Pretty Girls

  She slicked back her hair with water, then fingered it into a soft wave to dry. There was makeup in her purse. Foundation. Concealer. Eye shadow. Blush. Powder. Mascara. Eyeliner. She winced as she patted her finger around the bruise. The pain was worth it, because she felt like she was slowly coming back to herself.

  The hour and a half of sleep had probably helped more than the ninety-­dollar concealer. She felt her thoughts whirring back awake. She remembered the question she had told Nolan he needed to ask: Why was Paul sticking around?

  He wanted the USB drive. Claire was not so narcissistic to think that her husband was waiting around for her. Paul was a survivor. He was risking his safety in order to get the USB drive, and he was telling Claire the things he thought she wanted to hear because keeping her onside was the best way to get it.

  Saying he loved her was the carrot. Lydia was the stick.

  Nolan thought that Paul was offering evidence of the masked man’s identity, but Claire knew that Paul wasn’t going to give the FBI evidence against himself. So what did that leave? What information could be on the drive that was so valuable that Paul was risking his freedom?

  “His customer list,” Claire told her reflection. It was the only thing that made sense. On the phone yesterday, Paul had claimed he got into the family business because he needed tuition. Setting aside that he had graduated years ago, what kind of money were ­people willing to pay to watch his movies? And just how many names were on his customer list?

  Gerald Scott’s VHS collection went back at least twenty-­four years. There were at least one hundred videotapes in the garage. The archived equipment on the metal shelves pointed to various other means of duplication. Floppy drives for photographs. DVDs for movies. The super Mac to upload edited footage to the Internet. There had to be an international component. Paul had taken Claire to Germany and Holland more times than she could count. He’d said he was going to conferences during the day, but she had no way of knowing exactly what he did with his time.

  Paul couldn’t be the only man in this business, but if she knew her husband, he was the best. He would franchise the concept to other men in other parts of the world. He would demand top dollar. He would control every aspect of the market.

  So long as he had his client list, Paul could operate the business from anywhere in the world.

  The bathroom door opened. Two young girls came in. They were giggling and happy and carrying large Starbucks cups filled with sugary, iced concoctions.

  Claire drained the water from the sink. She checked her makeup. The bruise still showed in a certain light, but she could easily explain the damage. Adam had seen her at the funeral. He knew that her cheek was scraped.

  The lobby was filled with travelers in search of breakfast. Claire looked for Jacob Mayhew and Harvey Falke, but they were nowhere in sight. She knew from movies that FBI agents tended to wear earbuds with squiggly black wires, so she scanned the ears of all the single men in the vicinity. And then she looked at the women, because women were in the FBI, too. Claire was fairly certain that she was looking at tourists and business­people because they were all vastly out of shape and she assumed you had to be fit to work for the FBI.

  Her refreshed brain easily jumped to the next conclusion: no one had found her in the Hyatt, which meant that Paul had not given them her location, which meant that Paul was not working with Jacob Mayhew or the FBI, which meant that by extension, he was not working with Johnny Jackson.

  Probably.

  A quick look outside the hotel revealed that the light mist had turned into a steady rain. Claire went up one floor and took the skybridge, which was part of an eighteen-­building, ten-­block project to help tourists navigate the convention corridor without passing out in the sweltering summer heat.

  Quinn + Scott had worked on two of the skybridges. Paul had given Claire a tour of all eighteen, taking her up and down elevators and escalators to access the glass-­enclosed bridges spanning countless downtown streets. He’d pointed out various architectural details and told her stories about the buildings that had been torn down to clear way for new ones. The last part of the tour had ended at the Hyatt skybridge, which was closed off for construction. The sun had been setting over the skyline. The Hyatt’s pool had sparkled below. They’d had a picnic on a blanket with chocolate cake and champagne.

  Claire looked away from the pool as she walked across the bridge toward the Marriott Marquis. Traffic was clogging the streets as commuters filled the Peachtree Center complex, which was comprised of fourteen different buildings that housed everything from corporate offices to several shopping areas. She felt like her head was mounted on a swivel as she looked for earbuds or Mayhew or Harvey or Nolan or any other face that seemed threatening or familiar. If none of them were aligned with Paul, then all of them would have a reason to use Claire as leverage. She couldn’t afford another twelve-­hour detour while Lydia was waiting.

  Not waiting, because Lydia had already given up.

  Claire jogged down another set of escalators as she headed toward the next skybridge. She couldn’t let herself dwell on what was happening to Lydia. Claire was making progress. That was what mattered right now. She had to focus on the task at hand, which was getting the USB drive from Adam. She kept reminding herself of something Nolan had revealed during the interrogation: They had checked Paul’s office computer.

  Adam had been the one who called in the FBI in the first place. He would know that they would search Paul’s office and computer. Actually, if Adam was part of an operation that produced and distributed snuff porn, no matter how much money Paul stole from him, there was no way in hell he would be stupid enough to involve any law enforcement agencies, let alone the FBI.

  She felt some of the weight lift off her shoulders as she made her way up to the skybridge that connected the last AmericasMart building to the Museum Tower. From there, it was just a brisk walk outside to the Olympic Tower on Centennial Park Drive.

