The Pretty Ones (15 page)

Except that now that option was out the window. Her blouse was crumpled on the floor, rust-colored handprints rendering it little more than a rag.

Nell covered her mouth and backed away from the clothes as though they were alive; as though, if disturbed, they'd tell her the story of the previous night.

“Barrett?”

She tried to yell his name, but it came out of her throat as a quiet squeak. She hadn't spoken to him at the club, hadn't dared look at him directly. She wasn't even sure it had really been
him
occupying one of those back booths.

Maybe her eyes had been playing tricks on her.

Maybe she'd just been paranoid.

But now she was sure. Yes, it
had
been him. He had watched her order a drink. He had seen the exchange between her and that creepy Dave guy. He had sat there for hours, watching it all play out the way he had predicted, his anger coming to a boil, building up until he had no choice but to release it onto the world. And after whatever he may have done—
What had he done?—
he'd come back home, pulled down Nell's new clothes, and wiped his hands on them to teach her a lesson. The clothes. The alcohol. The impure thoughts.

Nell reeled around, half expecting to see her brother standing in her open bedroom door with a smirk playing on his lips. The threshold remained empty, but there was a torn piece of yellow paper on top of her dresser. It was propped up against Beary's stomach, placed to make it appear as though Nell's beloved stuffed bear was the one delivering the message.

You're turning into her.

Bloody fingerprints obscured half of the first word, but his message was clear.

She backed away from the stuffed animal, horrified by the way it stared at her with its little glass eyes. She stumbled out of the bedroom, her eyes darting to Barrett's empty chair. The kitchen was deserted. He'd come and gone, and maybe this time for good.

And it was
her
fault.

Whatever he had done,
she
had driven him to it. And was it any wonder? Around every turn, Nell was sending mixed signals. She hated his possessiveness but was terrified to lose him. She wanted it to be him and her forever, all while buying fancy clothes and threatening to go out with girls he couldn't stand the thought of. She had pushed him too far. Dared him to exert his authority. She had made him snap, challenging him at every turn, ignoring his wishes, promising him that everything would be fine. But things were irreparably broken. How could she look at him the same way again? And how could he ever forgive her for turning him into a monster when he was trying to keep her from becoming one herself ?

Nell sank to the floor and pressed her hands to her face, crying into the silence of that sad and crooked apartment.

“Oh
God
!” She scream-wept the words loud enough for the neighbors to hear, silencing herself by pressing a hand over her mouth.

Be quiet,
her mother hissed inside her head.

Act normal.

Go get ready.

Don't be late for work.

.   .   .

Déjà vu.

The elevator dinged. The doors yawned open. The call center was deserted, save for the area in front of the break-room door. But this time the huddle of girls was louder, more panicked. Lamont was in its center. “Girls,
girls
!
”
Her tone was frazzled amid their squawking.

Nell stopped dead at the sight. Maybe it was because she hadn't completely shaken off her fatigue from the night before, but not once had she considered Barrett's second victim was someone she may have known. And as she stood there, she couldn't figure out
why
she hadn't considered such a thing. It seemed so simple. So obvious. So appropriate. So like Barrett to bring Nell's punishment full circle. He was a poet, after all.

Nell's hands shook despite their desperate clasp on her purse. She slowly walked toward the group, her eyes wide, her mind reeling. Would he have dared the risk? This was twice in one week. It was hard to imagine that such tragedy could hit the same group of people a second time; hard to chalk it up to nothing more than a dark coincidence. The police would certainly look for him now. If they weren't at the office already, they were undoubtedly on their way.

Nell didn't stop the way she had on Monday morning, didn't dare linger or draw attention to herself in any way. She drifted to her desk, took a seat, and watched the girls from a safe distance. Her bottom lip quivered. A scream threatened to claw its way up her throat.
What have you done?
she thought to herself.
You goddamn idiot, what the hell have you done?

