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Copyright © 2026 Ashley Mansour

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ISBN: 979-8-9948149-0-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2026933792

First Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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For Craig, Bella, and Bernie.
You are my entire world.

Prologue

No one likes to be kept in the dark.

In the dark, everything is murky, even the Los Angeles sky.

But the day of Nicola’s accident, I had a pretty clear view of things. It tends to be that way—clear—when Nicola isn’t.

Nicola, Ben, and their daughter, Emmy, were walking holding hands, something the three of them hadn’t done since Emmy was a little kid. I felt the itch in Nicola’s palm, like she didn’t want to hold hands. But Emmy insisted. She was between them, arms outstretched, making that little humming sound she sometimes made when she was nervous or lost in thought. Ben walked on slightly ahead, his head down, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.

Up ahead, the road was clear. The sun covered everything in butter-yellow light. Crows perched in the bare-barked trees and made long, scratchy cries like a group of smokers laughing. They rustled leaves and crossed the pavement before them. But the trees were still, like the air had been sucked out of the city. Up ahead, the road was clear.

The three of them approached the corner, Emmy and Nicola chatting aimlessly. Ben narrowed his eyes and squinted at the screen as if the sky was too bright. He stepped out into the road first. Emmy, next. She skipped slightly—braids flying—and pulled her mom’s arm.

Nicola looked up and saw one of the crows overhead, its beak open, making a dreadful sound. When she looked back at the road, her gut pinged with a horrible dread she couldn’t place.

Then she—we—saw it.

From the middle distance, something large and white hurtled into view, its body glinting in the sun. Emmy screamed. Nicola tried to pull her back, but one by one, her fingers slipped out of her grasp.

It was too late.

Nicola’s body collided with the big, white thing, and in the next moment, she was airborne, tumbling through the air as if she had been taken by a tornado. Her thoughts spiraled with her, spinning out of control.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to live.

Don’t let me die.

I’m going to die.

She kept spiraling, around and around, until I stopped her with a simple suggestion: Breathe, Nicola. Breathe. We have this power, those of us who live in the darkness.

The asphalt grated her spine. It must have hurt, but Nicola did not cry. Perhaps because the air was too full of Emmy’s screams.

She rolled to her left, her left arm pinned against her chest like a piece of limp fabric. Her left leg lay stretched out before her perfectly straight, but dead. Cold. Frozen in place. She rolled to her side and saw Emmy, blood coating half of her face as though she were wearing a mask. Five feet away, Ben lay in the road unmoving, his body contorted, his face turned away.

Overhead, the stretch of blue sky angled down Beverly Boulevard and went on forever. Cars passed, some honking, others slowing to stop and help or to get a better look. Nicola grunted and heaved herself along the ground, her jaw gritting with pain. She reached for Emmy, reached for Ben.

The white body of the car stirred. A door opened. A black polished shoe emerged onto the asphalt as the driver leaned out, then disappeared again as the door shut. I heard the engine as the car started and rolled backwards, slow at first, then picking up speed until it was gone.

1

Nicola

Snap. Prick. Burn.

The pinch of electricity in my dead leg wakes me from the dream of the accident, Emmy’s scream still ringing in my ears. Perhaps I’ll always hear it now, I think as I roll to my left side—the dead side, useless as a doornail—and slap feeling into my thigh, but there’s nothing. If you took a needle and jabbed it in, I would probably twist it a few inches deeper to see if I could feel it tickle.

A groan escapes me as I heave myself from the bed and stare at the nightstand cluttered with six months’ worth of post-accident prescription bottles. I stand with prickling tendons, the burn of an aching, underused muscle, my whole left side from my shoulder to my toes as limp as if I have novocain in my limbs.

I snatch a bottle from the dresser—the usual cocktail to start the day—painkillers, anti-anxiety medication that does next to nothing, and Topamax. Sweet, beautiful, woefully expensive Topamax—the anti-seizure medication that happens to work for migraines too, even if doctors don’t quite understand why. My mind races as I swallow the cocktail, thinking back to the first day I took it and couldn’t recall how to make oatmeal—a stunner of a brain fart. I stood there at the stove, paralyzed, unable to count to three, like an Alzheimer’s patient grappling for a memory. Everything was blank, my brain ticking silently away but coming upon blank numbers, blank time.

And then there is Imitrex, the migraine abortive—easy, cheap, always available. My reliable old friend. I take her, and like magic, my migraine slowly fades to the background.

And the foreground? That’s where Anger resides. Anger is my constant companion, a vampirish love connection I cannot seem to part with. It’s with me even as I make the bed and get dressed, my feet stumbling along the floor, left foot dragging from the nerve damage. My hands fumble in the dark for clothes in the pit of my closet shelf, and I pull out clothes for my shift at the Whitmore—yoga pants that are designed to look like trousers, a black tee shirt, and a cardigan with a curious dark stain on the sleeve, so I tuck it under and hope no one will notice, especially Emmy.

Emmy will be grossed out by it. She’ll wear an entire perfectly clean outfit like she does every day. We’ll fight about it. I’ll tell her, “Just wear stuff twice! It’s not so bad!” And she’ll say, “Mom, do you know how disgusting you sound?” And for a second, I’ll agree with her in my head that it is disgusting. The whole thing is disgusting, but what it comes down to is this: Our home isn’t ours anymore. Neither are our washer and dryer. Our apartment building has precisely one washer and dryer that cost $2.00 a load, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do laundry every week with my shift schedule. Truth be told, I’m in no shape to be hauling eight million loads of laundry around until kingdom come, even if I wanted to.

Down the hall, limping, limping, I bang on Emmy’s door, her laptop squawking away with the sound of a teenage girl with a British accent talking about some celebrity’s latest plastic surgery.

“Get dressed, Em!”

She’s into something on YouTube called CelebrityStalkShow, run by a Hollywood-obsessed kid who seems to beat all the paparazzi to the punch. She yells something at me through the door, my signal to disappear from her area, and I depart down the flight of stairs at the speed of a centenarian.

At the landing, I sense something wet on my bad foot and look down at it in the center of Scotch’s cold pee puddle. The foul smell hits me, and I curse.

Not “fuck.” Not “shit.” The bad one. The one my mother would hate to hear me say. Rhymes with hunt.

“Classy.”

I look up. Emmy is behind me on the landing. Isn’t it funny how teenagers have this tremendous gift of sneaking up on you precisely at your worst possible moment?

“Scotch peed,” I say lamely.

“I can see that.”

“Let him out, Em, will you?” I ask, my voice tired and insistent.

“I think he’s already relieved himself right here. In our kitchen. Where we eat.”

I release a long, exasperated sigh, and Emmy pushes down the stairs past me, her hair matted in place, showing the pink crest of her scar. I try not to stare and pinch the spot on my hand that Dr. Constance said would be calming in moments like these. But it’s 7:32 a.m., and I don’t feel calm. I feel angry. And tired. And like I want to be teleported out of my own life for even a brief minute.

I give Emmy the look, the one my mother gave me and that her mother probably gave her. The one that lets her see a little into the quiet, grieving parts of me. Lately, I’ve been peeling back the layers often and letting her see more than usual. Maybe too much.

Emmy opens the back door to the shared courtyard and takes Scotch outside. I mop up his mess, then peel the pee-soaked black sock off my bad foot and dump it in the trash. One stair at a time, I haul myself back up to wash off my foot and leg in our tub—the one crusted with brown rings and white soap stains still because I don’t have the strength to scrub it, despite what the physical therapist tells me.

I hobble back downstairs. Emmy is still with Scotch outside, wandering around with his plastic bag, trying to figure out what to do with it. His little white body shakes and shivers as he follows Emmy and sniffs at the ground. I never wanted a dog, or a Westie for that matter. Scotch—including the name—was Ben’s idea.

Ben. Our good Ben. Dead Ben …

For a moment, I think that if I can just close my eyes, more details will emerge.

The car—so brilliantly white it hurt to look at it.

Those shoes. Black and heavy.

The scent of freshly applied cologne.

A single tattoo around the man’s middle finger, like a wedding band.

He was that close, and yet, for some reason inexplicable to me, I cannot remember his face.

My ears ring for a moment before I snap out of it. I go to the window over the kitchen sink and silently mouth, “Garbage can. Don’t bring it inside,” and then put breakfast out on the counter. Cereal and the last of the milk, but not the organic kind like we used to get. I place Emmy’s pills beside her bowl on a paper towel. There are things we still haven’t found a way to talk about.

When I look up, Emmy has pulled open the sliding glass door, no bag of shit in her hands.

“Relax, I threw it away.”

“A+,” I say sarcastically and instantly regret it. Why can’t I just say thank you?

“You’re welcome.”

She washes her hands, then hops silently up onto the breakfast stool and turns to gaze outside at the shared courtyard of our apartment complex. Her hair is still growing back over her scar, but it’s patchy, uneven, and it looks awful. I reach for her arm, but she flinches. She turns. Her eyes are cold and blank.

“Can I stay home today? I don’t feel great.”

“Em. It’s your first day.”

“So?”

“So you know this isn’t a good start. You have to go. It will be fine …”

She glares at me. “I really don’t feel like I can face it.”

I take her in, a million micro-signals at once. Her hunched shoulders, the marks on the back of her hand—ballpoint pen, drawn by her, but who could guess? The friendship bracelets that were on her wrist from the summer before last, faded and fraying, now bombarded by dark leather bands and multiple hair ties. Her nails bitten down to short nubs. Her head, shaved at the side where her scar is, parted unintentionally along where her braid used to be. I feel a jolt of grief in my core before the usual wave of rage rises up inside me, a hot, ruthless tide. I force it down again.

“You know, Em, it’s okay to feel the way you do. You’ve been through a lot. We’ve been through a lot.”

I try for genuine emotion without anger. It’s so much easier to be angry. Anger is my default. Anger is a nice, easy substitute. Anger gets the job done.

Emmy turns, her face bright, like she’s realized something. “It’s okay. You’re right. I’ll go.”

A forced smile spreads across her face. She ducks her head low and finishes her cereal with three whopping bites. Her scar seems to wriggle while she chews.

“I’ll go,” she repeats quietly.

“Honey,” I start. I pause, searching for the words. “It’s okay to hate it. I hate it, too.”

She smiles that same weak smile, like there’s something I’m missing, something I just don’t get. Outside, a siren blares from the main road, and Emmy jumps. I try to make it seem like I don’t notice.

Emmy jumps in her sleep now. Her body jolts like she’s being electrocuted. It’s like when you’re falling asleep, and you dream you’re actually falling, and your body twitches. That’s what Emmy does, except she does it over and over again. I asked her if she was dreaming of that day. She said she wasn’t, but it didn’t start until six months ago.

I scoop some kibble into Scotch’s bowl. The tiny brown pebbles ting ting ting against the cold steel. He nudges toward me and sits, waiting until I finish. Emmy sets her half-eaten bowl of cereal in the kitchen sink and runs the water over it.

“Can we get soy milk next time?”

“Yeah, whatever you want.”

“Good,” she says, looking pleased. “Ready to go?”

Upstairs, I quickly brush my teeth and hear my stomach growl. I hear it but don’t feel it. That’s the thing about Topamax. You know you’re hungry, but you never feel like eating. I pull up my tee shirt and examine my frame. I can’t tell if I look different, except for the hollowness that’s formed around my cheeks and under my eyes. The scale says differently. Thirty pounds fell off me over these past six months. And I haven’t even been trying.

In the bathroom, I pry open the mirror door to the medicine cabinet facing me and reach for the day’s setup: a Topamax and a couple of Imitrex. Imitrex, my old faithful, goes into my pocket for the migraine that will return later, just as it does every single day. I also know that aspirin or over-the-counter fare won’t cut through the fog, the nausea. The sensitivity to light, sound, and smell—and the blinding, throbbing pain. It’s not if I’ll get a migraine, but when.

The tap runs cold for what feels like an eternity, and I swallow the extra painkiller, then wash my face in freezing cold water that lightly smells of chlorine.

Technically, I’m considered an “eggshell claimant,” which means there was something considerably wrong with me before the accident. A “migraineur,” or a person who suffers from chronic migraines. They got a lot worse after that day, after I rolled off the hood of the Rolls-Royce. The police didn’t believe me, but I knew it was a Rolls-Royce that had sped through the stop sign, taking the turn at a whipping pace, accelerating into the three of us without a hint of braking.

