost feel the flex in her own ribs from when Paul had pressed her into the brick wall. He had whispered Tell me you want this into Claire’s ear. She’d thought it was silly at the time. Paul had never talked to her like that before, but he hadn’t let up until Claire had said the exact words back to him.

She asked Lydia, “What did you do next?”

Lydia gave a half shrug. “I didn’t have a choice. I told him that I wanted it. He ripped down my pants. I still have scars on my leg where his nails gouged the skin.”

Claire put her hand on her own leg where Paul had scraped away the skin. “And then?”

“He was undoing his belt buckle. I heard whistling, like really loud, whistling. It was a ­couple of guys. They were walking in the woods and they thought we were making out. I started screaming for my life. Paul jumped up. He ran back toward the car. One of the guys chased after him and the other helped me up. They wanted to call the police, but I told them no.”

“Why?”

“I’d just gotten bailed out of jail for the billionth time. Paul was an upstanding grad student with two jobs. Who would you believe?”

She knew whom Claire had believed. “The two guys—­”

“Were gay men looking for a hookup in a South Alabama forest. The cops would’ve known that the minute they opened their mouths.” She shook her head at the futility of it all. “And I didn’t really care about me at that point. My only concern was getting him away from you.”

Claire put her hand to her forehead. She felt feverish. They were still standing in the foyer. She should’ve invited Lydia in. She should’ve taken her to her office and sat with her. “Do you want a drink?”

“I told you, I’m in recovery.”

Claire knew that. Paul’s detectives had sat in on Lydia’s meetings and recorded her every word. “I need a drink.” Claire found her wineglass on the floor. She swallowed the dregs in one go. She closed her eyes and waited. There was no relief.

Lydia asked, “Do you have a problem with drugs and alcohol?”

Claire struggled to return the glass to the floor. “Yes. The problem is that I don’t like them very much.”

Lydia opened her mouth to respond, but light filled the entryway as a car came up the driveway. “Who’s here?”

Claire turned on the video keypad by the door. They watched the screen as a black Crown Victoria parked at the mouth of the front walkway.

“Why is a Huckleberry here?” Lydia sounded panicked. “Claire?”

Claire was grappling with her own panic. She was more worried about which Huckleberry it was. Mayhew come to make sure she hadn’t made copies of the movies? Nolan with his inappropriate remarks and creepy looks and maddening questions that gave no explanation as to why he was here in the first place? Or was it her parole officer? He had warned Claire that he could turn up and drug test her without notice.

She told Lydia, “I’m on parole. I can’t have drugs in my system.” Claire’s thoughts raced against the Valium. She remembered another detail from Paul’s files. Back when she was using, Lydia had pled guilty to a felony drug charge in order to avoid a prison sentence. Claire tried to push her down the hallway. “Pepper, move! I’m not allowed to associate with felons. They could take me back to jail.”

Lydia didn’t move. She was trapped in place. Her mouth worked silently, as if there were too many questions running through her brain to pin down just one. Finally, she said, “Turn down the lights.”

Claire didn’t know what else to do. She pressed the ambient button on the keypad. All of the lights on the ground floor dimmed, which would hopefully hide the state of her pupils. They both looked at the video screen, their faces inches apart. Lydia’s panicked breathing matched Claire’s. A man got out of the car. He was tall and solidly built. His brown hair was neatly parted on the side.

“Fuck,” Claire groaned, because her brain wasn’t sharp enough right now to deal with Fred Nolan. “It’s the FBI.”

“What?” Lydia’s voice almost squeaked with fear.

“Fred Nolan.” Claire’s skin crawled at the sound of his name. “He’s an asshole special agent from the downtown office.”

“What?” Lydia looked terrified. “Did you commit a federal crime?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” There wasn’t enough time to get into it. Claire switched the video screen to the front-­door camera. The image showed the top of Nolan’s head as he climbed the steps.

“Listen to me.” Lydia kept her voice low. “Legally, you don’t have to answer any of his questions. You don’t have to leave with him unless he arrests you, and if he does arrest you, don’t say a goddamn word. Do you understand me, Claire? None of your bullshit jokes or funny asides. Just keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“Okay.” Claire could feel her mind clearing, probably from the rush of adrenaline coursing through her body.

They both looked at the front door and waited.

Nolan’s shadow loomed large behind the frosted glass. He reached down and pressed the doorbell.

They both flinched at the sound.

Lydia indicated that Claire should stay silent. She was making Nolan wait, which was probably a good idea. At the very least, Claire could take the time to get her breathing under control.

Nolan pressed the doorbell again.

Lydia lifted her feet and made a walking sound. She opened the door a crack and stuck out her head. Claire could see her on the video screen. She had to look up at Nolan because he was so tall.

“Good evening, ma’am.” Nolan tipped an imaginary hat. “I’m here to speak to the lady of the house.”

Lydia’s voice still sounded squeaky and afraid. “She’s sleeping.”

“She’s not standing behind you?” Nolan pressed his hand against the door until Lydia had to open it or fall over. He smiled at Claire. The bruise around his eye had started to yellow. “Funny thing about frosted glass—­doesn’t really hide anything.”

Lydia asked, “What do you want?”

“That’s a loaded question.” Nolan kept his hand on the door so Lydia couldn’t close it. He looked up at the night sky. There was no shelter over the front porch. Paul had said it would ruin the line of the house.

Nolan said, “Looks like the rain’s passing.”

Claire and Lydia didn’t respond.

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“Me, I like the rain.” Nolan stepped inside the house. He glanced around the entryway. “Great time to sit back and read a book. Or watch a movie. You like movies?”

Claire tried to swallow. Why was he talking about movies? Had he spoken with Mayhew? Was there a tracker on the computers? Claire had used Paul’s laptop to access the Wi-­Fi. Had Nolan monitored all of her activity?

“Mrs. Scott?”

Claire managed to take a shallow breath. She forced herself not to ask him point-­blank if he was here to arrest her.

“That your truck out there?”

Lydia stiffened. Nolan was talking to her now.

He held out his hand. He didn’t have to reach far. He was standing so close to Lydia that he barely had to bend his elbow. “We haven’t been introduced. Agent Fred Nolan, FBI.”

Lydia didn’t shake the offered hand.

“I could get your parole officer over here.” He was looking at Claire again. “Setting aside that knowingly and willfully lying or materially misleading a federal agent is punishable by five years in prison, you’re technically not allowed to ignore your PO’s questions. Terms of your parole. No right to remain silent.” He leaned forward and studied Claire’s eyes. “No right to get stoned.”

Lydia said, “My name is Mindy Parker. The truck is a loaner from my mechanic. I’m a friend of Claire’s.”

Nolan gave Lydia a careful once-­over, because Lydia didn’t look like one of Claire’s friends. Her jeans were more spandex than denim. Her black T-­shirt had a bleach stain at the hem, and her gray cardigan was raveled at the edges as if an animal had chewed on it. She didn’t even look like the housekeeper of one of Claire’s friends.

“Mindy Parker.” Nolan made a great show of pulling out a spiral-­bound notebook and pen. He wrote down Lydia’s fake name. “Trust but verify. Isn’t that what Reagan said?”

“Why are you here?” Lydia demanded. “It’s almost midnight. Claire’s husband just died. She wants to be left in peace.”

“Still wearing her funeral clothes.” Nolan let his eyes travel up and down Claire’s body. “Not that you don’t look great in them.”