51. Martha
Martha
I can see Bambi’s pissed at me before I even shut off the engine.
“You brought her?” Bambi’s eyes dart back and forth from me to Emmy, searching for an explanation.
“Yes,” I say calmly.
Bambi throws up her hands. “I don’t have time for this. Jason’s interview is winding up.”
“Right,” I say. “Where are your bags?”
She points over to the corner, where a few bags are positioned against the wall.
“Okay. I’ll load them into the car. Emmy, you change over the license plates on the Beetle.”
“Got it,” Emmy says, and goes to the trunk to get the Colorado plates she bought for us on Alibaba, just like I asked.
Clever little shit. In a few moments, they’re changed over.
I load up the bags myself into the back seat and hand Bambi my keys.
She appears to be shaking. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
She nods once. “Yes.” She grips my wrist and pulls me into her. “There’s something else. They found out I’m … I’m pregnant. It’s all over the news.”
“How the fuck?” I slip. “I mean, how did this happen?”
Bambi’s eyes narrow. “No one knew. Except for you.”
I shove past her toward the entrance to the house, keeping my voice low. “And why would I tell them, Bambi?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?” A moment of silence between us.
“I didn’t tell anybody anything, Bambi. I’m trying to protect you!”
Emmy looks between us and holds up the bag containing the blonde-colored wig and baseball cap I asked her for. “Speaking of which,” she says. “You’re both going to need to put these on to drive out of here. And Bambi, we’ll need your keys, please.”
Bambi nods and goes to the wall where she plucks a set of keys from a security box. “Here,” she says and hands them to me. “This better work.”
“It will. I’ll drive out, disguised as you in your car, to distract the paparazzi. You take my car, wear the hat, and go straight for the freeway like I told you. No one will think to follow you.”
She looks like she’s about to say something, then both of us freeze as footsteps approach from behind the door to the house.
“Go!” I whisper. It’s time. Bambi slips inside, and I close the interior door to the garage. Emmy and I slip past the Wraith and wait in the corner of the dimly lit garage. I hear her call Jason’s name beyond the door, then silence.
“Why are we helping her again?” Emmy whispers to me in the dark.
“Because she needs us,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And we’re doing what you wanted, remember? Getting even.”
Emmy nods once and looks at the car. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say calmly. And then, out of a strange and rare feeling of pity,
I say, “Are you okay?” She closes her eyes for a brief moment, then gestures to the car. “I remember it being much bigger.”
Nicola’s memory flashes, pure white, blue-sky day. The hood ornament gripping flesh, piercing. “Your mom does, too,” I tell her. She flashes me a look, and I instantly regret bringing her mom into this. “That’s normal.”
She goes to the car and runs her fingertips along the body. “So, we’re going to drive this now?
“No,” I say. That would be stupid.”
Emmy touches the hood ornament with her fingers. I follow her as she traces the length of the car. “I remember feeling like I was flying,” she says. “It was terrifying, and just a short minute, but I was in the air. Everything looked red. Even the sky. That was before I felt my head.”
She pauses at the helm of the car, the crest of the grill shining even in the dark. Her hand presses into the cool metal and strokes the length of it. “Are you sure this is the car?”
I decide to tell her. What harm can it do? She needs to see like I do. “Yes,” I tell her. “I have evidence, remember?”
“Show me.”
I fumble for her hand in the dark and give her the tiny black lock of hair that I’ve taken to keeping in my pocket these past few days. Her hair. “What is this?”
“I found it in the tire,” I tell her. “It was still there all this time.”
“Is this …” She turns the tiny object over in her hand, her fingers shaking. “Is this my hair?”
I rub my fingers back over it, feeling the texture. The sticky edges, now dried, the long lock of matted hair.
She fishes in her pocket and whips out her phone. The flashlight carves a narrow beam in the darkness, her long shadow breached across its surface. She holds out her shaking hand into the light and examines the little black tendril.
Emmy pulls her hand back and looks at me. “This isn’t my hair, Martha.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is. That’s exactly what it is.”
She hands it to me again. “It’s just a piece of string. See for yourself.”
I take the tendril from her and hold it in the light. The ends fray into artificial strands. The weave winds too neatly. It could be her hair. It could be. It should be. I tuck it away quickly. Some things are better left in the dark.
“What does this mean?” Emmy says, switching off her light, her voice a low vibration in the pitch black.
The back of my neck begins to prick and burn. Nicola’s voice is a distant hum of vibration in my ears. It tickles deep inside, an inner irksome itch that cannot be scratched. You know, Martha, don’t you? You know, and you have to stop this.
“Nothing,” I say and stand up from the cool garage floor. “It means nothing at all. We have a plan, and we need to get going.”
I take Emmy’s hand and lead her over to the Beetle. “Get in. We need to hurry.”
She looks at me funnily for a quick moment. “What? I’m not coming with you?”
“You’re part of the decoy, Emmy. Remember? Two of us drove in. They need to see the two of you drive out.”
“I don’t want to go with her!”
“That ship has sailed, Emmy. Now get in the car.”
“No, Martha. I’m not going with her.”
It’s strange. I never thought it would come to this—taking the life of a young girl—but then again, this is the cleanest way. Emmy is the only person besides Bambi who knows me for me and not for Nicola. It’s a simple swap. A name change. Some new ID. Then everything belongs to me.
I shudder with a brief feeling of elation, the pure exultation of the moment springing through every nerve ending, even the dead ones.
I’ve always wanted to live—really live—without the threat of one day going back, not ever to return.
For a brief moment, I imagine how it will feel, one last second to stave off whatever small river of compassion might be within me for the girl so that I can do what must be done before Nicola senses too much.
My fingers curl around the screwdriver’s slender handle as I lift it into the air behind her. It will be quick and painless. She won’t even know what happened.
A noise from inside the house. Something crashes to the floor. Glass shatters, and Bambi screams. She can’t die. I need her. I’ve waited far too long.
My adrenaline pulses as I run inside and stop dead in my tracks.