Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

She loved unpacking—the smell of new paper, the shiny or matte jackets, the raised letters beneath her fingertips, the weight of a real book in her hands, the whisper of paper. She loved hardcovers, and floppy trade paperbacks, the blocky mass markets—each with their own place in the store.

Things have a way of working out, Annie.” She nodded, going for uncertain, fragile. Yes, things had a way of working out if you were a wealthy white man.

Then she fired off another text, an adjunct to the one she’d sent earlier to her stubborn case—just to make sure there wasn’t any confusion. It’s Martha, by the way. From the train.

“My father, I told you, was a monster,” said Charlie. “But he was a master con artist—until it got him killed.” “How?” she asked. “That’s a story for another night. But he taught me everything I know about making the most out of people, situations, and life.”

“What if I told you that I know who your father is?” Pearl shrugged, but something tingled inside her. “What if?” “I found some paperwork in Stella’s bedroom. I know who he is. There’s a name and an address.”

Oh great it’s her father that’s why she going after her

How his BMW glided from the driveway when he left for work, sometimes with his younger daughter (the older already away at college) in the passenger seat. Her glossy black hair, slim body, pretty clothes. She was lovely. But it was more than that. She was oblivious to the darkness in her life; she only knew the light. Pearl could tell by the smooth innocence on her face, the careless way she walked, and tossed her backpack into the trunk, stared at the phone in her hand. Life for her was easy.

How is any of this the child’s fault you fucking dumbass

A long wail, like a siren, escaped her throat. A sound she didn’t even know she could make. It rocketed through her; and then she did it again and again, pounding on the steering wheel. She screamed for herself, for Stella, in rage at the man who was her father, his pretty, clueless daughter—her sister?—the normal life she’d never had.

All these women—her mother, herself, the girl in Vegas, Geneva, Jacqueline, even Pearl—fucked over by terrible men. They were lied to, cheated on, beaten, killed because of male whims, male problems, their loss of control. Her father, her husband. Why were they so broken?

She thought of the girl her mother described, thin and feral, following Cora in the grocery store. Someone on the outside, looking for a way in. Or maybe Cora was right about Pearl. That she was just a destroyer. Someone in pain, looking to give pain to others. She could be either. Or both.

Con artists. It seemed like such an old-fashioned idea, something almost amusing, harmless, a minor scam like a shell game or three-card monte. An email that you might get from a Nigerian prince. Not this. Not lives destroyed, women hurt and killed.

Geneva was a blackmailer and a home wrecker, but she was a good nanny; she took great care of Oliver and Stephen. She tended to them, played with them, and cared for them as well as Selena could have. The boys loved her; and they were going to miss her.

Under other circumstances, Pearl might have been a good friend, a good sister; and she’d saved Selena’s life, even as she’d essentially destroyed it.

Graham had been a good husband much of the time, a decent father. She’d loved him, forgiven him, believed in him. Then, he’d tried to...

They were bad people who had done unconscionable things. But there was more to them than that. Detective Crowe could never understand all the layers, all the facets, all the glittering good folded in with the bad. How complicated we ...

As they drove from the property, she looked in the rearview mirror to see billowing clouds of black smoke where the house would be. The place Pop had brought her that night so long ago. Where she lived with Pearl after Pop was gone. It was their home, in a weird way. She was about to say something, to ask Pearl what she had done. But, of course, she’d burn it all to the ground. That was her way.

“It’s Pearl,” she said, “Pearl Behr.” The name sounded off, felt awkward and stiff in her mouth like a lie. But it was the truest thing she’d said in a while. There was a drawn breath, a moment of surprised silence. Then, “Hi, Pearl. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time.” “I know,” she said. “Thank you. I think.”

Selena was supposed to report contact to the police, but she wasn’t going to do that. In her heart, there was a painful kind of gratitude. She’d destroyed Selena’s life. She’d saved Selena’s life. She’d taken something. Given something. It was complicated.

whatever the missive, Pearl always ended her communications the same way, a kind of inside joke. Selena waited, watching the little gray dots pulse. It’s Martha, by the way. From the train.