Rolling off a Rolls. It’s almost comical now. For a quick moment, I peer down near my navel and rub the small circular scar where the hood ornament—a lady with wings—punctured my left side and sliced into my pelvis, leaving the slight impression of a pointy feathered wing on my skin.

The thing is, only a Rolls-Royce makes a hood ornament like that. I know because Ben wanted one for a long time. He said the Mercedes didn’t have the same feel now that Mercedes-Benz started embedding their hood ornaments on the front of their cars, making them all nice and flat. I guess they knew their drivers drove fast and their Mercs were hitting a lot of people. Maybe Rolls-Royce doesn’t care that its status symbol is basically akin to a deadly weapon.

The strangest thing—I haven’t seen a white Rolls-Royce since that day.

From the medicine cabinet, I take out the bottle of bright blue mouthwash and gulp a mouthful.

One swish. Don’t think about it.

Two. Don’t picture it.

Three. It’s all in the past.

Four. You don’t have to be afraid.

Five. It won’t happen to you again.

Spit. But it might. It could.

My mind starts to buzz as the painkiller takes effect and dulls my thoughts, a shade pulled down over the window of a sunlit room. The thinking stops for a little while.

I watch the blue liquid swirl around in the sink, tinting the porcelain as it goes down, slowly, slowly.

It’s not the same sink, or the same house, as that wretched day from before, when Emmy was a baby … but my brain doesn’t know that. It thinks the thoughts it wants to, drugs or not. I’m a hostage.

And what do I think about?

Death, of course. How near it was and may still be. I think of how death seems like that nice, clean break, but it leaves so much behind. The seeping, oozing wound of loss, regret, and confusion. The questions unanswered. The things unsaid.

But I also think of that day and finding him, the man behind the wheel. He’s out there somewhere. Alive. Untouched. Carefree.

Or perhaps careless.

I’d like to be as careless as he.

The blue swirl of my saliva and mouthwash moves round and round, and I turn on the tap to make it run clear again. When I look up, my own face catches me off guard. The dark circles. The abrupt pointed end of my nose. The blotchy, colorless yawn of both cheeks that used to be full, that used to make me pretty. Below, small, accented lines strut toward my mouth. I rub my forefinger across my lips and try to make them disappear. I don’t enjoy looking into my own eyes, but I do it anyway, just for a second.

A thought appears, quick and sharp, a tack pressing into my temple. I resist, but it swells, unstoppable, an ocean inside me …

You are not who you thought you were.

2

Nicola

I wait in the driveway for Emmy, readjusting the little air freshener that hangs from the Beetle’s rearview mirror to block out the scent of old fast food and something else deeper, more sour, that we could never quite place. Emmy gets in, slouching low in the seat as we head to Beverly Hills High. When we pull up near the drop-off zone, she’s hunched down and nearly invisible.

“I bet most kids have their own cars here,” Emmy says as we stop at the corner, away from the other moms in Range Rovers, Bentleys, and Teslas.

“Well, you’re not most kids,” I say lightly and instantly regret it. “You’re you.”

“I wish I wasn’t,” she says and opens her door. She gets out with her black JanSport backpack and slams the door before I can think of what to say. I lower my window and lean over. “Emmy. I love you.”

“Love you,” she mutters, looking wearily at the crowd of kids circling near the entrance. A banner with red paint hangs above the double doors, reading, “Welcome Class of 2022.” Outside, some kids are gathering, cliques here and there, and my stomach rolls remembering my first day of high school.

She’ll be fine. She really will be. Relax.

Putting the car in gear, I pull off, and in seconds, I lose sight of her.

My chest burns a little as she goes. The sting of letting her go is sharper than any of the years before. We were always like a jigsaw puzzle, our family of three. But without Ben, there is a piece missing from us. A connecting piece, maybe.

You’re driving, remember? Concentrate.

There are red lights all the way along Wilshire toward the Whitmore Hotel, the place where they filmed a famous movie in the 80s about a reclusive actress. I never intended to work at an upscale hotel in Beverly Hills serving the wealthy elite of the city, but when you’re out of work and owe medical bills, you take what you can get.

I enter through the employee entrance at the back, away from the sweeping, grand foyer with the oversized Tiffany flower display. I take the elevator up to the Club Level, where the eleventh floor overlooks the part of Beverly Hills they call the Triangle, the intersecting streets full of high-end restaurants and designer shops along Rodeo Drive and Beverly Boulevard. The scent of eggs, bacon, and pastries hits me, and my stomach groans. One of the hotel staff is setting out newspapers and the morning’s gourmet breakfast fare for the Club Level guests, mainly creative types and their executives in crisp suits, producers in designer jeans and blazers, and the occasional A-list actor. The high-top tables—empty, except for a couple of men in suits—reflect the daylight from the tall east-facing windows. I turn my back to them as I reach the breakfast buffet and grab a couple of muffins with a napkin and shove them into my purse.

Down on the mezzanine in the single room that is the Reservations Department, Nubia is manning the phones. She glances up and nods to me silently, her fingers flying over the keys. “Great, you’re all confirmed. Thank you for choosing the Whitmore Hotel Beverly Hills. Goodbye!”

As my butt hits the chair, she swivels to face me. “You look like shit.”

“Rough morning. Teenager. Dog.”

“Tell me!” She picks a nail file out of her desk organizer and starts filing one long, purple nail. “I was here at 7:30. Phones started at 7:32. I didn’t have no time to eat, to check the email, nothing. They haven’t stopped ringing since. The next call is yours.”

Shannon, our resident college student, breezes in and throws down her white, monogrammed tote bag right onto the keyboard. She sighs and turns, then flips her head over and gathers up her long, blonde hair into a ponytail. “Morning!”

Nubia glares at her. “You see the time? You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I got caught up.”

“Where? On TikTok?”

I smirk.

Shannon takes her seat and fishes a Starbucks sandwich out of her bag. Nubia’s eyes narrow. “You know we dock your pay each time you’re late, right? You lose money. That’s why you have a job, right? To make money?”

Shannon’s eyes get big. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, but listen, you’re never going to believe who is staying here.”

Nubia turns away and rolls her eyes like she’s seen a million Shannons in the last ten years since she’s been here, each one the same, like the job is only a suggestion from their parents who clearly pay for everything anyway.

“I told you a hundred times, don’t worry about who is staying here,” Nubia says and puts her headset back on. “Just do your job.”

I can hear Shannon chewing. “Trust me, you’re going to want to know about this one,” she calls back. “He’s a big name.”

“Ay, Dios mío,” Nubia mutters. She swivels. “You know this is LA, right? There are going to be celebrities around. Okay, mija?”

Shannon turns halfway. “Celebrities like Jason Redfern?”

Nubia turns back to her. “Oh yeah? The hot one with the blonde wife? The model?”

Shannon smiles. “Yep. Amber at the front desk told me. Says he’s filming The Hurting Game with Lauren LaMonte. Apparently, he checked in last night. And he wasn’t alone.”

“I didn’t see his name on the reservations list,” I say.

When I look down, my purse is open, and the muffins are staring at me, smushed through the napkin against my wallet, flat as pancakes. My stomach groans.

“They never book under their own names,” Nubia answers. “Not the really big ones like Jason Redfern.”

“And he wouldn’t, would he? Not after what happened last week.”

I look from Shannon to Nubia. “Why, what happened?”

Shannon turns to me. “His co-star LaMonte put out a tweet that has everyone freaking out. Something about how art mirrors real life, and the sex scenes in the film weren’t choreographed. They were real.”

“And?” Nubia asks. “So what if they are? All actors have sex with each other. Everyone knows that.”

Shannon shakes her head. “Yeah, but they say the sex scenes are really violent.”

“Violent how?” I ask as a call comes in and the little red light on my desk phone starts blinking. I clear my throat and put on my headset. “Thank you for calling the Whitmore Beverly Hills. How can I make your day?”

I spend the morning entering reservations into the system from budget websites. After a while, my brain starts tracking backward, away from this hotel, away from Shannon and Nubia, and away from the small, dim office with jaundice-yellow light and no windows, where the three of us sit all day long. Some part of me can’t quite get here, like I’m still in my high-rise office, with stock options, a 401K, a six-figure salary, and an actual title that I’m proud to have on my LinkedIn. Like we’re still living in our big, gorgeous house. Like our family is still whole. But that’s not me now. That was before …

My throat tightens, and suddenly my entire body feels constricted. The palms of my hands turn clammy, and I clutch the edges of my chair, trying to prevent the panic rising within me, as if my entire world is spinning, spinning, spinning out of control. I’m falling into a dark place, ruminating on the day of the accident, and getting stuck there. I see the details, one by one …

White body …

Don’t think about it.

Screeching tires …

Don’t go back there.

The blood-coated asphalt …

Breathe. Breathe.

The terrible sound of Emmy screaming …

My right temple thumps, and I know I have only a few minutes until I’ll need an Imitrex. I try to imagine the blue sky and palm trees overhead, like Dr. Constance tells me to, but today it doesn’t work. Instead, the images of the accident play over and over like a reel in my mind. My chest constricts. Things start to blur.

“Nubia, can I borrow your key card?”

She gives me a once-over. “It’s only ten. Are you okay?”

I nod and give a weak smile. She’s starting to catch on. Usually, I can make it through the morning and wait until lunchtime before a panic attack sets in, but not today. “I just need some air,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

She silently hands me her key card. We have an understanding now. She knows I’ll return in a few minutes, and I won’t do anything stupid. Shannon glances my way, taking notice, but says nothing.

Back in the elevator, I swipe the key card for the eleventh floor and hold my breath, heart racing. My feet feel like liquid in my shoes, and the back of my neck is cold with sweat.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The elevator stops abruptly at the ninth floor. My nerves prickle, and I inhale a tight breath as the doors slide open. I flatten myself against the wall, unable to speak.

I feel him before I see him. His presence. Sunglasses and a tight jean jacket. The scent of musk and peppermint. He’s shorter in person and not quite as attractive as he is on the screen. A sandy waft of hair, a clean jawline covered in dark stubble, a glimpse of a wedding ring. Jason Redfern.

He stands squarely in the center of the elevator and pulls out his phone. I realize I’m part of the background to him and invisible for now.

The elevator pauses, waiting for him to swipe his room card for the eleventh floor. “Going up?” I ask, the burn of panic taking hold, the key card slippery in my fingers.

He looks up and around with surprise. “Yeah. Eleven.”

I re-swipe my key card and push the button once more. The doors close, eerily slow, and the elevator ascends. He finishes typing something into his phone and re-pockets it, suddenly aware of me, the other person in the narrow, little box.

“You’re going to the Garden?” he asks, a note of confusion in his voice that I could possibly be headed to the exclusive rooftop membership club on our Club Level floor. It has the best views in the city and is frequented by a wealthy and famous clientele.

“Yeah,” I answer, my heart racing.

I need air. Fresh air. And sky. Natural light. In the tiny space of the elevator, all I can feel is an inner darkness taking hold.

He takes me in then. “You work here?”

Two quick breaths. It’s as though the air is gone from the elevator entirely. “Yes. Reservations.”

He turns to me, and for a reason I cannot place, the slow burn of my panic starts to rise.

I wipe my palms on my trousers and stare at the floor. “I really need to get out.”

The elevator jolts to a stop, but the doors don’t open.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just—I can’t breathe,” I reply, my mouth going dry, my armpits sticking.

My face flushes hot. I long to escape into the fresh air, the quiet corner of the Garden with the little patch of green that seems to exist nowhere else in the city. I long to breathe …

The panic attacks got worse when I started working in the windowless room of the Reservations Department. Dr. Constance says it presented too much of a contrast with my prior role at Regency PR, as if my entire life wasn’t one big ball of contrast now.

My second day, it was so bad that Nubia grabbed my hand and led me up to the eleventh floor herself. She stood with me against the cool glass railing that overlooked the Beverly Hills Triangle and Wilshire, with views of the entire city. “It’s okay,” she calmed me. “My sister gets these sometimes.” Then she showed me her white key card. “You can have this when you need it,” she told me, her voice low. “All you have to do is ask.”

