Vera #2
I need advice, but I can’t call Lisander. I don’t want her to know that things are looking worse than ever for Ana. And I
don’t want to tell her that Regina Hayes is running off at the mouth. Because who told her about The Cove? Did Ana tell Paul? Did Paul tell Regina? Did she already know about us? What was she doing there the night
that photo was taken? Martini night, of all things. I don’t even remember it, really.
Meanwhile Ana’s right that it’s hard to keep a secret these days—the information age and all of that.
Still, women like us have been operating in secrecy for centuries.
There’s a long lineage of female herbalists and botanists, tracing our history back to Locusta, who was the poison maker for
high-profile ancient Romans like Emperor Claudius, Empress Agrippina the Younger, and Nero. Ladies Catherine and Marie de
Medici were implicated in more than a few deaths. These were woman who were respected and feared—they could heal, or they
could kill depending on the client, the need. But the 1300s saw a growing hatred and distrust toward female herbalists. We
became seen as witches, and over the next three centuries we were burned, drowned, hanged, and crushed. Female power is terrifying.
Because women aren’t supposed to kill.
We are the life bringers. We are the ones meant to bear up, to endure, to stand by and do nothing. Men are supposed to take
us to their beds with trust and ease. In the kitchen, we’re only meant to create things that nourish, not use our rightful
place in home and garden to cause harm.
Finally, when things are as neat as they can be, I sit at the kitchen table and open my laptop.
What am I looking for?
Anything that will take Detective Bandeau’s attention away from my sister and The Cove.
I enter “Paul Hayes” into the search bar and click on the news tab, scroll through the current spate of articles about his
death, the discovery of his body, pictures of the still-missing Amanda Alessi.
Suspect? Victim? Where is Amanda Alessi? reads the headline of one article, including that now-famed picture of the toes, beach, and clinking glasses. The article
is just blather, possibly written by AI, published on some obscure crime blog.
But it’s a fair point. Where is Amanda Alessi? The girl with the framed picture of us in her house? I start clicking around the web.
First, I watch a video of her mother crying, begging for information. I feel a pang, every mother’s worst nightmare. Then
it’s on to social media. On Amanda’s Facebook page, there’s a post from someone named Jessie Parker. I click on her page and
recognize her from the framed picture.
She’s posted a picture of herself and Amanda cheek to cheek, along with a plea for information.
Come home to us, girl. We miss you.
The comments are typically inane—lots of crying-face emojis and broken hearts—still I scroll, looking for connections.
Finally, a comment catches my eye because of its flurry of emojis. A closer look reveals that it’s from Iggy, time-stamped after the brunch and before she fell ill.
Okay, wow. So, Iggy knew Amanda and Jessie well enough to be engaged with them on social media. Iggy’s ill. Amanda is missing.
That’s a connection, right?
I do a little more hunting around, find Jessie Parker on ConnectIn. It doesn’t take long to discover that she once worked
at the same advertising firm that fired Paul.
Another connection.
Iggy’s comment on Jessie’s post: Sending all light and love for protection and wellness for Mandy.
I cast about on Iggy’s socials and find that her online business has grown considerably. Ana’s mentioned it before, but I
didn’t pay much attention. Like I said, I ignore The Cove and its members.
Protection.
I think about the effigy the detective found in the woods and honestly, it scares me. Who left it there? Members of The Cove,
whatever their practice, are rarely so careless. We have spent centuries hiding in the shadows, fearing men and their persecution.
We know how to cover our tracks. The photograph was grainy, so I didn’t get a close enough look to see if I recognized the
handiwork.
I keep scrolling—articles, Reddit threads, blogs, social media, the typical barfing mouth of the internet. Finally, I am sick
with it. Eyes aching, central nervous system buzzing.
There’s one image of Paul that comes up again and again in the articles, some executive headshot that manages to make him
look smarmy and boyish all at once, his hair weirdly swept to the side, his teeth too white, eyes distant, skin airbrushed
and plastic smooth.
