“Pearl didn’t just want money. She burned my life to the ground.”
She’s a destroyer, Cora had said.
But was that the whole truth?
“When did you last speak to her? Has she reached out to you for more?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since I paid her,” he said. “Years ago now. I thought she got what she wanted—a big payday, my life destroyed.”
Selena didn’t know what else to say. She was about to rise and leave when her father put a hand on her arm.
“Whatever she wants now,” he said. “Don’t give it to her. It will never be enough. She’s dangerous. If she’s back, it’s because, for whatever reason, she has decided that she wants to hurt you. And she won’t stop until your whole life is in ashes.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Pearl
It didn’t take Pearl and Gracie long to find the car Bridget had driven to the house. They’d set out in Pearl’s Toyota and found the vehicle about halfway down the isolated drive.
Bridget must have pulled it off to the side, into a path that led through the trees, then approached the house on foot. That’s why Pearl hadn’t seen the car when she’d arrived. She hadn’t been looking, focused on whatever might be going on at the house.
Pearl brought her car to a stop and climbed out, the night around her silent and cool, the drive beneath her boots soft. She was numb, head spinning. The other girl was practically catatonic again. Pearl wanted to slap her; her hand practically ached with the urge.
Pop was dead. What did Pearl feel? Predictably, nothing. Just a siren in her head. A vague nausea. That sucking emptiness. She found herself thinking about Jason, who was probably still asleep. In the morning, he’d wake up, start looking for her. The girl she was with him. But she’d never see him again; she knew that. And Elizabeth, that self, was already fading. She felt a rush of anger toward Pop. He never wanted her to have a normal life and now he’d made sure of it.
Pearl approached the slick late-model silver Mercedes, the key she’d lifted from Bridget’s body in her pocket. As she neared, the doors unlocked, headlights and interiors coming on. Chimes dinged softly. She slid into the spotless buttery leather interior and started the car; it hummed to life, the dash a glow of colored lights and gleaming screens.
The GPS showed their location, just a blip off the main road. Pearl scrolled through the recent navigation history. Pop’s address was the only entry listed. Pearl deleted it. There were fewer than three thousand miles on the odometer—practically brand-new. She ran her hands across the dash, the center console. It was a sweet ride, an S-Class. 100K to start. Of course. Bridget had money, lots of it. Earned, inherited, hoarded. A Gucci tote sat in the well in front of the passenger seat. Pearl grabbed it; she’d go through it later.
Pearl had a million questions.
First, how had Bridget found Pop? That was the big question. He was so careful, always so sure that he could not be traced, followed, found. Obviously, there was a failure in his planning. The house was vulnerable.
Next, who else knew that Bridget had come here? Would others follow when Bridget failed to return home? Police? A private detective, maybe?
That seemed right. That Bridget had hired someone to help her. Someone who had been able to follow Pop’s trail from Phoenix to this house in the woods—over years and miles. Pop was sure that he was a ghost, that he was safe, that they were safe in this house. Where had he gone wrong?
She sat a moment, wondering if there was a way she could keep the car. Probably not. Was it a lease? she wondered. If it was, it probably had a LoJack, which would allow the leasing company and thereby the police to find it when Bridget was reported missing.
How long would that be? Was there a ticking clock?
When Pearl knew Bridget, however briefly, the other woman had no family, a smattering of loose tie acquaintances, mainly connected to work. She was a lonely woman, with a prickly personality. An accountant, someone more interested in numbers than in people. A loner. Exactly Pop’s type. She’d opened to him like a flower. He lit her up with his attentions.
She said I made her believe in love, he’d told Pearl proudly.
If Bridget had held a grudge this long, gone to such lengths to find Pop, the chances were she hadn’t improved her social life much. She was probably lonelier and more disconnected than ever. Decisions like the one Bridget had made—to hunt and kill someone who had wronged her—were made in a vacuum, where there were no dissenting voices. No one who cared enough to lead her down another path.
Pearl climbed out of the car, left it running, and walked back to hers—which had seemed like a perfectly fine car this morning and now, compared to the Mercedes, looked like a piece of junk. She knocked on the window and the girl lowered it. Her eyes were glassy. She was going to cry again. Or maybe that’s how she always looked.
“How old are you?” she asked Gracie. “Can you drive?”
The girl nodded. “I’m fifteen.”
“Follow me back to the house.”
Gracie slid into the driver’s seat, and Pearl climbed back into the Mercedes. She pulled out, Gracie following behind as they headed back to the house.
For Pop, it was never just about the score, but about how well you played the game. He was like one of those vampires who tried not to drink human blood. He believed you could scam a person, take their money, but leave them with something they didn’t have before. He believed you could run your con with kindness, with respect. You could give a lonely woman love, romance, pleasure—for a time. You could give a family the joy of believing they’d found someone they’d lost. You could make a person believe they were going to receive an unexpected windfall, a big win after a life of failed enterprises.
He didn’t view himself as just a con. He saw himself as a dream weaver.
He wove a dream for Bridget. When he yanked it away, she got mad. Mad enough, apparently, to tirelessly look for him for years, find him, and eventually kill him.
“You screwed up, Pop,” she said to no one.
In the garage, she found some tarps, two shovels. There was an unopened container of lye. Why would he have that in his garage? But she already knew there were lots of things she didn’t know about Pop. Things she didn’t even want to know.
The lye would certainly come in handy now. When mixed with water, it aided in the decomposition of tissue. There were shelves of gallon jugs of water; Pop was a bit of a hoarder when it came to supplies. He liked to know there was enough—enough food, water, cash to get them through hard times. She took five jugs, loaded them in the car.
When she got back to the Toyota, the girl was still sitting there, immobile and pale as a statue, staring ahead. God, she was useless.
“I’m going to need your help,” Pearl said. “I can’t do this alone.”
The job ahead of them was big and physical. It would take hours and probably more strength than either of them possessed.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” said Gracie, turning to look at Pearl. “She killed him.”
“The police?” said Pearl softly. “What do you think will happen to you if we call the police?”
Gracie shook her head, her wheat locks shimmering. She gazed at Pearl with wide eyes. “That’s exactly what he said. When we found my mother.”