Pretty Girls

Your mother asked about his family, because we are southern and asking about someone’s family is the only way we can distinguish the chaff from the wheat.

Paul started with the basics: his father’s tour in the navy, his mother’s secretarial schooling. They became farmers, salt of the earth ­people who supplemented their income with bookkeeping and seasonal work with the UGA grounds crew. (As you know, this latter part-­time work is not uncommon. Everyone at some point or another ends up working in some capacity for the school.) There were no other relatives but for a seldom-­seen uncle on the mother’s side who passed away Paul’s freshman year at Auburn.

It was because of his childhood isolation, Paul said, that he wanted a big family—­a fact that should have pleased your mother and me, but I saw her back stiffen alongside mine, because the tone in his voice indicated just how he would go about achieving that.

(Trust me, sweetheart, there is a reason centuries of fathers have fought brutal wars to protect the concept of Immaculate Conception.)

After relaying the basics, Paul got to the part of his history that made your little sister’s eyes glisten with tears. That was when I knew he had her. It seems harsh to say that Claire never cries for anyone, but if you only knew, my sweet girl, what became of us after you disappeared, you would understand that she didn’t cry because there were no tears left.

Except for Paul.

As I sat there listening to the story of his parents’ car accident, I felt some old memories stirring. The Scotts died almost a full year after you were gone. I remember reading about the pileup in the newspaper, because by that time, I was reading every page in case there was some story that connected back to you. Your mother remembers hearing from a patron at the library that Paul’s father was decapitated. There was fire involved. Our imaginations ran wild.

Paul’s version of events is far more rosy (he is certainly the boot-­strapper in this story), but I cannot fault a man for wanting to own his past, and there is no denying that the tragedy works its magic on Claire. For so many years, ­people have been trying to take care of your little sister. I think with Paul, she finally sees an opportunity to take care of someone else.

If your mother were reading this letter, she would tell me to get to the point. I suppose I should, because the point is this:

Here is the inscription Ben Carver wrote for me in the Dr. Seuss book:

“First you must have the images. Then come the words.” —­Robert James Waller.

Images.

Ben had taken and distributed images of his crimes. This was part of his legend, his infamy. There were said to be hundreds of photographs and films on the black market that showed him with various victims. But Ben was already in prison. He was not giving me a clue to his own crimes. He was giving me a clue to his competition.

Images.

I had read that word before—­many times before.

As with all the suspects in your disappearance, Huckleberry blacked out one particular man’s name, but here are the details I transcribed from a deputy investigator’s notes in your case file:

XXXXXX XXXXX Peeping Tom. Seasonal gardener for UGA grounds crew, arrested 1/4/89; 4/12/89; 6/22/90; 8/16/91—­all charges dropped. Targets older female teens, blonde, attractive (17–20). MO: stands outside ground-­floor windows and takes what he calls “images”—­photographs or recordings of women in various states of undress. Deceased 1/3/1992 (car accident; wife also deceased; 16 y.o. son in boarding school/Alabama).

Images.

The Peeping Tom was alive when you went missing. He sought out young women around your age, around your hair color, around your beauty. Had he stood outside the window to your ground-­floor bedroom and taken images of you? Had he watched you brush your hair and talk to your sisters and undress for bed? Had he seen you on campus when he was working for the grounds crew? Had he followed you to the Manhattan that night? Had he followed you again when you left the bar?

Had he decided that his images were not enough?

You may be wondering how Ben Carver got his hands on a copy of your case file. As I told you earlier, Ben is somewhat of a celebrity, even in prison. He receives correspondences from all around the world. According to the warden, Ben traffics in information. This is how he gets extra meals and protection inside the dangerous walls of death row. He finds out what ­people want to know and he doles it out to them at his pleasure.

Images.

How did Ben know that this word of all words would jog my memory? That it would send me running back to my wall, shuffling through my stack of notebooks, looking for the words I had transcribed from your file almost six whole years ago?

After ten months, after forty-­eight visits, did Ben know my mind that well?

The question will remain unanswered. Ben is the type of psychopath who claims he likes the wind to direct his sails, but occasionally, I have seen him dip his hand into the water, rudder-­like, to change the course.

And with that one word—­images—­he changed the course of my life.

The Peeping Tom’s name was Gerald Scott.

His son is your baby sister’s new boyfriend.

CHAPTER 12

Claire opened her eyes. The popcorn ceiling had a brownish tinge. The shag carpet felt damp against her back. She was lying on the floor. A pillow was under her head. Her tennis shoes were off.

She sat up.

Paul.

He was alive!

Claire felt a singular moment of absolute elation before she came hurtling back down to earth. Then her mind filled with questions. Why had he faked his death? Why had he fooled her? Who had helped him? What was he doing at the Fuller house? Why had he punched her?

And where was her sister?

“Lydia?” Claire could barely get out the word. Her throat was on fire. She pulled herself up to standing. She fought a rushing nausea as she stumbled against the television. Her cheekbone sent out small explosions of pain. “Liddie?” she tried. Her voice was still hoarse, but the panic spurred her to scream as loud as she could. “Liddie?”

There was no answer.

Claire ran down the hallway toward the garage. She threw open the door. The videotapes. The chains. The blood. They were all still there, but no Lydia. She pulled the door shut behind her as she ran back down the hallway. She checked the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, her panic ratcheting higher with each vacant room. Lydia was gone. She was missing. Someone had taken her.

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Paul had taken her, just like his father had taken Julia.

Claire ran onto the back porch. She scanned the field behind the house. She jogged around to the front, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. She wanted to scream and cry and rail. How had this happened again? Why had she let Lydia out of her sight?

The Tesla was still parked in the driveway. The car door handles slid out when Claire approached. The system had sensed the key fob, which had somehow ended up in her back pocket. Both her purse and Lydia’s were dumped out on the front seat of the car. The burner phone was gone. A long, orange extension cord snaked from the front porch to the driveway and connected to the cable that charged the Tesla.

Inside the house, the phone started to ring.

Claire ran toward the back. She stopped at the kitchen door. She wanted to go in, to answer the phone, but she found herself paralyzed with fear. She stared at the ringing phone. It was white. The cord hung below, stopping several feet short of the floor. Their kitchen phone in the house on Boulevard had a cord that could stretch into the pantry because that was the only place for years that any of them could talk with a modicum of privacy.

Lydia was gone. Paul had taken her. This was happening. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t hide in her room with her headphones on and pretend the world outside was still spinning blissfully on its axis.

Claire forced herself to go into the kitchen. She pressed her palm against the phone but did not pick it up. She felt the cold plastic under her hand. This was a sturdy, old Princess phone, the kind you used to rent monthly from Southern Bell. She could feel the vibrations of the metal bell ringing through her palm.

The answering machine had been turned off. A pillow had been placed under her head. Her shoes had been removed. The Tesla was being charged.

She knew whose voice she would hear before she even picked up the phone.

Paul said, “Are you all right?”

“Where’s my sister?”

“She’s safe.” Paul hesitated. “Are you okay?”