Pretty Girls

Harvey pushed away from the glass. Instead of leaving, he moved toward the revolving door. Claire tensed herself. She would tell the guard that Harvey was stalking her. Then Harvey would flash his badge. She could run toward the front entrance, dart back into the street.

Or she could stay here.

Harvey hadn’t pushed through the revolving door. He was still standing outside. His head was turned to the right. Something on West Peachtree had caught his attention.

Claire held her breath until he ran off toward whatever had distracted him.

She peeled herself away from the alcove. She went back out the glass turnstile. She told the guard, “Thank you.”

He tipped his hat. “You have a blessed day.”

Claire pushed open the door. She knew better than to think she was safe. She ran back toward Spring Street. She hooked a left onto Williams. Her feet pounded against the cracked sidewalk. There was a mist of rain in the air. Claire scanned the area behind her as she kept running. She tried to orient herself. Staying on the street was not an option. There had to be somewhere to hide, but it was too early for any of the cafés to be open.

Lydia’s phone rang. Claire didn’t slow as she answered, “What?”

Paul said, “Take a left. Go to the Hyatt Regency.”

Claire kept the line open. She took the left. She saw the Hyatt in the distance. Her knees hurt. Her legs were screaming. She was used to running on the treadmill, not up and down hills and over cracks in the concrete. Sweat dripped from her scalp and down her back. The waist of her jeans was starting to chafe. She gripped the phone in her hand as she ran. How was Paul tracking her? Was Mayhew tag-­teaming Harvey? Were they trying to funnel her into a location where they could grab her?

The bellhop outside the Hyatt opened the door when he saw Claire round the drive. If he thought it was odd that a grown woman dressed in jeans and a button-­down shirt had gone for a run at six in the morning, he didn’t say.

Inside the building, Claire slowed her pace. She followed the signs to the women’s restroom. She pushed open the door. She checked the stalls to make sure they were empty.

Claire locked the last stall door. She sat down on the toilet. She was panting for breath when she said, “Let me speak to Lydia.”

“I can let you hear her scream.”

Claire put her hand to her mouth. What had he done? Twelve hours. He could have Lydia in Key West or New Orleans or Richmond by now. He could be torturing her and beating her and—­

Claire couldn’t let herself think of the “and.”

Paul asked, “Still there?”

She fought back the overwhelming agony that came from knowing exactly what her husband was capable of. “You said you weren’t going to hurt her.”

“You said you were going to call me back.”

“I will drive over that fucking USB drive with a Mack truck.”

Paul had to know that Claire would do it. She had never been averse to burning bridges she was still trying to cross.

He asked, “Where is it?”

Claire tried to think of an area she was familiar with but Paul was not. “It’s at the Wells Fargo on Central Avenue.”

“What?” He sounded concerned. “That’s a very dangerous area, Claire.”

“Are you really worrying about my safety?”

“You need to be careful,” he warned. “Where is the bank exactly?”

“Near the main post office.” Claire had driven to the post office several times to drop off mailers for the Humane Society. “I’ll go get it right now. We can meet somewhere and—­”

“It’s almost six in the morning. The bank won’t be open until nine.”

Claire waited.

“You can’t leave now. You’ll get carjacked if you park the Tesla on Central for that long.” She could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Stay in the hotel. At eight thirty, drive down to Hapeville. That should get you there right when the bank is opening.”

“Okay.”

“Traffic will be bad coming back. Get on seventy-­five and wait to hear from me.”

Claire didn’t ask how he would know where she was because she was beginning to think Paul knew everything. “Nolan told me what you did.”

“Is that right?”

Claire didn’t elaborate, but they both knew Nolan had only seen what Paul wanted him to see. “He said you wanted to be in witness protection.”

“That wasn’t going to happen.”

“He said you wanted me to watch you die.”

Paul was quiet for a moment. “It had to seem real. I was going to come back for you. You know that.”

Claire didn’t respond.

Paul said, “I’m going to take care of this. You know I always do.”

Claire took a stuttered breath. She couldn’t stand the soft, reassuring tone of his voice. There was still an infinitesimal part of her that wanted her husband to somehow make it all better.

But Fred Nolan was right. The Paul she had known was dead. This stranger on the other end of the phone was an imposter. Or maybe he was the real Paul Scott, and her husband, her friend, her lover, had been the lie. It was only when he put on that black leather mask that the real Paul showed his face.

She said, “I want to speak to my sister.”

“In a minute,” he promised. “The battery on your phone is probably getting low. Did you bring the charger from the house?”

Claire checked the screen. “It’s at thirty percent.”

Paul said, “Go buy a charger. And you need to juice up the Tesla. There’s a charging station at Peachtree Center. I downloaded the app for you so just—­”

“Let me talk to Lydia.”

“Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Put my sister on the goddamn phone.”

There was a rustling sound, then the tinny echo of a speakerphone.

“Wake up,” Paul said. “Your sister wants

to talk to you.” Claire gritted her teeth. He sounded like he was speaking to a child.

“Lydia?” she tried. “Lydia?”

Lydia didn’t answer.

“Please say something, Liddie. Please.”

“Claire.” Her voice was so flat, so lifeless, that Claire felt like a hand had reached inside her chest and ripped out her heart.

“Liddie,” Claire said, “please, just hold on. I’m doing everything I can.”

Lydia mumbled, “It’s too late.”

“It’s not too late. I’m going to give Paul the USB drive, and he’s going to let you go.” Claire was lying. They all knew that she was lying. She started crying so hard that she had to brace herself against the wall. “Hold on a little while longer. I’m not going to abandon you. I promised you—­never again.”

“I forgive you, Claire.”

“Don’t say that now.” Claire bent at the waist. Tears fell onto the floor. “Tell me when you see me, okay? Tell me when this is over.”

“I forgive you for everything.”

“Pepper, please. I’m going to make this right. I’m going to make everything all right.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lydia told her. “I’m already dead.”

CHAPTER 18

Paul was smiling when he put the phone down on the table beside the black hood. Lydia didn’t look at the phone, which she could not reach, but at the soaked black hood next to it, which she knew would eventually be wrapped around her head again. The spray bottle was empty for the third time. Paul was drinking filtered water so he could fill it back up again.

When he was ready, he would make her watch him fill up the bottle, then he would put the hood back over her head, then he would start spraying. Seconds before she passed out, he would shock her with the cattle prod or whip her with the leather belt or punch her or kick her until she gasped for breath.

And then he would start the process all over again.

He said, “She sounds good, right? Claire?”

Lydia looked away from the hood. There was a computer on a workbench like the one Paul had in his garage at home. Metal storage shelves. Old computers. She had catalogued everything in her head because she had been here almost thirteen hours—­Paul updated her with the time every half hour—­and the only thing that was keeping her from going insane was reciting the inventory like a mantra while he tried to drown her in his piss.