I feel my legs buckle and give out. In seconds, I’m on the floor of the elevator. Jason Redfern mutters something under his breath that sounds like a string of curses and starts hitting various buttons on the elevator panel. Nothing happens.

That’s when I clock it.

Shoes. Black and heavy.

The scent of his cologne—strong and freshly applied.

It’s almost as if the hot asphalt is beneath me once again.

Calm down, I tell myself. Breathe.

My chest is heavy, burdened. I can’t seem to move. Hot tears run down my cheeks. I can’t quite connect to my body, as if I’m outside of myself. Jason hovers over me and, to my surprise, offers me a hand. As I take it, something on his skin catches my eye.

The elevator jolts and begins to move. In moments, it dings as we arrive at the Club Level.

“Thank you,” I manage.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says and walks straight past me to the check- in desk that leads to the Garden, the hostesses nodding shyly, enamored. A brunette woman in sunglasses wearing a long, silken dress and shawl waits beneath an ivy canopy. From a distance, I can see her long, slender frame, her perfectly put-together outfit, the poise of someone used to attention. I watch him go to her, expecting a polite embrace, the standard Hollywood air kiss. Instead, he grabs her hand, a strange familiarity in the gesture, and leads her toward one of the cabanas, where they both disappear behind its white awning.

And that’s when it lands for me. The recognition sends a slow chill along my shoulders and neck. It wasn’t just the clip of his shoes, perfectly new, perfectly polished. Expensive. Black and heavy.

I could be wrong.

I might be imagining it.

My mind isn’t what it used to be.

But then again, my gut hums with knowing.

The thing I saw on his hand. It was a tattoo across his middle finger, like a black wedding band. Just like the driver had that day.

3

Nicola

Dr. Constance’s office has a smell that makes me want to cry as soon as I walk in. There’s a certain odor of despair soaked in so deeply that it’s even in the carpets. Overhead, the air conditioner whirs and sputters, releasing frigid air over the top of my pounding head. I let my eyes roam over a brown stain in the shape of an eggplant in the worn carpet and wonder what created it. Then Silvia, the receptionist, sticks her head out of the tiny square window below the sign that reads, “No food or drink allowed. No se permite comida ni bebida.”

“Mrs. Holiday?”

I nod and ease myself up, my dead leg pricking from hip to toe.

I make my way down the hall to Dr. Constance’s office. She sits at her desk, which is buried under client files and take-out containers so deep that you are never sure if you are interrupting a briefing or her lunch hour.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Constance says, not getting up. Her fuchsia hair is done up today, her makeup heavy like she used the biggest brush she had to apply her bright blue eye shadow. “Have a seat.”

I take the furthest chair from her, near the window, even though a fern is there, close enough to hit me in the face if it’s turned right. I like being by the window, though. There’s a little park across the street, and I imagine I’m sitting on the grass, sun on my legs, tree leaves falling around me like giant confetti. I’d rather be anywhere but here.

“How are you doing?”

I tell her about my leg and the fact that I’m all out of physical therapy time. There’s only so much physical therapy you’re allowed before they shut you down because it doesn’t look good for the case. And anyway, the physical therapists only get paid on a lien, just like Constance. She nods and listens, making big sweeping notes in her file with a light pencil that feels too temporary, like at any point she could decide to erase everything from my case files and start all over again. I watch her scribble notes as I talk, her eyes drooping, tired. Ironically, she asks me, “Are you sleeping?”

“Yes,” I lie. “I sleep fine now.”

“And the food? How are you with the food?”

She means my appetite. “I’m doing better,” I lie again. The truth is, I have even less of an appetite than the last time I saw her, if that’s possible.

She closes the file and leans forward, like she wants to say something. She doesn’t.

“Emmy is stressing me out,” I tell her, just to keep things moving. “I’m worried about her.”

“Teenagers bounce back from these things. They are plastic,” she says, waving her hands like it’s a miracle.

I nod. “I don’t know how to help her. She seems so … damaged.” I don’t tell her my deeper fear. The one I can hardly acknowledge myself. That somehow, this trauma will act as a trigger and bring about in Emmy what it did in me so long ago.

Dr. Constance’s eyes manufacture a look of studied empathy. “You want to help your daughter. That is normal. Perhaps you think that by helping her, you can help yourself, too.”

A lot of the things she says are like this. They mean something in here and sound really good. Profound even. But when I repeat them to myself later, it’s like all the meaning has been wrung out. The words fragment and sputter lifelessly, just empty puffs of air.

She braces her hands under her chin and appears momentarily fraught with careful concern. Outside, a siren blares and grows louder, then fades. She waits for it to pass.

“You don’t look well, Nicola,” she says carefully. “What’s happening with your claim?”

I shrug. “I need to ask Steve. I don’t think they have anything yet on the driver.”

Constance shakes her head. “Not the hit and run, Nicola. I mean your personal injury claim. You and Emmy.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the same sinking feeling forming in my middle. I know she’s right, of course, and we’ve covered this a lot over the last six months. I am supposed to “let go” of the hit and run. I am supposed to move past it in order to focus on my and Emmy’s healing. I am supposed to be grateful that we had uninsured motorist coverage in our policy that could pay out, since the driver fled the scene and was never found.

The police seem to have stopped searching. Since Steve, my attorney, works on contingency, no one can be held accountable, and therefore, he can’t get paid. It’s a vicious trap of the legal system. No culpable party to bear the weight of the wrongful death in the eyes of the law, and therefore, no resolution for the victims beyond a few paltry physical therapy visits and appointments with lien doctors like Dr. Constance. If this were before, I would have hired an attorney to sue someone, anyone. The city of Beverly Hills, maybe. But these days, I don’t have the money. So, I’m left to try and convince Steve to take the suit forward on contingency, which means doing a ton of legal work without a guarantee he’ll ever get a payout. As of yet, no such luck.

Constance leans forward and lets her hand fall across the table to me. She pats its surface as if she’s patting me, but we never touch. “What about your treatments?”

She means the series of trigger point injections meant to help with the pain, combined with the nerve blocker meds I stopped taking after the first day when I fell asleep at my desk and woke up shivering violently with Nubia standing over me, a hotel blanket on my shoulders. “Almost finished,” I tell her.

“Will you do another round of physical therapy?”

“I don’t think I can.” A light flashes in the corner of my eye from a passing bus down below. The brakes seize and squeal, and my stomach knots with bile.

“As soon as you finish your treatment, you let us know.” She glances up at me as she scribbles a note.

“Right. I will.”

It seems like a small detail, but the truth is, we can’t move forward with our personal injury claim until we finish treatment. And Dr. Constance, just like all the other lien doctors, won’t get paid from the insurance company until we do.

“And how are the panic attacks?”

I pause to think for a moment. What I really want to tell her is that it’s always there, the PTSD, the panic brimming beneath the surface, waiting to come spewing forth. But I don’t. The hum of the air conditioner for a moment is the only sound in the room.

“Let me ask it another way,” she adds, sensing my unease. “Have you had a panic attack lately?”

Yes. I don’t know. Maybe? A full-blown attack is what she’s looking for, the kind where my heart explodes in my chest, where my entire body falls slack, where I cannot move or speak.

“No, I haven’t,” I tell her.

“Good, that’s very good.” She seems pleased now and leans back in her chair. I can tell where she’s going before she asks it. It always ends up here. My PTSD isn’t new, she tells me, but it has reignited thanks to the unlucky turn of events that killed my husband and changed my family forever. It’s been around for a while, in fact. Since I was a child.

“So tell me, Nicola. How are your emotions? Are you still angry at the man who hit you?”

I flinch. My dead leg sticks to the cool plastic of the chair. I unstick it with my hand and feel the underside of my moist thigh.

How to answer?

She flips open the manila folder, puts on her glasses, and scans several pages with the tip of her index finger. “Here,” she says, trying to jog my memory. “You said that you saw someone’s shoe come out of the driver’s side door and step out. I asked you what kind of shoe, and you said, ‘A black polished shoe. Like a man’s shoe.’ You say you did not see his face, but you felt very angry, vengeful even.”

“I said that?” I rack my brain, but I have zero recollection of telling her how I felt that day, even though it’s clear I must have.

I recall the visual again now, the expensive look of it, black and too polished against the asphalt-colored ground. The encounter with Jason Redfern flashes into my mind before my brain returns to the same thought.

Should you tell her?

Should you?

Should you?

She closes the file again and sits back.

“I don’t really remember much after the accident,” I admit. “Only bits and pieces.”

Ben’s lifeless body. Emmy screaming, her face coated in bright red blood. Sirens speeding toward us. The scent of my own perspiration. The ringing in my ears. Everything but the driver’s face.

“It’s very normal to not remember aspects of traumatic experiences. Consider it a coping mechanism.”

“I want to remember,” I tell her. “In fact, I think more memories are coming back to me now. Can that happen?”

“It’s possible. But emotions play a powerful role.” She pauses and repeats her question. “So, are you still angry with the man who hit you?”

“At first, I was, but then I realized being angry wasn’t the answer. It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

I try to keep my voice even. I know this is the right answer, the respectable answer she needs, even though not being angry seems impossible to me. My throat tightens, and I instinctively swallow.

I watch her face, the arch of her eyebrows, perfectly formed and unmoving. Benicia. Benita. Betty. What on earth is her first name? I can’t remember. Topamax does that to you. You get a thing in your head, and the next minute, it’s just gone. The old me would have remembered her first name. The old me wouldn’t have had blaring migraines that never go away. The old me would not be caught dead in a place like this to deal with panic attacks and post-traumatic stress disorder. The old me would have screamed the truth. The old me would have done a lot of things.

I’m stuck, still watching her eyebrow.

“So you’re not angry anymore?”

“No, not anymore. Like I said. I have forgiven him. It was an accident.” My words falter, and my voice comes out broken.

Dr. Constance smiles, wide and flat, dissatisfied. “All right.”

When Constance asked me this question during the first visit, I squirmed. My body burned. It took everything in me to say no. But forgiveness is good and right and honorable. It shows that you, the victim, are worthy. It shows that, in the eyes of the law, you must be redeemed and replenished and made whole—numerically, of course. Because let’s face it: the law can’t put my nerves back where they should be or fix the bulging discs in my back and neck. The law can’t regrow the hair on my daughter’s scalp where it was torn off and re-grafted from the back of her head. And it sure as hell can’t raise my husband from the dead.

So when Dr. Constance asks me if I’m angry at the man who hit us, who killed my husband on that clear, sunny, gorgeous afternoon and then afterwards got out, saw the mess he had made, and then got back in the car to reverse away from us like he’d hit a couple of stray dogs—well, there’s what I say, and then there’s the truth.

Am I angry?

Yes, but it’s much more than anger now. It’s a bitter little seed of revenge growing within me. I can feel it taking root, deeper and deeper, becoming part of me.

4

Nicola

There’s a spot about a block away from the school and the carpool lines where I wait for Emmy. With the windows down, I lean my head back and see if I can will the thumping sensation in my temple to slow down. I close my eyes for what feels like a second and listen to the distant traffic coming from Wilshire—horns honking, laughter, rap music from someone’s car. I grip the wheel, my white knuckles reminding me of how I didn’t drive after the accident for three whole months. I wouldn’t even get in a car. Our Range Rover sat there, deteriorating and collecting dust. On street sweeping days, Emmy would make sure it was parked properly, taking my keys gingerly from the glass dish in the kitchen and heading out silently to move it from the Monday spot to the Tuesday spot, and then back again.

Part of it was my leg. The other part was that I couldn’t be in a vehicle, couldn’t think about hearing the sound of the engine, the pull of the tires along the asphalt. The speed. The power.

But after three months with the bills piling up and trying to walk everywhere with Emmy, I decided enough was enough. I put on old clothes and went outside to wash the Range Rover with Emmy. When it was scrubbed clean, we took pictures and put it up for sale online. It sold within days. The money came in and went right back out again to pay for Emmy’s third skin graft that no lien doctor would cover. With just $1,200 left, I bought a 1999 Volkswagen Beetle with missing fabric on the roof and a glove compartment that was permanently shut on account of there being no handle. A local college kid who had just been hired at Silicon Beach sold it to me.