The first time I met Paul, Ana brought him to a July 4th barbecue we hosted at our country club. It was rare, that Ana would bring someone to meet me, to meet us, because she considers me to be a “judgy bitch” who “hates everyone she likes.” Which I guess is mostly true. I liked Brock,
though. He was sensitive and kind and good with Ana, smoothing some of her rough edges. But that obviously was doomed from
the start. I figured she’d tire of him and move on, which she did.
Honestly, I disliked Paul Hayes on sight. The way he kept a possessive hand on Ana’s back, glanced around at the features
of the club, our wealthy friends, the way his eyes fell on my diamond ring, even how solicitous he was with Coraline and Autumn.
But with Brad and Paul it was all backslapping hugs and boisterous man laughter. Apparently, they already knew each other
from the local chamber of commerce. It’s so easy for them, isn’t it? Men know how to lift each other up, giving each other
business, recommendations, contacts that can help with this or that.
“I don’t like him,” I told Brad when we found a moment alone at the bar. I kept my eyes on Paul as he leaned into Ana, whispering
something to her. She smiled, sly, eyelashes batting.
“Darling,” Brad said, clinking my glass. “You don’t like anyone. You didn’t even like me when we first met.”
True.
“Just give him a minute,” Brad urged when I didn’t bother to respond. “He’s an acquired taste.”
Later as the event was winding down, and the kids were floating in the pool with their friends, Paul approached me.
I was sitting on a lounge chair, watching the sun go down and feeling a wash of gratitude for the life we had been able to give Grant and Coraline, watching them play and tease each other with ease, their beautiful young bodies, their ready smiles.
Autumn was there. And the girl Grant has had a crush on forever but never does anything about, Dahlia.
I can’t speak for the rest of the kids, but mine have never known fear, or hunger.
They’ve never watched their parents lose control of themselves, their lives.
And that innocence of the world and what could happen if you didn’t keep a grip on the reins was a golden halo around them.
In the setting sun, I swear I could almost see it.
“May I?” Paul asked, interrupting my thoughts, pointing to the chair beside me.
“Of course,” I said.
My husband, Brad, is very pretty with refined features and thickly lashed eyes; his voice is soft, touch gentle, smile ready.
He’s svelte, stylish, refined. Unlike my father in every way. On the other hand, in Paul I recognized Mac’s brand of virility,
the squareness of his jaw, the ripple of muscles in his forearm, his gravelly voice. Despite his thick Rolex, manicured nails,
that carefully styled hair, I saw him for what he was. A thug.
“I know you and your sister are very close,” he said, squinting into the sun. “She means the world to me. I wanted you to
know that.”
There was a shriek from the pool, and I looked over to see that Grant had dunked Coraline; she emerged from the water laughing,
splashing at her brother, who looked very pleased with himself.
“You have a beautiful family,” he said. “I hope to be a part of it.”
I almost guffawed at that. “Well,” I said, turning my attention to him, and making sure to pin him with my gaze. “Let’s not
get ahead of ourselves.”
A slow smile spread across his face. I didn’t like the look of it. I felt a wave of toxic energy, and I think right then I
knew he was going to be trouble.
“Well,” he said, matching my tone. “I think we’ll be going. Thank you for an enjoyable afternoon.”
I returned his fake smile. “Thank you so much for coming.”
We?
Ana was part of my “we,” not his. Still, I watched as he approached my sister, whispered something to her. She threw me a dark look, a wave, and then they were gone. I felt something small and unpleasant squirm in my middle.
Brad sat down beside me where Paul had just been, watched as Ana and Paul disappeared through the doors from the pool deck.
“Making friends?”
“I have enough friends.”
His smile was loving, indulgent. “He’s not that bad. She seems happy.”
Even good men don’t see what women see. They don’t have to. When men hear about crime, their interest tends to be in the perpetrator.