“I can't . . .” It was the voice of a passing girl. “This is just . . . it's too much. It's
too much!
”

“It isn't safe,” murmured another. “Whoever this is, this
freak
 . . . he knows someone who works here. How can he not? It's obvious.” This was, in everyone's eyes, an attack on the Rambert & Bertram girls—in everyone's eyes, especially Nell's.

“They should send us home,” said a third to a fourth. “Whether they do or not, I'm leaving.”

“I'm not staying either,” said a fifth while passing Nell's desk, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. “I'm packing up. This job isn't worth my life.”

“Better safe than sorry,” said another. “I'm staying long enough to type up my resignation, and then I'm gone.”

Nell tucked her hair behind her ears and gaped at her typewriter, her panic blooming into a thorn of guilt, that thorn scratching into the soft tissue of her heart. Barrett was an idiot. He'd lost his goddamn mind. But he'd done everything to protect her, but what he'd succeeded in doing was disturbing dozens of lives.

“Well, I'm waiting for the cops.” Another voice. “Anything I can do to help them catch this piece of shit, I'll do it.”

Nell squinted at the keys of her machine, trying her damnedest not to cry. That momentary flash of guilt was gone, panic winning out once more. Because the police,
the police . . .

She looked to the dispersing huddle of girls. Harriet Lamont was waving them off, looking beyond frazzled. “They're on their way,” she told them over and over again. “They'll be here any minute. Just sit tight. We're safe if we stick together. Everyone just sit down!” Nobody was listening. Hysteria kept them from hearing anything beyond their own terrified chattering. Their lives were in danger. The Son of Sam had stepped out of the morning headlines and materialized in the middle of their place of work.

They buzzed around the call-center floor while Nell sat frozen at her desk. What, exactly, had happened last night, and to whom? Whose blood was all over the clothes she had shoved into a trash bag and dropped into the Dumpster below Barrett's window? What if the police showed up and dug through the trash? What if one of the homeless bums had discovered them and reported their find? What if the cops were already at the apartment? What if Barrett had run . . . had run and they had drawn their guns, drawn and shot, shot and hit him, hit him and killed . . .
killed
. . .

She pressed her hand tight over her mouth, holding back a cry, but it tore free from her throat when a hand grazed her shoulder. Nell jumped, exhaled a strained yelp. Savannah stood over her, wiping her nose on a tissue.

“Oh God, Nell . . .” Her voice was strained with emotion. “What are we going to do?” Nell mutely shook her head. She had no idea what they were going to do; all she knew was that she had to get home. Savannah tipped her eyes up to the ceiling. She was trying not to cry, though it was clear from the puffiness of her face that she'd done plenty of crying already. “I just can't believe it. Adriana . . .”

Adriana
.

That little slut had come into the Cabana Club just before Nell had meant to leave.

“And Mary Ann.”

Nell's lungs deflated, emptying like a punctured balloon.

And
Mary Ann? Both of them in one night?

“Oh no . . .” Nell whispered.

“And so far apart from each other. They must have been followed, don't you think?”

Nell said nothing. Numb. Hardly hearing a word.

“They said they were going to the Cabana Club last night.” Savannah sniffled, trying to hold it together. “They invited me, but I had to . . . I . . .” Overwhelmed, she pressed the tissue over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Oh my God, what's happening to this city? How can anyone keep living here after this?”

How could Nell and Barrett stay in their same apartment? How could Barrett avoid capture after what he'd done? They would find him. The police would question Nell, and they'd see it written all over her face. Maybe they'd see it all over
her
. She had left the apartment in a dazed rush. She hadn't bothered checking for stains on the clothes she'd ripped from their hangers. What if Barrett hadn't only soiled the clothes she'd found on the floor but wiped his hands on
all
her things and she hadn't noticed?