“You’re, like, going backwards,” Emmy said that day. I agreed with her, though I hadn’t expected her to notice. I was backsliding, more aptly, into a version of myself maybe I’d never been before. Alone. Without Ben. Without anyone, really—except my kid. And that day weighing on me created the sense that my life now was a heavy recurring nightmare from which I could never awake.

A knock on my passenger side door makes me bolt upright. It’s Emmy. My hands fumble for the lock, and I sit up, heavy with the second Imitrex I took coming out of Dr. Constance’s office.

I remove some snacks I took from the Club Level from her seat, and Emmy slides in, cramming her legs with her backpack. Her face is sullen.

“How was your first day?”

She stares at the floor, her breaths even but heavy. “Pretty lame overall.” A hand reaches up to her head, and she winces. “My head hurts.”

I reach for my purse in the back and pull out a couple of ibuprofens from the little red pouch where I keep all my emergency pills and offer them to her.

She frowns. “No, the strong ones.”

“Are you sure?” I ask her.

She nods slowly. “It’s bad today.”

“Okay, baby.” With careful, even motion, I reach out and touch the ends of her dark, curly hair, and she flinches. From my red pouch, I dig out a single tramadol and hand it to her. “Lots of water, okay?”

She nods and downs the single pill, then settles into her seat.

“We’d better get some food into you now,” I add.

“Sure, whatever,” she says sleepily. The last time Emmy took the pill on an empty stomach, she vomited for hours.

“How about In-N-Out?”

“Okay,” she answers.

“Eat the granola bar in the meantime, okay?”

“Mom, chill. It’s like five minutes away.”

It’s more like fifteen, but I don’t argue.

I put the car in gear and release the brake. I turn to glance at her as we make a left and turn toward Wilshire.

“Em, talk to me,” I try. “Tell me what you did today.”

Emmy shrugs. Her little body hunkers down into the seat so she’s hardly visible from the exterior. “Normal stuff. Went to class. At lunch, some girls were talking about me, but whatever.”

Her hand instinctively reaches up and lightly touches the scar on the left side of her head, the pink-brown skin, new, still settling. It will be months before the scar fades and the skin smoothens out completely.

“What were they saying?”

“Stupid stuff. Like we’re poor, and I need new shoes.”

“What the hell?” My voice is high-pitched, scratchy. I clear my throat, trying to remain calm. “Why would they say that?”

My daughter releases a little grunt. “Maybe because I do, Mom. Okay? I mean, when is the last time we went shopping?”

A note of guilt sings up from the center of my chest. She’s right, of course. I try to picture the last time Emmy and I were shopping together, and I can’t. I don’t even remember.

“We can go tonight if you want …”

Emmy perks up a little. “Yeah? ”

“Yeah. Why don’t we grab some food and go get you some shoes?”

“From where?”

I sigh audibly, knowing the next argument we’ll have, but I say it anyway. “Why don’t we try one of those trendy thrift stores?”

“Oh, God. Mom, are you serious?” Emmy faces away from me, staring out the window as we pull onto South Beverly, with its high corner buildings catching the afternoon sun. Tourists in sandals and colorful tank tops photograph each other in front of the iconic Beverly Hills street signs. Others in designer outfits entering and leaving the expensive stores and shops carry armfuls of bags from Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior in cruel irony.

“Mom!” Emmy shouts. My foot slams on the brakes, and the car screeches to a sudden stop behind a Tesla.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I check the rearview mirror. The woman behind me is applying makeup but stops just in time.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I wasn’t—”

Emmy releases a deep sigh, her eyes red with tears. “It’s okay. Let’s just get there in one piece.”

The traffic pulls off, and Emmy squirms in the seat. “Ugh, I feel so sick.”

“Eat the granola bar,” I instruct her and turn toward Santa Monica Blvd, which leads to West Hollywood.

Emmy lets out a very long breath and starts unwrapping it.

We fight through the traffic toward West Hollywood and the In-N-Out Burger. I find a parking spot but let the engine idle for a second.

Emmy stares out the window at a homeless couple standing under a shop front with a small gray Chihuahua. “We should get them something, Mom. They look hungry.”

My stomach flips, and I feel my hands clench a little. “You know I would, Em, but we just don’t have the money.”

“I have some.”

After we order, Emmy gets another two burgers. I watch from our little window seat as she takes them the food. I think I can see them saying “God bless” to her over and over.

Back inside, Emmy comes over and slides into the little seat facing me.

“That was sweet of you, honey.”

She gives a little half smile. “It wasn’t much.”

“It was a lot to them.”

Our food is up, and Emmy hops up to the counter to collect it. Outside, a leaf blower pushes garbage around the street. Emmy has recently become vegan, so all she has in front of her is a baffling array of fries and a bun with the vegetables, which she dips in packets of ketchup and mustard smeared onto a napkin. I watch her stroke the colors along the white paper, mixing them together until they make brown. She takes a bite and chews the meatless wonder.

“What?” she asks, gazing up at me. I feel the sadness emanating from her like a scent and behind it a small, barely perceptible bite of anger that no one would notice but me. Anger for the unfairness. The stupidity. At the scar on the side of her head that won’t grow hair. At this dinner and the one tomorrow and the next day and the day after that spent with just me, just the two of us. The piece missing from its tightly wedged spot between us. The gap it left, growing bigger. Emptier.

I put down my burger and look at her.

“Tell you what—in a few weeks when my paycheck comes in, we’ll go to Nordstrom for some shoes, okay?”

Emmy stops chewing for a second. “But I thought you said we don’t have the money …”

“Let me worry about that, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” She looks at me skeptically.

A man and his son sitting to the left of our table turn and stare at us. The father turns away, but the boy in a little league outfit keeps looking. I sense Emmy growing uncomfortable.

A bite of burger sits in my cheek. With effort, I push it down, feeling a strange stab of palpable rage. It’s remarkable how it manifests in such acute ways, a hot fire that could swell any minute.

“Why are you vegan?” The words come out of me, even though I don’t intend them to. It’s the Topamax. Sometimes I say things I shouldn’t.

Emmy glances at me up from her bun, curious. “What do you mean?”

“I never asked you before, and you never got the chance to tell me. You know, without judgment.” I put down my burger.

Emmy carries on chewing, slowly. “There’s truth, and there’s lies. You can eat the truth, or you can eat lies. Do you get what I mean?”

I nod even though I don’t.

“Okay, good,” she says. She grabs my burger and positions it in front of her. Her forefinger lifts the bun, revealing the remarkably thin, gray patty. “When you eat a ‘burger,’ most people want to think that they are eating ‘beef,’ but that’s a polite way of saying they are eating a ‘cow.’ Not even just one cow. Odds are, hundreds of cows are right here in this single patty.”

My stomach churns.

“Beef is the lie. Cow is the truth. The truth is, a whole bunch of cows—living creatures—suffered and died for your burger. Your burger is made of hundreds of dead animals. So you are basically eating death. People don’t like to think about that when they chomp down on a juicy burger, but like I said, truth and lies.”

“You have a point,” I say. “It’s just that … it’s a little extreme. Don’t you think?”

Emmy shrugs. She dives into her veggie-filled bun. “Death is extreme. That’s why I prefer not to eat it if I can help it.”

Later on, while I’m sorting through a few past-due bills, Emmy emerges in her PJs and plunks down on the living room couch, her head in a towel. “I’ve been thinking,” she says calmly. “Maybe we should drop the case.”

My body swivels to her, as if on cue. “What?”

“With Steve. About Daddy. Maybe we should just drop it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no wrongful death case, that I can’t get Steve to take it on. That there’s not enough evidence, not even a sufficient police report to go after the driver. That we can’t pursue it much further, even if we wanted to.

“Someone broke the law. They hurt us, and they—”

My words get stuck, a clog in my chest, then the top of my throat. “They took your Daddy.”

“Exactly,” Emmy says, moving her feet onto the coffee table. “And nothing we do is going to bring him back.”

From the kitchen stool, I pull myself down and sit next to her on the couch. “Someone did something very wrong that day,” I explain. “They deserve to pay for what they did.”

Emmy looks at me, her eyes clear, certain. “Yeah, but that’s the thing. They can’t pay for it. No matter what we do, even if we catch the person who hit us, we can never make them pay. Not really. We can never be even.”

My clog grows bigger.

Even Steven.

Even Steven.

What does it mean to be even Steven?

“What if we find who did it and they go to prison for a very long time? Forever, maybe?”

Emmy shrugs. “I don’t know. To me, that’s not good enough. They’re still alive. And Daddy’s dead. You know?”

I do know. I know so well that some moments, it’s hard to breathe without feeling the familiar chirp of anger in me, my little parasitic friend.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “No amount of punishment would ever bring back your father. It won’t change our lives now.”

Emmy nods. “That’s why I think we should drop the case. Because we can never make them pay for what they did. It’s impossible.”

It’s not a them. It’s a him. And I know who he is now. The thought of Jason Redfern at the Whitmore burns in my gut.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, even though I won’t. In fact, I will do the opposite and go see Steve again to get him to reconsider taking the wrongful death suit on contingency. And I will tell him what I saw.

I stare at my wedding ring, the diamond glittering faintly under the low lights of our tired little rental kitchen. It’s the last thing of value we have.

Emmy says making them pay would be impossible.

But it’s not impossible. Not really. I can’t help but think it. It’s a dark, angry little thought that muscles its way up from somewhere deep and private. An intense wave of shame washes over me, like the thought is out loud for everyone to hear.

You can make him pay. An eye for an eye, after all.

5

Nicola

If it weren’t Nubia’s birthday, I would not be here in the staff lunchroom watching Nubia place about 132 candles on her enormous cake. The windowless corn-yellow room feels damp, the air heavy with heat since we’re so near the on-site laundry room. It’s a sharp contrast to the air-conditioned hotel and the light scent of lavender they mist in every part of it.

The room fills slowly with more housekeeping and maintenance staff, plus a few bellboys and front desk people. Normally, we would be in two separate break rooms—back of house and front of house—but tonight, we are all one. A small radio in the corner plays mariachi music, and the smell of authentic, home-cooked Mexican food hits me.

I help Nubia light the candles. A bellboy barely over eighteen that I don’t recognize approaches. “Nubes!” She turns, smiles big, and gives him a huge hug. “Happy birthday!”

“Gracias, mijo! Tell your mama I say hi. You look good in the uniform!”

He does a little twirl and then takes out a hundred-dollar bill. “You’ll never guess who I helped today.”

My ears perk up. I continue lighting candles, pretending not to listen.

Nubia shushes him. “I told you, be careful talking freely about the guests.” Nubia lowers her voice. “Who was it?”

I glance up as the bellboy leans in. “Jason Redfern.”

My heart starts beating faster. A couple of maids approach. I watch them all talk and laugh as the sound gets wrung out of the room.

Jason Redfern.

Why do I keep encountering Jason Redfern?

A thought comes running into my head, swift and cutting, a knife through my brain.

You know why.

The bellboy hands Nubia the hundred-dollar bill. “This is for you. I’ll get more,” he says proudly. “Let’s just say 1114 is rolling in it!”

They laugh, and I turn. “1114?” I blurt.

The bellboy nods at me, and Nubia gives me an inquisitive look. “Yeah. Redfern has the corner suite.”

“I hear he doesn’t let the valets park his car. He wants it kept out front where he can see it,” someone chimes in.

“Rich snob,” one of the maids adds bitterly. “He’ll let us clean his toilet, though, and wash his sheets. Shit.”

I finish lighting the last few candles. Meanwhile, the number keeps going round and round in my head.

1114.

1114.

Someone in the back of the room shuts off the lights, and the whole lunchroom goes dark. Everyone begins to sing.

“… Que los sigas cumpliendo hasta el año tres mil!”

Nubia bends down into the light of her candlelit cake and closes her eyes. She takes in a breath and blows out the candles, making the room pitch dark. Everyone cheers, but the lights don’t come on.

The voices rise louder. Laughter, cheers, a few whoops and shouts, and someone searches for the light switch. Instinctively, I cover my ears and try to drown it out. The voices in my head merge together, becoming a high-pitched scream.

