Pretty Girls

Claire examined Lydia’s revolver. Her sister would not be so stupid as to hide a loaded gun under her back porch. Still, Claire checked the cylinder. The five chambers were empty. She did a mental inventory of the cash in her wallet. She could go to a sporting goods store or a Walmart and buy ammunition with cash because a credit card transaction would show up somewhere.

The floodlights came on.

Claire bumped her head on the deck stairs. Her skull clanged like a bell.

Rick Butler leaned down to look at her. “Can I help you?”

Claire put the gun back in the bag. She tried to crawl out from underneath the deck, but she needed both hands. She tossed the bag out into the yard. Rick stepped back like she’d thrown acid at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, because that was her answer for everything. “I’m Claire Scott, Lydia’s—­”

“Sister.” Rick looked down at the gun. “I thought she got rid of that thing.”

“Well.” Claire clapped her hands together to clean off the dirt. She tried good manners, because Helen had taught her to always be polite. At least initially. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Sure,” he said. “An explanation would be nice.”

Claire nodded, because it would be nice, but she couldn’t give him one. She settled on another “I’m sorry.” She picked up the gun. She wrapped the bag tightly around the barrel.

“Wait a minute,” Rick said, because he could obviously tell she was going to leave. “Where’s Lydia?”

As usual, Paul’s timing was impeccable. Claire felt Lydia’s phone vibrate in her back pocket. He had sent the latest photo. Should she show it to Rick? Should she let him know what was going on with the woman to whom he had devoted the last thirteen years of his life?

Claire said, “I need to go.”

Rick narrowed his eyes. Either he was extremely perceptive or Claire was too easy to read. “You’re not leaving here until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I have a gun in my hands.”

“Then use it.”

They stared at each other. Somewhere, a dog started barking. Almost a full minute passed before Claire said, “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t seem like it.”

He had no idea how truly sorry Claire was. “I need to go.”

“With an empty gun that’s been buried in the ground?” Rick shook his head. He didn’t look angry anymore. He looked frightened. “Is Lydia okay?”

“Yes.”

“Did she . . . ?” He rubbed the side of his jaw with his hand. “Did she slip?”

“Slip?” Claire’s mind filled with an image of Lydia slipping and falling on the floor. And then she understood what Rick Butler really meant. “Yes,” she said, because Lydia would prefer this terrible lie over the truth. “She slipped. She drank some wine, and then she took some pills, and she wouldn’t stop.”

“Why?”

Claire had lived with Lydia’s addiction for six years before their break. “Does there have to be a reason?”

Rick looked devastated. He was an addict. He knew that addicts could always find a reason.

“I’m sorry.” Claire felt like an anvil was on her chest. What she was doing was awful, inexcusable. She could read the anger and disappointment and fear in every line of Rick’s face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” His voice went up the way men’s voices sometimes squeaked when they were trying to hold back emotions. “Why do you—­” He cleared his throat. “Why do you need a gun?”

Claire glanced around the backyard as if an easy explanation would present itself.

“You think she’s gonna come back here and try to hurt herself?”

The alarm in his tone was heartbreaking. His throat still worked as he tried to quell his emotions. There were tears in his eyes. He looked like such a kind, gentle man. He was exactly the kind of person she had always hoped that her s

ister would end up with.

And now Claire was breaking his heart.

Rick asked, “Where is she? I want to see her. Talk to her.”

“I’m going to check her into rehab. I’ll pay for it. The facility is in New Mexico.” Claire pressed together her lips. Why had she said New Mexico?

Rick asked, “Is she in your car?”

“The ambulance is taking her to the airport. I’ll meet her there.” Claire added, “Alone. She told me to tell you to keep Dee safe. She doesn’t want you to see her like this. You know how proud she is.”

He slowly nodded his head. “I can’t believe she lost her sobriety after so long.”

“I’m sorry.” Claire was out of words. Her brain was so overtaken by Paul’s lies that she was incapable of coming up with new ones on her own. “I’m sorry,” she kept repeating. “I’m so sorry.”

Claire didn’t know what else to say. She headed toward the backyard. She counted her footsteps to fill her head with something other than guilt. Five paces. Ten paces.

Rick stopped her at twenty. “Wait a minute.”

Claire felt her shoulders hunch. She had never been good at hiding her guilt because with Paul around, she was always so easily forgiven.

“You can’t take the gun.”

Claire turned around. Rick was closing the gap between them. Her first thought was that she could not outrun him. Her second thought was that she couldn’t think of another lie.

She put the problem back on Rick. “Why not?”

“They’re not going to let you take it on the plane. You can’t just stash it in the car at the airport.” He held out his hand. “I’ll keep it safe.”

Claire forced herself to look him in the eye. He smelled of car exhaust. She could see hard muscles under the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Even with the ponytail, he was a man in every sense of the word. He’d been in prison. He looked like he could handle himself. Claire wanted to let him help her. Every problem in her life had always been fixed by someone else.