  Claire darted under awnings to avoid the pelting rain. She usually drove downtown every few weeks to have lunch with Paul. She had a Quinn + Scott ID in her purse, which she used in the main lobby to get through the turnstiles. The office was on the top floor of the tower, overlooking Centennial Park, a twenty-­one-­acre remnant from the Olympics. As part of a fund-­raising effort, the Olympic committee had sold personalized engraved bricks that lined the walkways. One of the last presents her father had given her was a brick in the park with Claire’s name on it. He’d purchased one for Lydia and Julia, too.

  Claire had shown Paul the bricks. She wondered if he sometimes looked down from his penthouse office and smiled.

  The elevator opened onto the Quinn + Scott floor. It was 9:05 in the morning. The secretaries and underlings had probably been ten minutes early. They were bustling around their desks and rushing around with cups of coffee in their hands and bagels stuck in their mouths.

  They all came to a stop when they saw Claire.

  There were awkward looks and nervous glances, which confused Claire until she remembered that the last time they had seen her, she’d been standing in front of her husband’s coffin.

  “Mrs. Scott?” One of the receptionists came around the high desk that separated the lobby from the offices. Everything was open-­plan and highly designed with satin chromes and bleached woods and no obstructions to the usually spectacular view of the park.

  Claire had stood right on this spot while Paul and Adam celebrated their new, larger space with picklebacks and pizza, a disgusting holdover from their college years.

  “Mrs. Scott?” the receptionist repeated. She was young and pretty and blonde and exactly Paul’s type. Both Pauls, because the girl could be a young Claire.

  Claire said, “I need to see Adam.”

  “I’ll buzz him.” She reached over the counter for the phone. Her skirt was tight around her ass. Her left foot came up as she bent
her knee. “There’s a presentation in the—­”

  “I’ll find him.” Claire couldn’t wait any longer. She walked through the open offices. Every eye followed her across the room. She went down the long hallway that housed the associates who’d earned the luxury of an office door. The presentation room was opposite the conference room, which looked over the park. Paul had explained the reasoning to Claire when they toured the empty shell of the top floor. Wow the customers with the million-­dollar view, then take them into the presentation room and wow them with the work.

  Presentation Studio. That’s what Paul had called it. Claire had forgotten until she saw the sign on the closed door. She didn’t bother knocking.

  Adam swiveled around in his chair. He was watching a dry run of the presentation. Claire saw a slew of numbers alongside a quote from the mayor boasting that Atlanta was set to surpass Las Vegas for number of convention visitors.

  “Claire?” Adam turned on the lights. He closed the door. He took her hands. “Is something wrong?”

  She looked down at their hands. She would never feel another man’s touch without wondering whether or not she could really trust him.

  She told Adam, “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He indicated the chairs, but Claire didn’t sit down. “I was shitty to you with that note. I’m sorry I threatened you. I want you to know that I would’ve never gotten the lawyers involved. I needed the files, but I didn’t have to act like a thug.”

  Claire wasn’t sure what to say. Her wariness had returned. Paul was such a good actor. Was Adam a good actor, too? Nolan claimed he’d grilled the shit out of Adam, but Nolan was a spectacular liar. They were all so much better at this than Claire.

  She told Adam, “I know about the money.”

  He winced. “I should’ve handled that between me and Paul.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that I’m sorry.”

  “Please.” Claire touched his hand. The touch turned into a stroke, and his demeanor softened as easily as if she had pressed a button.

  She said, “I want to know, Adam. Tell me what happened.”

  “Things haven’t been good between us for a while. I guess that’s partly my fault. That whole thing with you was crazy.” He assured Claire, “Not that it wasn’t good, but it wasn’t right. I love Sheila. I know you loved Paul.”

  “I did,” she agreed. “I thought you did, too. You’ve known him for twenty-­one years.”

  Adam went silent again. She touched her fingers to his cheek so that he would look at her. “Tell me.”

  He shook his head again, but he said, “You know he had his moods, his bouts with depression.”

  Claire had always thought that Paul was the most even-­keeled person she had ever known. She guessed, “He got it from his dad.”

  Adam didn’t disagree with her. “It seemed like lately, he couldn’t climb out of it. I guess it’s been a year, maybe two, since I felt like we were really friends. He always kept me at arm’s length, but this was different. And it hurt.” Adam did in fact look hurt. “I acted out. I shouldn’t have called the FBI, and believe me, I’m processing through it with my therapist, but something made me snap.”

  Claire was reminded of one of the reasons she had never seen herself in anything long-­term with Adam Quinn. He was constantly talking about his feelings.

  He said, “I wasn’t just pissed off about the money. It was one more thing on top of the mood swings and the temper tantrums and his need to control everything and—­I never meant for it to escalate. When that asshole from the FBI handcuffed him and walked him out of the office, I knew that was it. The look on Paul’s face. I’ve never seen him angry like that. He just kind of turned into this guy I had never seen before.”

  Claire had seen what that guy was capable of. Adam was lucky Paul had been in handcuffs. “You dropped the charges. Was that because Paul paid the money back?”

