Adam Quinn: What files did he really want? Was he as good as Paul had been at hiding his true nature, even when he was having sex with her?
Fred Nolan: Why was this creepy asshole really at the house the day of the funeral? Was it because of the movies or did he have something worse waiting for Claire around the corner?
Paul Scott: Rapist? Sadist? Husband? Friend? Lover? Liar? Claire had been married to him for almost half of her life but she had no idea who he really was.
She opened her eyes. She looked down at the spilled Percocet and contemplated taking another. Claire didn’t understand the appeal of being drugged. She had thought the purpose was to make you numb, but if anything, she was feeling everything much too intensely. She couldn’t shut down her brain. She felt shaky. Her tongue was too thick for her mouth. Maybe she was doing it wrong. Maybe the two Valium she’d taken an hour ago were counteracting the effects. Maybe she needed more Percocet. Claire took her iPad out of her desk drawer. Surely she could find some kind of instructional video posted by a helpful drug addict on YouTube.
The burner phone vibrated. Claire read Lydia’s message: I’m here.
She pressed her palms on the desktop and pushed herself up. Or at least she tried to. The muscles in her arms wouldn’t respond. Claire forced her legs to stand and nearly fell over when the entire room made a quarter turn to the left.
The doorbell rang. Claire shoved all of Lydia’s photos and reports into her desk drawer. She took a sip of wine, then decided to take the glass with her.
Walking came with its own challenges. The wide-open spaces of the kitchen and family room presented few obstacles, but she felt like she was inside a pinball machine as she bumped against the walls in the main hallway. She finally had to take off her heels, which she’d only left on because they always took off their shoes inside the house. All of the rugs were white. The hardwood floor was bleached oak. The walls were white. Even some of the paintings were muted whites. She wasn’t living in a house. She was occupying a sanitarium.
The handles on the front doors telescoped out of her reach. She could see the outline of Lydia’s body through the frosted glass. Claire spilled her wine as she grabbed at the door handle. She felt her lips smiling, though none of this was particularly funny.
Lydia knocked on the glass.
“I’m right here.” Claire finally pulled open the door.
“Jesus Christ.” Lydia leaned in to look at Claire’s eyes. “Your pupils are the size of dimes.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Claire said, because surely a dime was larger than her entire eyeball. Or was it closer to a quarter?
Lydia came into the house without being asked. She dropped her purse by the front door. She kicked off her shoes. She looked around the entrance foyer. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know,” Claire said, because it didn’t feel like home anymore. “Did you have an affair with Paul?”
Lydia’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Just tell me,” Claire said, because she knew from Paul’s reports that Lydia had had a child and that Paul was paying for the girl’s education. An affair that produced a love child was so much more palatable than all the other terrible explanations for why Paul would insert himself into her sister’s life.
Lydia still had her mouth open.
“Did you?”
“Absolutely not.” Lydia looked worried. “What did you take?”
“Nembutal and Ambien with a vodka back.”
“That’s not funny.” Lydia snatched away the glass of wine. She looked for somewhere to put it in the stark entryway and settled on the polished concrete floor. “Why did you ask me that about Paul?”
Claire kept the answer to herself.
“Was he cheating on you?”
Claire hadn’t framed the optics through that lens. Was it cheating to rape someone? Because, to be clear, that’s the direction in which all the dominoes were falling. If Paul had truly tried to rape Lydia, then he had probably tried and succeeded with someone else, and if he had gotten away with it once, then he had probably tried again.
And hired a private detective to follow them around for the rest of their lives so that he could still exert control over them from his lair over the garage.
But was that cheating? Claire knew from her training at the crisis center that rape was about power. Paul certainly liked controlling things. So, was raping women the equivalent of turning all the cans in the pantry label-out or loading the dishwasher with mechanical precision?
“Claire?” Lydia snapped her fingers very loudly. “Look at me.”