Nell shot up from her seat. She needed to get out of here, go back home. But just as Nell was about to excuse herself so she could check her clothes in the bathroom, Miriam stalled her exit when she appeared next to Savannah. “It's not the city, Vanna, it's this goddamn office. Someone is picking us off.” She shot Nell a look, and while she couldn't have known who had committed last night's crimes, Nell felt accused. Because why was Miriam looking so aggravated? Did Miriam know that Nell had been at the Cabana Club too? What if Mary Ann had spotted her and called Miriam from the pay phone outside?

Guess who's here. Sweaty old Nell is cozying up to your bartender. Uh-huh. He's about to set sail on the U.S.S. Sullivan.

“Whether you stay or go is up to you,” Miriam told Savannah. “But I'm cutting out of here, packing a bag, and driving up to my folks' place in Montauk until they catch this goddamn loon.”

Savannah dabbed at her eyes with a nod.

“Come with me,” Miriam insisted. “We'll take the train to your place first, then go to mine and take my pop's car. There's no splitting up. You'd have to be crazy . . .”

“But the police . . .” Savannah blubbered.

“We'll stay for the police,” Miriam said. “Lamont's bound to have a fucking heart attack if we don't. But then we're out of here.”

“We'll get fired,” Savannah concluded.

“Jesus,
good
!” Miriam scoffed.

Nell's focus drifted from Savannah to Miriam and back again, waiting for an invitation to join them. She was their friend now, after all. They had invited her to lunch, to happy hour. Miriam had complimented her on her hair ribbon, and Savannah had come up to Nell's desk just now, searching for solace. Certainly they'd be concerned for
her
safety too. It was just as dangerous for Nell as it was for anyone else.

But Nell couldn't go to Montauk. She had to make sure Barrett was okay, that the police hadn't found him. He needed to know that she wasn't mad at him. She wouldn't leave him. No. Despite what he'd done, she never would. Maybe she could talk him into an impromptu vacation. Just a few days down the coast, until the cops tossed these murders into the pile with all the others. Most crimes that happened in the city never got solved, right? With four to five murders per day, it was easy for the police to throw their hands up in surrender, and for the most part, it seemed like that's just what they did. A few days away would do the trick, it
had
to, but she had to get to Barrett first.

“I have to do something before I leave town,” Nell told them, an excuse at the ready. “But I can—”

“Come on, Vanna,” Miriam cut her off, pulling Savannah away from Nell's desk by her elbow. “We'll see you later.”

“If I don't see you before you leave, be safe, Nell,” Savannah pleaded, her voice still warbling with unshed tears.

Nell opened her mouth to say something, but she was struck dumb as they both turned away. Miriam's arm was around Savannah's shoulders. Savannah slunk along like a petulant child.
Be safe.
Was that all Nell was worth, some halfhearted warning? Some fleeting hope that she wouldn't be the next one to get chopped up in a Brooklyn alley?

She swallowed the saliva that had gone bitter in her mouth.

And someone had had the audacity to call
her
a liar?

The memory of that statement, typed up on her transcription, gave her an emotional zing somewhere between sadness and rage. Savannah and Miriam were supposed to be different. She had convinced herself that they actually cared. But no. They were fake, just like the rest of them.

Like Adriana.

Like Mary Ann.

Frauds, just like Linnie Carter.

Nell looked down at her hands, which were balled into tight fists. She stared at the keys of the typewriter, her eyes fixed upon the
H
—
H
for hurt. For hate. For hopelessness.
H
for Harriet Lamont, the woman who had claimed to be like her. Who had told her to change what she didn't like. Who had told her to step out of her comfort zone and make some friends; if Nell just did that, things would be better. Well, Nell had taken that advice, she'd
tried
to make friends, and now everything was ruined, all because Harriet Lamont thought she and Nell were somehow alike.

Cunt.

That rageful voice slithered through her mind.

Stupid know-it-all bitch.

Why was Nell blaming herself for everything that had happened? She was a gutless nobody, a little brown mouse who would
never
have done the things she had done if it hadn't been for her boss putting crazy, impossible ideas in her head.