In the darkness, I hold my breath and count to ten. My left side aches and burns from my hip to my toes, and I shake my head, trying to stop the screaming. My ears carry a heartbeat, relentless and intense, as the darkness takes on a form. I see the blood. His blood, flowing toward me, black on the pavement, Ben’s body so twisted up that I won’t be able to look away.

The voice inside my head is quick and certain. Go.

My hands grasp for the table. I fumble, trying to steady myself. My heartbeat rises in my chest. A wave of nausea comes over me, and my legs feel weak. I need to sit down.

“Gracias a todos por las celebraciones y los muchos afectos!” Nubia grabs an old-looking kitchen knife and starts cutting her birthday cake into small pieces. She picks at a piece of red candle wax dripping down the side of the white frosting.

Real blood isn’t that red. Real blood, when it really counts, is black. Deep, dark, and saturated with so much color. A void of pure darkness squelching toward you.

1114. Hurry. Go and see.

It happens before I really think about it. One moment, I’m standing next to Nubia, the next, I’m on the floor, huddled into a ball, my body convulsing.

I’m falling into a deep cavern of myself. This isn’t where I want to be. No, it isn’t. I begin fighting it, even as I quietly slip away.

When I wake, I know I’m still in the hotel, but I’m not where I should be. I recognize the gray-patterned carpet, the light washing over the walls, the subtle blues and beiges of the furnishings in the guest rooms.

I shouldn’t be here.

My hands raise, shaking, a smear of blood on my fingers, my palm. The room swirls around me in a haze. At the window, I look out and see the city, small and glimmering. I dart to the phone on the desk and spot the room number.

1114.

Jason Redfern’s room.

“No, no, no, no,” I say, my voice small and panicked. Nubia’s key is in my pocket.

My heart pounds as I grab two bottles of water and a newspaper from the desk and turn to leave.

Stop. Find it.

“I can’t be here,” I whisper, my voice faint. “I need to leave. Now.”

Find it.

The room is disheveled, the bed unmade, a room service tray on the floor, expensive-looking clothes strewn over the furniture, a designer bag open on the desk. Before I can think about what I’m doing, my hands are searching through it. I find Louis Vuitton aftershave, workout gear, a toiletry bag monogrammed with J.R, and a wallet, the touch of the black leather smooth in my hands.

Inside, his driver’s license and home address peek out from one of the folds. I pry it out of the leather with shaking hands. My eyes fixate on the address: 1900 North Alpine Drive. Beverly Hills, CA.

It would be so easy to take a picture. Just snap it. Done. Right here. Then I’d have him. But I freeze, my heart pumping in my chest. I can’t do it.

A flash of heat from within as the familiar voice returns. But you’re close. So close.

“Close to what?” I answer.

Close to the truth.

My heart races as I quickly snap a picture with my phone and stow the license and wallet back in the bag.

From outside, voices approach. My spine straightens as I hear the tiny click of the lock opening. Looking around, I see nowhere for me to go. The bathroom and closet are on the opposite side of the room. I’ll never make it.

Footsteps near, and the voices grow louder.

I want to disappear, but I can’t. They’re going to find me.

The door swings open, and Jason Redfern enters with a tall brunette woman, slender and chic. It’s the actress, Lauren LaMonte. She sees me first, her expression shifting from alarm to anger. Jason turns, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. “What the fuck? What are you doing?”

My breath escapes me.

Redfern’s face contorts. “Fucking thief. I’m calling security.”

Before I can protest, he’s on the phone. LaMonte glares at me like I’m garbage. In moments, two security staff enter and come straight for me. It happens so fast, there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can explain.

Inside, the voice returns.

Relax. You’ve got what you came here for.

I back away from them as the two burly security guards muscle me to my knees. My face hits the floor, and the stiff carpet burns against my cheek. They grab me and yank me up but restrain me at the same time. My head snaps back as they hold me tautly under the arms, and one says loudly, “Sorry about this, Mr. Redfern. We’ve got her.”

My body collapses beneath me, and they hold me, fully restrained, like I have a gun. “Easy,” one of them says. “We need you to be nice and still.”

The other starts searching me, breathing heavy, his hands rough on my body as he pats me down. My arms ache where they hold me. They hustle me toward the door. I glance back one last time, catching Redfern in my periphery.

Downstairs, the security guards take me into the back room and release me into a chair. My legs are rubbery, my back hot with sweat. I realize I’m panting. They search me for stolen jewelry and cash, then empty the contents of my purse and my bag onto a long table. I cringe as my pills spill out—Imitrex, Topamax, and painkillers all over the place.

“There’s half a drug store in here,” one of the security guards says, smirking.

“I didn’t take anything,” I reply as they pore over my things.

“You’re just lucky we’re not involving the police.” I turn as the general manager enters, observing me. “And Mr. Redfern and Ms. LaMonte are not pressing charges.”

“They’re not?”

The general manager shakes his head. “You got off lucky there.”

But I know luck has nothing to do with it. They won’t press charges. Why would they? They’d have to file a police report, and it might get out that they were here together. In one hotel room. Then again, for Jason Redfern, perhaps that’s not the only reason.

Then they fire me. Of course, they fire me. Immediate termination. No severance. No nothing. The throbbing in my cheek intensifies as I lean over to repack my belongings, and security ushers me out the back past the kitchens to the private exit. They throw me out into the blinding daylight, and I head toward my car in the employee parking lot. That’s when I hear it. The cool tone of his voice shouting for something at the valets working the entrance. I head round to listen, taking a second to stand in the shade of the building, next to an air vent sending hot air toward my legs.

Go on then if you don’t believe me. Have a look.

For a second, pressing my head against the cold side of the building feels good, relieving. Anything to quiet the inner voice. But it’s there again, nagging me.

Go on.

I head around the building, squinting in the sunlight. Tourists wait for their valeted cars. A couple of teenagers sit wrapped in each other’s arms near the glass doors. A kid with a smartphone sits playing in the corner. No Redfern.

I don’t see him. But I hear him.

Running toward the exit, I can almost spot him. I run past the valets toward the road, where Redfern is about to pull out.

I catch him, or rather he catches me, as a white Rolls-Royce, slick and clean like a weapon, pulls out in front of me. The brakes screech as he stops right in front of my legs, a credit card’s depth away from my flesh. Again. The irony.

Jason Redfern glares at me from behind the windshield and revs the engine. I step to one side and collapse onto the sidewalk as he pulls out and turns sharply into the street, where he accelerates straight through a stop sign.

A sickening sensation comes over me as my breath quickens and the voice returns, cooing softly in my ears.

See? I told you. I told you.

6

Martha

The Los Angeles sky is just like it was that day, but the air is warmer. Same year. Another season. It could easily be fifteen years ago, though. It feels like yesterday and also like centuries have passed.

And there’s blood. Of course, there would be blood. It’s ours, I’m sure. The pavement is too hot beneath me, so I rise, taking form, holding steady. A slow trickle of red oozes from my arm, and I remember. Back in the hotel, I’d run into one of those fancy wall sconces on the way to Redfern’s room. I didn’t have time to stop. No, definitely not.

Now the blood runs down my arm, absorbing beneath my shirt, trickling into the palm of my hand. Her hand. Our hand. I capture it in my palm, hold it under the sunlight, aware that, biologically, it isn’t mine. Not really. Then I open my hand and release it to the ground, drop by drop.

Glancing up, I notice a couple staring at me on the corner. When I look up, they turn away, mumbling something, but I don’t mind. I’d stare at me, too.

“Fucking tourists,” I mumble, then smirk at the irony, for I, myself, am something of a tourist. I come and go, appearing when there’s a good reason. Like recently, with the whole post-accident trauma. And before, too. Way, way before.

“Yes, you’re a fucking tourist,” I say louder, my voice familiar and soothing in my throat. It feels good to speak, good to release, even though I’m all alone. It’s been years of just listening … and listening.

My throat opens, and more sounds emerge, the same ones, but pleasing still. At least to me. “Fucking tourist!” I let myself shout. Then again and again. The couple on the corner moves away. A horn honks from a passing car and gives me the finger.

It’s okay. I know what I look like, bleeding and shouting to myself on the corner. And I don’t mind in the least. It feels so good to be out, the sunshine on my skin, the air on my face, even the new sounds entering my ears. It’s so damn quiet in the dark.

I laugh then into the wind as it picks up from across the road, the smell of the traffic off Sunset Boulevard sharp in my nose. Beyond everything, I think I can just make out the lightness of the sea air, the warmth carried in from the Pacific Ocean.

I have to hand it to her. She did it. My wounded little lamb did it. It was a good thing I emerged just in time. She would never have had the courage without me.

I can hear her thoughts, long and steady like a chant, an anthem, the same old song. With more time, I can drown it out, but not now. I haven’t yet got the strength.

Nicola’s voice is loud against my temples, insistent, and angry.

I know, I tell her. Shhh, Nicola. I know.

She doesn’t want me here.

7

Nicola

It’s the ring of my cell phone that wakes me, pulls me back. Nubia. I don’t have time to answer. My hands shakily reject the call. Checking the time—I always check the time—I realize it’s been about ten minutes. Shit.

Oh yes, and I got fired, didn’t I? The reminder is quick and harsh, the pull of nails over my skin. Traipsing to my car in the employee parking lot, I remember the roughness of the security guards, the way they threw me out without question, without much warning. The way he appeared and almost hit me.

Almost, I think bitterly. I suppose that’s an improvement from the last time.

I get to my car and drive straight to see Dr. Constance in the high-rise building on Wilshire. When I arrive, I don’t bother sitting down in the waiting room and go straight to her office. Silvia, the gray-haired assistant, runs after me, calling my name.

Dr. Constance is on the phone when I burst into her office. She looks up, mildly concerned but not alarmed, and gives a wave to Silvia, signaling it’s okay that I’m here. Reluctantly, she leaves. I take a seat and realize I’m breathing heavily. Sweat has formed across my brow. I shut my eyes and hold my head for a moment, trying to relieve the pressure in my skull.

“I’ll have to call you back,” she says, staring at me, and hangs up. “Well, this is a surprise.” Dr. Constance pauses, waiting for me to elaborate.

“I saw the man. The driver,” I blurt. “I know who he is.”

For a moment, Dr. Constance looks alarmed. Then her quiet composure returns. “You seem very upset, Nicola. Let’s take a few deep breaths together.”

“Did you hear what I just said?” I demand. “I saw him! I saw his car. He drives the same white Rolls-Royce. The Wraith!”

Dr. Constance nods and listens for a moment. She makes some notes in her file. “You’re saying you believe you saw the man who hit you?”

I sit forward in my seat, a thread of frustration climbing into my chest. “Yes.”

“How do you know it is the same car, the same man?” Constance replies, her voice steady.

I pause, my voice catching in my throat. How do I? How do I?

“I just know it. It’s the same car.” I feel suddenly desperate and at a loss. “It’s him,” I repeat, aware of my voice breaking. Tears start to form, and I try to suppress them. “The shoes …” I say helplessly. How to explain something so simple that I feel, that I know in my bones to be true?

Dr. Constance writes something, and I think I see the word irrational upside down. “You know the police don’t have a record of what color or make the car was. No one saw it, and no one saw the driver either, remember?”

I slam my fist on her desk, my voice growing angry. “I saw it!”

Her head tilts to the side. “But Nicola, you yourself told me only in our last session that you don’t remember everything from that day, do you?”

“I—” my voice falters. “I don’t remember everything,” I admit. “But I know it’s the same car. It has the same emblem, the lady with wings.” My hand finds the scar beneath my shirt and feels the indentation in my skin. “And he—the way he drove, his mannerisms, everything … it’s him!”

Dr. Constance shakes her head. “Nicola, we’ve talked about this. Your anger and eagerness to place blame are understandable. This is part of your PTSD, remember?”

“That’s not what this is,” I tell her.

“Oh? Then what is it, Nicola? You tell me. What is happening here?”

“What’s happening is the driver is out there, scot-free, and someone needs to do something about it. We’re suffering, and he’s not. He just goes on and on, living his life like nothing has happened. No consequence, no nothing.”

“What kind of consequence would you like to see?”

I know what she’s really asking. It’s the same question, asked another way to gauge my level of rage, my volatility. And of course, how bad my PTSD might be getting. Yet I still can’t help it when my voice rises, and my hands slam down against the surface of her desk, hard. “I want him to pay!”