  “No.” He looked away from Claire. “I paid it back.”

  Claire was sure she’d heard wrong. She had to repeat his words to make sure. “You paid back the money.”

  “He knew about us. The three times.”

  The three times.

  Claire had been with Adam Quinn three times: at the Christmas party, during the golf tournament, and in the bathroom down the hallway while Paul was downstairs waiting for them to join him for lunch.

  Fred Nolan had the answer to his first curious thing. Paul had stolen one million dollars for each time Adam had fucked her.

  “I’m sorry,” Adam said.

  Claire felt foolish, but only because she hadn’t figured it out on her own. Paul and Adam had always been driven by money. “He took enough money to get your attention, but not enough to make you call the police. Except that you did. You called in the FBI.”

  Adam nodded sheepishly. “Sheila pushed me into doing it. I was pissed off—­I mean, why? And then it snowballed into them arresting Paul and searching his office and . . .” His voice trailed off. “I actually ended up begging him for his forgiveness. I mean, yeah, what I did was wrong, but we’re partners, and we had to find a way to be able to work together again, so . . .”

  “You paid him a three-­million-­dollar penalty.” Claire didn’t have the luxury of processing her feelings. “I guess if I’m going to be a whore, at least I’m not a cheap one.”

  “Hey—­”

  “I need the USB drive back, the one I left for you in the mailbox.”

  “Of course.” Adam walked over to the projector. His briefcase was open beside it. She supposed this was the last bit of proof she needed that Paul had hidden his sick venture from his best friend. Or former best friend, as seemed to be the case.

  Adam held up the key tag. “I already downloaded the files I needed. Can I help you with—­”

  Claire took the drive out of his hand. “I need to use the computer in Paul’s office.”

  “Sure. I can have—­”

  “I know where it is.”

  Claire walked down the hallway with the key tag clenched in her hand. She had Paul’s customer list. Claire was sure of it. But she couldn’t get Fred Nolan’s words out of her head: Trust but verify.

  The lights were off in Paul’s office. His chair was tucked under his desk. The blotter was clear. There were no stray papers. The stapler was aligned to the pencil cup was aligned to the lamp. Anyone would assume that his office had been cleaned out, but Claire knew differently.

  She sat in Paul’s chair. The computer was still on. She stuck the USB connector into the back of the iMac. Paul hadn’t logged out of the system. She could picture him sitting behind his desk when Fred Nolan came to tell him that it was time to fake his death. Paul wouldn’t have been able to do anything but stand up and leave.

  So of course he had taken the time to slide his chair back under his desk at a precise angle to the legs.

  Claire double clicked on the USB drive. There were two folders, one for Adam’s Work in Progress files and the other for the software that ran the USB drive. She clicked open the software folder. She scanned the files, which all had technical-­looking names and .exe extensions. She checked the dates. Paul had saved the files onto the drive two days before his staged murder.

  Claire scrolled to the bottom of the list. The last file Paul had saved was titled FFN.exe. In the garage two nights ago, Claire had checked the USB drive for movies, but that had been before she discovered the true depth of her husband’s depravities. She knew better than to take things at face value now. She also knew that folders didn’t require extensions.

  FFN. Fred F. Nolan. Claire had seen the man’s initials on his handkerchief.

  She clicked open the folder.

  A prompt came up asking for a password.

  Claire stared a
t the screen until the prompt blurred. She had guessed the other passwords with the notion that she knew her husband. This password had been set by the Paul Scott she had never met—­the one who donned a mask to film himself raping and murdering young women. The one who charged his best friend a million bucks a pop to fuck his wife. The one who had found his father’s stash of movies and decided to scale up the business.

  Paul must have watched the tapes on the same VCR that Lydia and Claire had seen in the Fuller house. Claire imagined her young, awkward husband sitting in front of the television watching his dead father’s movies for the first time. Was Paul surprised by what he saw? Was he disgusted? She wanted to think that he’d been outraged, and repulsed, and that habituation and necessity had compelled him not only to sell the tapes, but also to try out his father’s deviations for himself.

  But then less than six years later, Paul was meeting Claire in the computer lab. Surely, he knew exactly who Claire was, exactly who her sister was. Surely, he had watched Julia’s movie dozens, maybe hundreds of times by then.

  Claire’s hands were surprisingly steady on the keyboard as she typed in the password: 03041991.

  No mnemonics. No acronyms. March 4, 1991, the day that her sister had gone missing. The day that had started it all.

  She pressed ENTER. The rainbow wheel started to spin.

  The folder opened. She saw a list of files.

  .xls—­Excel spreadsheet.

  There were sixteen spreadsheets in all.

  She opened the first spreadsheet. There were five columns: Name, email, address, bank routing info, member since.

  Member since.

  Claire scrolled down the list. Fifty names in total. Some of the memberships went back thirty years. They were anywhere from Germany to Switzerland to New Zealand. Several addresses were in Dubai.

  She had been right. Paul needed his customer list. Was Mayhew looking for it, too? Did he want to take over Paul’s business? Or was Johnny Jackson sending the police to clean up his nephew’s mess?