Pretty Girls

“Mom.” Claire unlocked the door. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I looped back around the building after I got rid of your tail.”

“You what?”

“I saw that man running after you. I went around the other side of the building and clapped my hands to get his attention and—­” Helen was holding on to the door. Her face was flushed. She was breathless. “They let me cut through the main lobby. The guard at the side entrance told me you’d just left. You were running so fast I almost lost you, but then the bellman outside said you were here.”

Claire stared in open disbelief. Helen was wearing a colorful blue Chico’s blouse with a chunky necklace. She should be hosting a book signing, not running through the streets of downtown Atlanta drawing off a tail.

Helen asked, “Do you still want me to move your car?” Claire shook her head, but only because she didn’t know what she wanted Helen to do.

“I know Paul was accused of stealing money.” Helen paused, as if she expected Claire to protest. “That Agent Nolan was at the house yesterday afternoon, and that police captain, Jacob Mayhew, dropped by almost as soon as he left.”

“He did it,” Claire said, and it felt good to tell her mother even the tiniest bit of truth. “Paul stole three million dollars from the company.”

Helen seemed appalled. Three million dollars was a hell of a lot of money to her mother. “You’ll pay it back. You’ll move in with me. You can get a job teaching art at the school.”

Claire laughed, because she made it sound so simple.

Helen pressed together her lips. She obviously wanted to know what was going on, but she only said, “Do you want me to leave you alone? Do you need my help? Tell me what to do.”

“I don’t know,” Claire admitted, another slice of truth. “I have to leave for Hapeville in two hours.”

Helen didn’t ask why. She simply said, “All right. What else?”

“I need to charge the Tesla. I need to get an iPhone charger.”

“I have one in my purse.” Helen unzipped her purse, which was brown leather with flowers embroidered around the strap. She told Claire, “You look awful. When was the last time you had something to eat?”

Lydia had asked her that same thing two nights ago. Claire had let her sister take care of her and now she was Paul’s captive. His bargaining chip. His victim.

“Sweetheart?” Helen had the charger in her hand. “Let’s go to the lobby and get something to eat.”

Claire let her mother lead her out of the bathroom the same way she had led her out of the FBI interrogation room. Helen took her deep into the hotel lobby. There were several groupings of large couches and overstuffed chairs. Claire practically fell into the closest one.

Helen said, “Stay here. I’ll go to the café and get something.”

Claire leaned back her head. She had to get rid of Helen. The only reason Lydia was in trouble was because Claire had involved her in Paul’s madness. She would not lead her mother down that same path. She had to think of something that would get them all out of this. Paul would want to meet somewhere isolated. Claire should have an alternative space to suggest. Somewhere open with a lot of ­people around. A mall. Claire knew all of the high-­end stores inside Phipps Plaza. She imagined herself walking through Saks with dresses folded over her arm. She would have to try them on because some of the brands were running smaller than usual, or maybe Claire was running larger since she’d stopped playing tennis four hours a day. She wanted to look at the new Prada bags, but the display was too close to the perfume counter and her allergies were acting up.

“Honey?”

Claire looked up. The light had changed. So had the scenery. Helen was sitting on the couch beside her. She had a paperback in her hand. She was using her thumb to mark her place.

She told Claire, “I let you sleep for an hour and a half.”

“What?” Claire sat up, panicked. She scanned the lobby. There were more ­people now. The front desk was fully staffed. Suitcases were being rolled across the carpet. She checked the faces. No Jacob Mayhew. No Harvey Falke.

“You said you had two hours.” Helen put the book in her purse. “I charged your iPhone. The Tesla is plugged in one street over on Peachtree Center Avenue. Your purse is right beside you. I put the key in the zippered pocket. There’s some clean underwear in there, too.” She indicated the coffee table. “The food is still warm. You should eat. It’ll make you feel better.”

Claire looked down at the table. Her mother had bought her a large cup of coffee and a chicken biscuit.

“Go ahead. You have time.”

Her mother was right. She needed to get something of caloric value in her system. The coffee she could handle. Claire wasn’t sure about the food. She took the plastic lid off the cup. Helen had poured in enough milk to turn the liquid white, just the way Claire liked it.

Helen opened a napkin and put it on Claire’s lap. She said, “You know that revolver takes .38 Special ammunition, right?”

Claire sipped the coffee. Her mother had been inside the Tesla. She would’ve seen the weapon in the door pocket.

“It’s in your purse. It didn’t seem safe to leave a gun in your car while it’s parked on the street. I couldn’t find a place downtown or I would’ve bought ammunition for you.”

Claire put down the cup. She unwrapped the biscuit to give her hands something to do. She expected the smell to turn her stomach, but she realized that she was hungry. She took a large bite.

Helen said, “Huckleberry called me. I know you know about the tape.”

Claire swallowed. Her throat still hurt from screaming in the backyard of the Fuller house. “You lied to me about Julia.”

“I protected you. There’s a difference.”

“I had a right to know.”

“You are my child. I am your mother.” Helen sounded resolute. “I won’t apologize for doing my job.”

Claire bit back a sharp comment about how refreshing it was to hear that Helen was back on the job.

Helen asked, “Did Lydia show you the tape?”

“No.” She wasn’t going to let her sister take the blame yet again. “I found it on the Internet. I showed it to her.” Lydia’s phone. Helen had seen the unfamiliar number on her caller ID. “I took her phone. Mine was stolen during the robbery, and I needed one, so I took hers.”

Helen didn’t press for a better explanation, likely because she had investigated countless thefts when the girls were growing up. She only asked, “Are you all right?”

“I feel better. Thank you.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder because she couldn’t bring herself to look her in the eye. Claire couldn’t tell Helen about Lydia, but she could tell her about Dee. Her mother was a grandmother. She had a beautiful, accomplished grandchild who was hopefully being hidden somewhere that Paul would never find her.

Which meant that right now, Claire couldn’t let Helen find her, either.

Helen said, “Earlier, when Wynn Wallace and I were looking for you, I remembered something your father told me.” She gripped her purse in her lap. “He said that children always have different parents, even in the same family.”

Family. Helen had more than she knew about. Claire felt the weight of her own guilt pressing down on her chest.

Helen continued, “When Julia was little and it was just the three of us, I think I was a pretty damn good mother.” She laughed, because the memory obviously made her happy. “And then Pepper came along and she was such a handful, but I loved every frustrating, challenging minute of it because she was so opinionated and strong-­willed, and she knocked against Julia all the time.”

Claire nodded. She could remember the screaming arguments between her older sisters. They were too much alike to get along for more than a few hours at a time.

“An

d then there was you.” Helen smiled sweetly. “You were so easy compared to your sisters. You were quiet and sweet natured, and your father and I used to sit up at night and talk about how different you were. ‘Are you sure they didn’t mix up the babies at the hospital?’ he would say. ‘Maybe we should go down to the county jail and see if our real child has been arrested for being a public nuisance?’ ”