When women hear about crime, we more strongly identify with the victim. Women have to stay attuned to cues. Because a misstep
leaves us vulnerable.
“He asked for a meeting,” said Brad. “He wants to pitch his firm.”
I laughed, but it came out more like a bark. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll hear him out. Just to keep relations.”
I gave him a wave to say I couldn’t care less what he does. But there was no world in which we were hiring Paul Hayes’s advertising
firm.
“I hope for his sake he stays on your good side,” said Brad.
We exchanged a look, more shrieking from the pool. The poolside waiter in his crisp white shorts and blue polo shirt delivered
two flutes of champagne.
Brad took them both, offered thanks to the waiter, then handed me a glass.
“Are we celebrating?” I asked.
“Always,” he answered. “Let’s drink to Ana’s happiness. I know that’s what you want.”
He was right of course. I wanted Ana to be happy, well coupled, taken care of. I would do anything to protect her from someone
who might harm her, because my love for her is so fierce. She’s my baby sister.
“And you just want her married so that there will be someone else other than me to take care of her.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he said, clinking glasses again.
“We’re a package deal,” I reminded him.
He sipped his champagne.
Now, I keep scrolling. Click. Click. Click.
Paul Hayes, Maverick Entrepreneur. A phoenix-from-the-ashes puff piece about how he got fired and started his own business in one of those ad-heavy local glossy
mags.
Paul Hayes Donates $100,000 to Local Youth Center. Another fluff piece with a picture of Paul holding a big check, surrounded by kids. “A place like this saved me when I was a kid growing up with nothing. It’s truly an honor to give back to the community.”
Paul Hayes Nominated for Businessperson of the Year Award.
This is the most recent news item before the news of his murder, so I click on it, scroll through the article. The award is
actually kind of a big deal, not the typical local org offering self-congratulatory faux accolades to the highest bidder.
This one was a state award that came with prestige, a glitzy gala that was often attended by high-ranking government officials,
and garnered a great deal of press coverage. Brad had been nominated and won a few years back, and it skyrocketed our business.
I scroll through the list of other nominees until I come to a name I know well.
Esme Carlton, founder and owner of You Play Like a Grrl, a gaming company devoted to hiring and incubating female programmers, helping them develop games and other tech products
in a male-dominated market. Her company has won awards for the most employee-friendly work environment with flex hours for
new mothers, on-site day care, generous leave, and health insurance. Most famously YPLG, Inc hired one of the programmers
who would go on to create Red World, the most popular video game maybe ever. Esme has made a fortune, donates copiously to local causes, and dedicates herself to a grueling speaking schedule where she travels to schools, trying to inspire girls to go into technology fields.
And yet there isn’t a fraction of the news coverage that’s been devoted to Paul—who was fired for sexual harassment from his
last job, then poached all his clients to open his new firm.
Esme railed after that Business Journal article last year, “50 under 50.” She wasn’t mentioned, but Paul was lauded. Ana was angry for her, I remember. But it wasn’t
more than a couple of months after that that Paul and Ana started dating.
I stare at Esme’s picture, that smile, the dimple in her cheek, those glittering dark eyes. If there’s one word I would use
to describe her it’s kind. A corporate killer, for sure, savvy and hardworking. As a woman, you don’t build a successful company
without being a bit of a badass. But she’s a woman who cares deeply about her friends, her wife, her employees. She’s generous
to a fault. And I can’t see her killing a man for a regional award. Still, it stings when someone with far less talent and
grace than you possess seems to take all the wins. Not because he’s better than you are. But because he’s a man.
Sometimes when we’re pushed to our limit, there’s no telling what we’ll do.
I have a couple of hours, since Brad is picking the kids up from school. I decide to pay Esme a visit.
But before I do, I go down to the basement to take a closer look at the doll that I found on my porch, just to see if it offers
any clues.
But when I get to my workbench, I draw in a breath.
It’s gone.