Claire tried her best to look at her sister. She’d always thought that Lydia was the prettiest of all of them. Her face was fuller, but she’d aged more gracefully than Claire would’ve thought. She had laugh lines around her eyes. She had a beautiful, accomplished daughter. She had a boyfriend who was a recovering heroin addict who listened to talk radio while he worked on an old truck in his driveway.
Why did Paul need to know that? Why did he need to know anything about Lydia at all? Was it stalking if you hired someone else to do it? And wasn’t watching someone without their knowledge another form of rape?
Lydia asked, “Claire, what did you take?” Her voice softened. She rubbed Claire’s arms. “Sweetpea, tell me what you took.”
“Valium.” Claire suddenly wanted to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had called her Sweetpea. “Some Percocet.”
“How many?”
Claire shook her head because it didn’t matter. None of this mattered. “We had a cat named Mr. Sandwich.”
Lydia was understandably perplexed. “Okay.”
“We called him Hammy, like ham in a sandwich. He was always between us. On the couch. In the bed. He only purred when we were both petting him.”
Lydia tilted her head to the side, like she was trying to understand a crazy person.
“Cats know people.” Claire was sure her sister understood this. They had grown up surrounded by animals. None of them could walk through a parking lot without attracting a stray. “If Paul had been a bad person, Hammy would’ve known.” Claire knew she was offering a weak defense, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Isn’t that what you hear, that bad people hate animals?”
Lydia shook her head in confusion. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Claire. Hitler loved dogs.”
“Reductio ad Hitlerum.” Claire couldn’t stop quoting Paul. “It’s when you compare someone to Hitler to win an argument.”
“Are we arguing?”
“Tell me what happened between you and Paul.”
Lydia let out that heavy sigh again. “Why?”
“Because I’ve never heard it before.”
“You wouldn’t let me tell you before. You refused to listen.”
“I’m listening now.”
Lydia glanced around the foyer, making the point that Claire had barely invited her past the front door. What her sister didn’t understand was that Claire could not bear the thought of seeing the cold, soulless house through Lydia’s eyes.
“Please,” Claire begged. “Please, Pepper. Tell me.”
She threw up her hands, as if to dismiss this entire exercise as not worth her time. Still, Lydia said, “We were in his car. The Miata. He put his hand on my knee. I slapped it away.”
Claire realized she was holding her breath. “That was it?”
“You really think that’s it?” Lydia sounded angry. Claire supposed she had every right to be. “He kept driving, and I thought, Okay, we’re just going to ignore that my sister’s loser boyfriend put his hand on my knee. But then he took a turn onto a road I didn’t know, and we were suddenly in the woods.” Lydia’s voice had gone soft. Instead of looking at Claire, she was staring over her shoulder. “He pulled over. He turned off the engine.
I asked him what was going on, and he punched me in the face.”
Claire felt her own fists clench. Paul had never hit anyone in his life. Even in the alley when he was fighting the Snake Man, Paul hadn’t managed to land a punch.
Lydia said, “I was dazed. He started to climb on top of me. I tried to fight back. He punched me again, but I turned my head.” She turned her head slightly, an actor trying to convince the audience. “I reached for the door handle. I don’t know how I managed to get it open. I fell out of the car. He was on top of me. I brought up my knee.” She paused, and Claire remembered a self-defense class she had taken. The instructor had drilled it into them that you couldn’t count on disabling a man by kneeing him in the groin because it was more likely you would miss the mark and piss him off even more.
Lydia continued, “I started running. I got about twenty, maybe thirty feet away before he tackled me. I fell flat on my face. And he got on top of me.” She looked down at the floor. Claire couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing it to look more vulnerable. “I couldn’t breathe. He was crushing me. I could feel my ribs bending like they were going to break.” She put her hand to her ribs. “And he kept saying ‘Tell me you want this.’ ”
Claire felt her heart stop midbeat.
“I still have nightmares about the way he said it—whispering, like it was sexy, when it was just so fucking creepy.” Lydia shuddered. “Sometimes, I’ll fall asleep on my stomach, and I’ll hear his voice in my ear and . . .”