Dr. Constance nods once and starts scribbling something down on a pad of paper. “The panic attacks are getting worse,” she says flatly. “We can no longer rely on therapy alone to deal with them and your PTSD.” She tears off the paper and hands me the sheet. “I’m going to recommend some medication. Take this when you feel yourself becoming overwhelmed or upset. Or angry. You don’t take it every day. Do you understand?”

I look at the paper, the writing almost unreadable, but I know what it is. Diazepam. The generic for Valium. “I’m not taking any more drugs,” I tell her.

“It will make you feel better.” Dr. Constance sighs. “You need to work on being honest about the things that you feel, Nicola. You must learn how to express your grief and your anger in healthy ways. Otherwise, your emotions will control you, and you’ll never heal from this.”

“I am being honest right now,” I say under my breath. “But you don’t believe me.”

I begin to cry, hot moisture gathering in the corners of my eyes. I steady my gaze and let it burn away, rage searing up from within like a firestorm.

“Take the medication,” she instructs me. “You’ll feel better.”

Outside the window, the street is flooded with sunshine. A woman runs to her bus stop, arms waving, bags trailing. The bus rolls on and leaves her behind.

As I get up to leave, I glimpse Dr. Constance’s notes on my case, all in pencil, barely legible. A few words come into focus in the center of the page, bigger than the others. “Recommend further psychiatric treatment.”

Outside the office, I throw the prescription in the trash, then dart to the elevators to the seventh floor.

When I get there, I make my way into the sleek waiting room, full of steel and glass. I can already feel the familiar migraine pain moving into my right temple. I press my finger against it to feel the coursing pressure mounting. Very soon, it will take over, and I will be …

On your back.

Pounding.

Vomiting.

Take a pill.

I grab an Imitrex and swallow it dry, the bitterness catching in my throat and making me gag. When the secretary isn’t watching, I nip back to the hallways of offices, black name plates on the doors. When I open the door to Steve’s office, I’m struck by the smell: Chinese food and dirty socks, which is exactly what I see. His feet are propped up next to case files and an open container of takeout in his hands. My stomach lurches.

Steve bats his hand at me without looking up. “Not now, Jonel. Gimme ten.”

My throat clears involuntarily. “It’s me.”

He jerks his head up and bolts to his feet. “Mrs. Holiday! How are you? Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I say, irritated. “I don’t have an appointment, Steve. But I do have a breakthrough in our case.

He laughs and smiles at me, wide and flat, like he doesn’t believe me. “Mrs. Holiday, I’m sure you do, but you can’t just—”

Maybe it’s the Imitrex taking hold, but for a moment, I really don’t care what I say or do next. I feel myself unspooling.

“I saw him, Steve. I saw the guy who hit us. It’s him. We need to get the police involved and file a new report.”

A quizzical look comes over him. “How do you know it was him? Do you have proof?”

How to prove it? Same goddamned question. I know because I know. “It’s him. He drives the same car—it’s that white Rolls-Royce.”

He sniffs and wipes his mouth with a balled-up napkin. “You told the police you didn’t see what kind of car it was. Remember?”

I don’t.

“Put your investigator on this.”

“I could put my investigator on it, but we’d be racking up hours, and that’s going to cost you.”

“I’ll get the money.”

He sighs, visibly frustrated. “It’s not just that. We don’t have anything to go on. No plate number, no description of the driver. No witnesses. You remembered the car, but so what? This is LA. There are plenty of Rolls-Royces around here.”

“But it’s not just a Rolls-Royce. It’s a white Wraith, okay? And besides, I know where he lives.”

Steve waves his hands like he doesn’t want me to say anymore. “Mrs. Holiday, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can. And I can’t just bring on an investigator without some sort of retainer.”

“How much are we talking about?”

A look of surprise forms on his face. “Ten grand should buy you a couple of weeks.”

Where am I supposed to get that kind of money? The sparkle of my wedding ring glitters under the false light. I consider for a moment and then dismiss the idea. “My husband was killed, and the man who did it has not been charged with a crime. I know who it is now, so why can’t you pursue this? Isn’t wrongful death enough of a payout?”

“We have no evidence against this person you say that you saw. You don’t have a wrongful death case if you don’t have a defendant and evidence against said defendant.”

“What about suing the city?”

He folds his arms defensively. “You want to sue the City of Beverly Hills for the wrongful death of your husband?”

“Whatever it takes.”

He shakes his head. “I told you before, I can’t open a suit like that on contingency. You’d actually have to pay me something.”

I started pacing, unable to contain my frustration. “I can get you the money, but I need you to start on this. Every moment we lose …” My voice trails off. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.

Steve stares at me concernedly. “Look. Let us do our job and file the personal injury claim. We’ll get you some money, more money from the insurance, but these things take time.”

“Please.” My voice falters, and a low sob escapes me. “Please. I just need to know that I’m not crazy. Because I’m not crazy. Tell me I’m not crazy, Steve.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head. He reaches below the desk and pulls out a file with a manila envelope sticking out. “I wasn’t going to show you this because it doesn’t prove anything.”

He hands it to me. I fumble with the envelope and remove a single printed photograph.

“The driver ran through a red light, and the camera snapped this.”

For a moment, I cannot believe what I’m seeing. The emblem at the front—the lady with wings—glints with the flash of the camera.

“It’s a white Rolls-Royce,” I mutter, my voice faint. “It’s the Wraith.”

“Yep,” Steve answers.

It’s there, black and white, the image of the driver, a faint dark shadow behind the windshield. The face is totally obscured, as is the license plate.

“Normally, you’d get a plate number in a photo like this, and the city would mail a ticket to the driver,” Steve tells me. “There was one of those illegal security films over the plate, though, so the camera didn’t pick it up.”

I nod, my eyes fixated on the dark shadow behind the windshield. I stare into it, trying to make out any detail, but there’s nothing. Beside the driver is another figure, but smaller, more obscured. The whiff of a single arm visible. A female, perhaps?

There’s a small date and time stamp in the corner. It was taken just minutes before the accident. “Where was this taken?”

“Sunset and Crescent,” Steve says. “Same area, around the same time, but police dismissed it. No plate. No name. No address.” Steve sighs. “We’re back to square one.”

“No,” I answer. “We’re not.”

Steve looks at me curiously. “Mrs. Holiday, it doesn’t prove anything because the car wasn’t at the scene. This was blocks away. And we have no driver. Do you understand? It’s not proof of anything.”

My eyes scan the photo, disbelieving. “Yes, I understand,” I tell him. “But it’s proof that there was a reckless driver in the same area, at the same time, with the same car.”

Steve just stares at me apologetically. “It isn’t proof that this car hit you,” he repeats.

But it could be the beginning of proof. “What if I can get it?”

He sits back down, defeated. “Look. You’ve been through a lot. Just let me take care of the insurance claim and go live your life. Can you do that?”

“I have a kid, Steve. She’s fourteen. We lost our house, our car, her college fund—everything—to pay for her medical bills and mine. How exactly are we supposed to live our lives?”

He sighs, at a loss. No therapy here. No pills to numb the pain. “We’re doing all we can,” he says.

This line gets repeated to me everywhere I go these days. Doctors and nurses, attorneys and secretaries. And it’s always, without question, a big fat lie. No one is doing all they can. Absolutely no one.

“But you won’t help me? You won’t investigate this any further?”

Steve shrugs. “My hands are tied, Mrs. Holiday. Please understand.”

On the surface, I may appear calm, but inside, I’m raging. “Can I keep this?” I ask him. He nods, and as I pocket the photo, the room starts to spin. I steady myself on the corner of the desk.

“Mrs. Holiday? Are you all right?”

Overhead, the stark white lights flicker. The sickly scent of Chinese food returns, and the air in the room feels close. I can hardly get a breath. My legs start to buckle as the voice returns to me.

See? No one’s going to help you. Why don’t you let me, Nicola?

“No,” I hear myself say, my voice barely a whisper. “I can’t, I can’t.”

My stomach rolls as a thumping returns to my skull.

A sudden wave of disgust rises within me. All of us consume each other like cannibals, I realize. No wonder Emmy went vegan. We buy big fancy cars so we can drive fast on big fancy roads, fueled by our booze and our oversized plates of dead animal flesh. We barrel down our well-paved roads and our well-lit streets reserved for certain kinds of people in certain kinds of houses and take our turns crawling into our oversized California king-sized beds when we’re done with it all.

Except, of course, for those of us who get left behind, those who get left for dead in the middle of the street on a brightly lit winter afternoon.

Before I know it, I’m trapped in the elevator, heading down to the ground floor.

Everything slows down. Time stops. The world stills. I pinch my fingers between my eyes and try to steady myself.

When the doors open, I bolt for the exit and out onto the street. As my feet hit the pavement, my lungs seize, and I release a scream into the cacophony of rush-hour traffic. I scream and scream until my throat burns and my gut aches with the effort. I scream until not even a breath of air could flow out of me.

8

Nicola

I sit idling in my car outside our apartment, my phone in my hands, Jason Redfern’s address glaring at me from the photo of his driver’s license. 1900 North Alpine Drive. The exclusive hills of Beverly Hills. The winding tree-lined streets, manicured lawns surrounded by supremely tall gates and walls, behind them their mansions towering into the trees—mysterious and only partially seen. How I long to drive there myself right now, to show up unannounced. To find something, anything that could be considered proof. To see him face-to-face and let him know what he’s done.

A bolt of anger rises in my chest.

You should have dealt with him when you had the chance.

I shake my head, releasing the thought that isn’t mine.

When I get inside, I find Emmy on the couch watching YouTube videos on her laptop and eating cereal, Scotch next to her, his little white head resting on her thigh.

“How was school?”

“Yeah, fine,” she mutters and strokes Scotch’s back. “But I’ve been thinking. I would really like to take a mental health day every week.”

“A mental health day?”

“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve been researching it. Some schools let their students take one day a week and study from home. I want to do that.”

“As in, you go to school four days per week?”

Emmy nods enthusiastically. “It would be good for me. I wouldn’t have to stress out so much, you know?”

I nod and come sit next to her. “I do know, baby, but I’m not sure it’s the right thing.”

Emmy nods and stares at my face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“With me?” I pull back. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Liar,” she says. “I know when something is wrong with you. Your eyes are all puffy, and your face has that look.”

“Look? What look?”

She shrugs. “Just a look. Like sad, but also angry, and something else, too.” Emmy thinks. “Like you’re dead inside.”

The words hit me hard. Dead inside. Am I dead inside?

I force a smile. “If I were dead inside, would I be able to do this?” I dive forward and start a tickle war. Emmy leans back and starts laughing as Scotch gets up on all fours, tail wagging excitedly.

After a moment, Emmy pulls away and holds the side of her head. “It was bad today,” she tells me. “I took a pill during class and almost fell asleep.”

“Oh, Em.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her close to me to examine the long, glistening scar on her scalp. My fingers touch the skin lightly, and she winces. “I think we should see Dr. Ching.”

“I don’t know,” she says, her voice growing small. “I really don’t want another surgery.”

“Don’t worry about that now. Let’s just see what she says first.”

Emmy nods and hunkers down into the sofa cushions. “Can we have mac and cheese for dinner?”

“Sure.” I smile at her.

You should tell her you got fired today.

Again, I release the thought with a flick of my head, like I’m batting away a fly.

Tell her. She can handle it.

I know she won’t stop, won’t be quiet until I do. So I do.

“Em?” I start. “There’s something you should know.”

She looks up from her computer.

“I quit the hotel job today.”

“What? Why?”

I shrug like the whole episode was no big deal, like it didn’t matter that I came face-to-face with her father’s killer, that I have his driver’s license in my phone now, his face in my mind, and a photo that places him in the same car, in the same city, at the same time on the day of the accident.

“It wasn’t working out. But I don’t want you to worry.”

“Okay,” she answers. “But we need the money, so …”

“Don’t worry about that,” I say confidently. “I’ll find something else.”

“Something else? Like what?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell her and rub her back. “Try not to worry.”

We sit for a moment in silence. The feeling of holding her is the calmest I’ve felt all day. I wonder if she can sense my unease.

“You know, sometimes I get so upset that it’s hard to think straight,” Emmy says.

I sit quietly, just listening. She’s so much like me at her age sometimes, it scares me.

I shake the thought from my mind. Emmy scratches Scotch behind his ears. One of them twitches, and they shift with the sound of a passing truck outside.

“Sometimes I think I want to know who did it, you know? Even though we can’t. I just imagine them, the driver, out there in the world living their life, or whatever, and I get so angry I could explode. Everything is one big, horrible mess, and we can’t do anything about it. It just seems so unfair.”

Emmy stares into the floor, her eyes burning. I would reply, but the sad fact is, I agree with her.

Except I know who did it. I’m the only one who does.

“The whole case. Nothing is happening. They’re not actually doing anything, are they?”

“These things take time, Em,” I say, repeating Steve’s words to me. I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no wrongful death case, not really. That Steve won’t take it on contingency, that basically, she is right. The law is not on our side. There is no justice, no redemption here, even though I’m determined to get it.

“Yeah, but even if we win, how does getting some money make things even?”

“It doesn’t, but we need money to pay us back for everything we lost, all the medical bills. The case could help us with that, Em.”

“Maybe, but it won’t bring Dad back.” Emmy pulls at the hair on her right side, away from her scar, and my heart breaks. “It’s like I’m just realizing now that he’s never coming back, that things won’t ever be the same again.”

I hold her close, unsure what to say.

“I hate them,” she says bitterly. I look at her.

“Who, Em?”

“Everyone. The lien doctors. Steve. The police officers. Everyone.” I feel Emmy’s anger running deep and true like mine. Only hers is different. Hers has controlled disdain, like a small fire someone could extinguish with one quick blast.

I wrap my arms around her. Under all the bubble gum fragrance and shampoo, she still smells like a baby to me. I want to tell her: You are my reason for living. You are everything to me.

I take her hand, and she pulls it away.

The blooming Jasmine makes the night seem so much kinder than it is. I park my car near a large oak tree, its leaves, like the others on the street, beginning to carpet the ground. I get out and gaze up and down at the houses, their warm lights dotting the road. Walking along, the only sounds are my uneven footsteps and the distant hum of traffic, the occasional police siren wailing. A dog barks, and birds stir in the overhead trees.

It’s a street like any other, and yet my heart beats wildly, my temples pounding as I approach what can only be described as the mansion at 1900 North Alpine Drive. I lower myself to the curb and cradle my knees, my arms shaking.

The tall stone-like gated entrance blocks most of the view of the driveway, but behind it, a tall structure rises up and extends back far into the distance. I imagine a pool, loungers, and a giant backyard, big sweeping lines of a stark white kitchen, modern furniture in fresh, mild hues. The lights are out, so everyone must be asleep, but I imagine the Redferns sitting at a long, extended dinner table, candles lit, voices all talking at once, a group of other well-known, famous faces aglow amid wine glasses and silverware that twinkle beautifully in the dim light. I imagine them happy, unaware of the destruction they’ve caused, oblivious to our pain and suffering.

Deep inside, the itch returns. I want a closer look, but I know that would be risky. I stretch out my bad leg into the street, willing the sensation to return to my toes so I can eventually stand.

Headlights approach, and a flicker of fear darts into my gut. I push myself up and try to get back onto the sidewalk, where a normal person would be.

I scan the darkness. The headlights are bigger, rounder, and as the engine approaches, it becomes louder. I wait, my heart racing. The glow from the headlights widens, and I hobble backwards from the road as the car approaches, feeling it catch my feet in the edges of its high beams.

The gate begins to open to their driveway. My body freezes as the white Wraith pulls up, waiting for the gates to open.

It’s him.

My stomach turns as Jason Redfern pulls in and the gates close slowly behind him.

I shouldn’t come back here.

I should leave the Redferns alone.

I should ignore the voice telling me that this is my chance to make things right.

But I can’t because he’s right here, and I’m so close now. So very close.

The voice is talking again …

You didn’t really think I’d let you leave this alone, did you, Nicola?

9

Bambi

Bambi sits alone, tapping the edge of the linen tablecloth, replaying what the photographer told her earlier today.

“Your breasts are sinking,” he had said. Well, not her breasts, actually. It’s her chest, to be specific. He said she was getting that concave look that you see women get, and then called the makeup artist over to see if she could do anything.

When he said it, Bambi smiled and laughed breezily, then posed for another shot, her stomach tense and knotted with frustration and perhaps too many days of living on cucumbers and water. She was never a runway model, but still, they had asked her to drop ten pounds, and there are consequences … like a sinking chest.

“There’s nothing you can do, aside from getting a boob job or a lift,” the makeup artist told her. “Try not to take it personally, honey.” Bambi shrugged it off. They worked her for another two hours before it was time to wrap and meet Whitney for their lunch date.

While she waits, Bambi orders something light from the menu at the Fern—a spinach salad and an iced tea. She waves off the waiter, and he looks down her top, probably noticing her chest sinking. Men notice these things. She’s thinner than most of the women she sees. Bambi is happy with this fact, but it doesn’t register as happiness within her for some reason. Most things don’t register as happiness within her for some reason.

It’s a brisk autumn day, but Whitney arrives in a too-short summer dress carrying Buster, her Chihuahua, in her oversized Louis Vuitton. “Oh my God, so sorry,” she says, sitting down, her sunglasses still on. “Doheny was a bitch.” Whitney gives her the once-over and leans in for a double air kiss.

“It’s fine. I already ordered.”

Whitney hangs her bag over the chair and brings Buster onto her lap. His tiny frame shivers as though he’s cold. Whitney signals a waiter and orders an omelet and a Diet Coke.

“So, tell me,” she starts, laying a hand across the table toward Bambi. “How are you? I mean, after that tweet? It’s like, what the fuck? Am I right?”

Bambi nods, her stomach growling. “She’s lying,” Bambi manages. “Jason said the whole thing was choreographed. It’s B.S.”

Whitney tilts her head in mock sympathy. “Bambi, do you really think she would lie about something like that? I mean, why would she?”

“To get exactly what she got. More attention.” She sips her iced tea, bitter, too cold on her teeth. “Jason says it’s good publicity for the film.”

“Well, whatever.” Whitney glances at the waiter with irritation as he places their food in front of them, interrupting her conversation. “I would be pissed, is all I’m saying.”

Bambi stays quiet. After all, this was why she married Jason to begin with. Fame has its necessary sacrifices, doesn’t it?

“You guys are going to Kim and Bruce’s opening, though, right?”

“Yeah. Jason is doing them a big favor, honestly. Just being seen there should give them months of business.”

Whitney laughs, high-pitched and sudden, as though cameras are still following her around the way they did during her blip of reality TV fame. “Have you seen the place? It’s a dive.”

Bambi nods and swallows the small bite of spinach she’s been chewing on.

It’s plainer than she remembers, and of course, all she can smell are the French fries from a neighboring table. She picks at the spinach and finds a few pieces of arugula. Cheap, she thinks and pushes the plate away, ignoring her hunger as she’s taught herself to do.

How is it possible to be lonelier in LA than she was in Manhattan? In New York, at least there were other models, even if the friendships were surface-level only. They were all transplants like her that knew what it meant to struggle, to have nothing, and to become a commodity—just a face and a body that could be used to sell clothes, makeup, jewelry, swimwear. But that was seven years ago, when Bambi was just twenty-two, still young enough to be considered in her prime but experienced enough to know what she was doing in front of the camera.

After moving to LA, she met Whitney at one of the boutiques on Sunset, and Whitney quickly recognized her as Jason’s new girlfriend. She invited her for a coffee at her house in the Hills. “Don’t take it personally if it doesn’t work out,” she told her. “I’m sure you know that Jason Redfern has somewhat of a reputation.”

“I think we’re different,” Bambi answered. “I’m different.”

Now Bambi sits twirling her wedding ring, watching the carats glimmer and wondering if it’s still true.

“How’s Lucita working out?”

“She’s great,” Bambi replies and takes a long sip of tea. “She does everything I ask—well, everything that Jason asks, honestly.”

Whitney frowns. “Oh, don’t worry. They’re all like that. It’s a cultural thing. They listen to men more.”

“Seriously? Is that true?” In New York, Bambi could never afford help, and besides, her apartment was so small and minimal that she could clean it herself in about an hour.

“Uh-huh. Look, she’s as good as gold—you just have to keep on top of her and tell her what you want.” Whitney leans in. “Sometimes they get lazy, you know?”

“I don’t get that vibe,” Bambi says, using the expression she learned after moving to LA. “She’s always busy, but it’s more that I can’t really trust her to do things for me, you know?”

Whitney just stares at her. “What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. Like if there was an errand or something I needed. I just know she’d tell Jason every little thing I want her to do for me. She doesn’t get it.”

Whitney blinks. “Get what?”

“Get that she works for us both. Not just for him. It’s like she assumes that she answers to him, like Jason is the boss, and I just happen to live there. I don’t know, maybe I’m not making any sense.”

“Is she rude to you?”

“No, no, of course not. It’s more like Jason is in charge. I don’t have any authority.”

“Well, take some!” Whitney answers, suddenly indignant. “I mean, he’s not even home right now, is he?” She funnels a small bite of omelet into her mouth and covers her mouth to chew and speak at the same time. Her oversized, yellow diamond wedding ring catches Bambi’s eye, twice the size of her own. A surge of deep envy comes over her. Whitney is what they call a Hollywood golden child, the daughter of an A-list actor and a property mogul, which means that Whitney has never had to work a day in her life.

“He comes home tonight before he leaves for the shoot in Europe.”

“Are you going, too?”

Bambi shakes her head. “He doesn’t like it when I’m with him on set. Says it makes it harder for him to stay in character.”

“Yeah,” Whitney says. “My mom used to say that, too.” She finishes half of her omelet and pushes her plate away. Bambi picks at her salad, feeling hungry but unable to eat.

“It’s like he has this whole other life I don’t see,” she admits quietly. “And I only have him.”

Whitney paws her arm distractedly while looking at her phone. “Aww, honey,” she coos. “Of course. He’s an actor.”

After they finish lunch, they grab the check, then leave out the back, where Whitney waves to the restaurant manager. Outside, Bambi fishes in her purse for lip gloss as a glint of sunlight reflecting off something catches her eye. She looks up and spots several paparazzi dressed all in black, snapping her picture from a distance under the shade of a small tree across the parking lot. Whitney takes her hand. “I’ll call my driver.”

They wait a few moments outside, aware that they are being photographed. Soon, the brazen paparazzi begin to approach.

“Seriously?” Bambi asks. “What are they looking for?”

“Relax,” Whitney instructs her. “You don’t want a bad shot of you on the cover of Hello Hollywood.”

A moment later, Whitney’s driver pulls up in her four-door black Bentley with tinted windows, and the two of them get in the back seat. Whitney rolls down her window and gives the finger to the paparazzi as they approach.

“Stop! What are you doing?” Bambi tries to swat her hand down.

Whitney giggles again as though cameras are watching. “Oh, chill out. I’m just having a little fun.”

“The last thing I need is more bad headlines,” Bambi says when the window rolls up again. “Not right now.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Whitney admits. “I guess they’re after you because of the tweet.”

Bambi’s gut sinks. “It’s not a big deal.”

Whitney pats her leg as they pull onto Robertson and head toward the Valet. “Honey, this is LA. Everything is a big deal.”

As she gets home, she calls Jason. His phone rings out, and she gets a text.

On set. Call you later.

His standard message reply. It’s just after 4 p.m. What could Jason be doing right at this very moment? Normally, work would keep her just as busy, but lately, things have died down a little, as though the entire industry has caught on to the fact that she’ll be thirty soon. A tinge of frustration rises within her. In her business, turning thirty means your career is over, whereas for Jason, it means you are just getting started. With every shoot, she creeps closer toward obsolescence, while Jason just keeps rising.

Bambi parks in the driveway behind the gate and makes her way inside. In the laundry room, she quickly switches over the laundry and checks the sheets. The small, light brown stain is still there, a stubborn reminder. She throws the lot in the dryer and sets it to the highest setting. “Where the fuck is Lucita?” she says and slams the dryer door.

Bambi heads inside and collects a few packages waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer—two large boxes from Christian Dior, a small one from Prada, and a gourmet food basket for her and Jason from the trendy market that just opened up in Beverly Hills. She photographs herself opening the designer boxes and trying on some of the items—a silk scarf, a clutch, a pair of Dior earrings, a bangle, and Prada flats in black leather. Bambi sighs and kicks off the shoes after taking a quick snapshot. She posts a few photos on social media, tagging the brands and thanking them. The front door opens. Lucita shuffles into the foyer, humming softly to herself.

“Hola, Miss Bambi. You go out today?”

“Yeah, I went to lunch. Look what I got.” Bambi twirls and shows off a few of the items.

“Very nice,” says Lucita, admiring her. “You look pretty, Miss Bambi.” Her round face falls. “How about I make some dinner? Something to eat?”

“I ate today. I told you I had lunch.”

“But it’s six o’clock. You don’t want dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Please, Miss Bambi, let me cook for you. Just something light, how you like it. A little salad?”

“I said I’m not hungry, Lucita.”

Bambi goes to her bedroom and checks her phone again. Jason should be finishing up the shoot and coming home tonight. He would arrive tired, have a drink, and do his nightly laps in the pool.

Downstairs, Lucita hums while she cleans and changes the towels in the guest bathrooms. Bambi hears her removing the washed linens from the dryer and muttering, “Ay, Dios mío,” probably because of that stain. But really, she should be used to seeing them by now.

Outside, the streets are quiet. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Is she the only person on the planet without one? Why does everyone seem to have a dog in Beverly Hills except her? Maybe tomorrow she should go buy a little fucking Chihuahua or something. But lately, the thought of caring for another living thing fills her with indefinable terror.

Bambi pops an Ambien and lies on the bed, the house still and quiet now. She spreads her arms out wide on the bed, letting the drug work. It’s a nice way to feel, like you’re falling, falling, falling into a pit, never to crawl out again. It’s gotten easier lately, reaching for the Ambien, the compulsion to take it stronger than ever.

She inhales the scent of the night air and the perfume of Jasmine on the breeze. A car drives past. Her eyelids lift for a split second. Jason?

Stop thinking about him, she tells herself. Just relax. He’ll be home when he’s home.

Bambi glances at the small golden-framed picture of them when they first moved to LA. As she closes her eyes, she can still see him, dancing under the flashing, colorful lights, the dimly lit bar behind him, everyone watching them. She can still feel her body in that dress, the way the fabric hugged her, her cleavage perky, her lips matte red with a new shade gifted by YSL. In moments, he was buying her a drink, his hand on her small waist, lips against her ear, talking loudly over the thudding music, the prickle of his stubble on her earlobe. Her chest burned with the shots, and when he got close again, his unshaven cheek was against hers—harsh, warm, and a little cutting. When he kissed her, he held her tight and slid his hand down over her left thigh. Normally, she would have stopped that sort of thing, but not this time. She never said no to him.

Outside, the headlights pass, and Bambi sits up to look for him. Sure enough, his car turns into the driveway. Beyond him, something skitters in the shadows. More paparazzi trying to get a closer look, perhaps. She shudders. Maybe she should call security, or maybe the police. Glancing back, though, she follows the shadow darting back from the curb until it disappears, moving with a strange, uneven gait. Then the Ambien pulls her downward, where the thought disappears along with the passing light.

10

Nicola

I’m alert as I drive home, my leg stiff and cold. Inside, the apartment is dead quiet, remnants of dirty dishes in the sink, the living room cluttered and untidy with laundry to be folded, Emmy’s school papers and books. I head upstairs, careful not to wake Emmy. Scotch must be asleep with her in his room, I think as I walk past his empty bed in the hall.

I practically fall into bed, the tiredness in my body soothed by the cold sheets wrapping around me. As I roll onto my side, the pain in my lower back shoots down my leg, causing my entire limb to go numb, dead, cold. I close my eyes for a moment, and when I open them, Ben is lying beside me. His large brown eyes stare into mine. I wriggle closer to him until we are nose to nose.

Do that butterfly kiss thing, he whispers. I lean into him, and he starts flapping his big brown eyes. I love you, gorgeous.

I love you too, Benjamin. I feel myself cry.

Whoever falls asleep first loses. He smiles, his teeth gleaming.

Okay, I nod, trying to keep them open.

I always win at this game now, he says.

The darkness closes in, and I know this is the end. The memory is soon to be complete. Stay with me a little longer, I ask sleepily.

I pull up the sheets between us, but Ben is gone. I turn onto my bad side, facing the window. My nerves crackle until my leg bristles with pain. Soon, my limb is cold and dead.

I can hardly feel a thing.

The next morning, I see Emmy hunched over the counter, her head cradled in one hand over a bowl of cereal.

“Em?” She glances up, uncontained and raw, like a toddler lost in the middle of a busy store and longing for a familiar face.

I place a hand on her back, and for a moment, I think I sense her heartbeat, fast, anxious. “How are you?”

Shrug. A wriggle of her shoulders so my hand falls away. “My head is killing me.”

I look around and spot her bottle of pills on the counter. “You took your pills?”

“Yes,” she answers and groans. “They aren’t doing anything.”

Emmy pushes the cereal away from her and lowers her head to the counter. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Is it the scar like before or a different pain?”

She rolls her head to the side. “It’s the scar like before but more all over. Like my whole head is one big scar.” Her hands brace the sides of her head. “It won’t stop thumping.”

I check Emmy’s temperature and realize she’s burning up. “We need to get you to Dr. Ching,” I tell her. “Something isn’t right.”

She groans quietly and holds the sides of her head. “I really don’t want to, Mom.”

“I know, sweetheart,” I say and rub the upper part of her back. “Come on,” I say and lift her from the kitchen stool.

She rises and steadies herself, then rushes to the kitchen sink and vomits violently.

“Mom!” she cries out. “What’s wrong with me?”

I don’t want to tell her what I think it is. So I say nothing, and instead, we clean her up, get in the car, and drive to Cedars-Sinai.

We wait forty-five minutes in the small, cramped office that looks like someone’s grandmother’s living room. I sit holding Emmy close, rubbing her back while we wait. At last, we’re taken into another waiting room, and Dr. Ching enters right away, her expression calm and collected. She gives us a once-over, then looks at our files. “How are we today?” she asks cheerfully.

“Not so good,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Emmy has been in a lot of pain lately.”

“My head is killing me,” Emmy moans. “It’s unbearable.”

“I see,” says Dr. Ching, unmoved. She pats the examination table. “Hop up here and let’s take a look.”

I watch as Dr. Ching puts on gloves and pokes around the scar. Emmy winces when she touches a large pink lump in the center.

“What’s wrong with it?” Emmy asks.

Dr. Ching examines her for a moment longer before removing her gloves and answering. “It doesn’t look compromised, but I’m going to put you on antibiotics just in case.”

Emmy’s face falls.

“What about the pain?” I ask.

“Could be just regular headaches,” Dr. Ching answers. “Of course, we know that patients with head trauma will get headaches from time to time. We’ll up your pain medication.”

“Great,” Emmy mumbles.

“She already has trouble taking the medication,” I explain. “It makes her nauseous.”

“Most pain meds do,” Dr. Ching explains, her voice unsympathetic. “Take them with food. That will help.”

She jots something down on a prescription pad and hands it to me. “She can take the tramadol at the onset of the pain. The sooner the better.”

“Isn’t there anything else you can give her instead?”

Dr. Ching thinks for a moment. “Skin graft patients can benefit from HBOT. Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy. But most insurance companies won’t cover it.”

“So that’s it? Just more pills?”

Dr. Ching looks at me, her expression flat. “I’m afraid so.

Come back and see me in a few weeks.”

My gut turns over as I feel the panic rising. I never wanted Emmy to suffer like this. Any complication with her skin graft means more doctors, more pills, and more money. Money we already don’t have.

Dr. Ching finishes up her notes and leads us out. I pay the co-pay, and in moments, we’re in the elevator approaching the ground floor where the pharmacy is. I pay for Emmy’s prescriptions and realize that the balance in my account is a little less than two hundred dollars now.

My stomach pangs again because rent and bills are coming due. I’m skating on a knife’s edge between having enough and us going hungry.

Back in the car, I tell Emmy she can take that break from school. “I’m not going to make you go. At least not for a little while.”

She shoots me a look, eyes suddenly hopeful, and it nearly breaks my heart. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Seriously. It’s all been too much. I think you need a little time to rest. Don’t you?”

She looks me over like I’ve damn near lost my mind. “So … what? I can just stay home? Just like that?”

“I’ll call the principal and tell her.”

Emmy nods, her eyes wide, like I’m dangling a million-dollar prize right before her eyes. Finally, she turns to me, somewhat brighter. “I heard JoJo got to take two weeks, on account of seeing a psychiatrist after her parents split.”

“Oh, really?”

Emmy smiles, hopeful. “I mean, I can do home study. Get my books and, you know, work from home … It’s not that big of a deal.”

I put my hand back on her back. “Let me call them and see.”

She nearly bursts at the seams and wraps her arms around me, and I savor each second of it for as long as it lasts.

“So, what will you do?” she says, pulling away from me.

“What do you mean?”

“Now that you don’t have to go back to the Whitmore?”

“That’s my job to figure it out, Em.”

She stares at me skeptically. “I thought we needed money …” Emmy pulls her feet up onto the seat, her frayed, tired shoes coming apart at the sides, a shoelace knotted in the middle where it must have snapped. My heart breaks open.

“Don’t worry about that,” I tell her. “You do you, and I’ll do me.”

She laughs bitterly. “Okay. Just don’t let the you that decided to quit come back, or we’ll both be in trouble.”

I smile lightly, but deep down, her words hit like tiny razor blades, nicking at my insides.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A voice rises inside my head, clear and sharp. I snap my head to the left a little, willing it away, but the voice inside is loud and insistent.

How can you be sure?

11

Nicola

Emmy sits quietly at the kitchen counter, watching YouTube on low volume while I make dinner. The cupboards are empty except for a box of Emmy’s Pop-Tarts and the cereal she likes that costs $6.99 a box at Whole Foods. Behind it, I find a box of macaroni and cheese from the dollar store. I boil the macaroni with a head of broccoli that I cut up into little pieces.

“Mom, your face looks weird,” she says to me while I’m cooking.

“This is just my face. I’m concentrating.” Maybe I’m in denial, but I feel like she doesn’t realize the extent to which we are struggling yet.

“You look worried.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

“Are you tired?”

“Probably.”

“Is it because you feel like shit or something?”

“Don’t curse. I guess my leg is hurting today.”

Emmy thinks for a moment while I drain the macaroni and stir in the packet of cheese sauce. It’s lumpy and makes everything look vaguely like vomit as it goes in.

“You know, I’ve got like five hundred bucks I’ve saved up,” she offers. “Do you think that would help us out?”

“Where did you get five hundred dollars, Em?”

She shrugs and looks down at her computer. “Just, you know, birthday and Christmas money I saved up for a while. But I want to give it to you so you don’t have to stress so much. Every little bit helps, right?”

I look up at her, tears filling my eyes, wondering what I did to deserve her. I see Ben in Emmy. I see us in Emmy. We must have done something right to make this kind, strong, young woman. If I were put on this planet only so that she could exist and grow, then I have lived rightly.

I come around the kitchen counter and wrap Emmy in my arms. She relaxes a little into me, and I kiss her cheek. “Thanks, baby girl, but that’s your money. You keep it.” I look into her big brown eyes and touch her soft brown hair, the scar still pink and tender. “How’d you get to be so damn wise?”

Emmy shrugs. “You and Dad, obviously.”

“That’s beautiful, Em,” I say, hugging her.

“Also, I watch a lot of YouTube.”

Later, when I pull into the grocery store parking lot, I have a thick knot in my stomach and eight dollars in cash in my wallet—not enough for gas, let alone food, rent, or Emmy’s new prescriptions and mine. My stomach rolls with the few bites of macaroni and cheese I crammed down earlier. I flip through my credit cards, all maxed out, closed, or expired, and find the little plastic card I never imagined I’d have to use.

Food stamps from the state of California. I applied for them a while back because Dr. Constance said I should, but I was always too proud to use them. Now they are the only thing we have. I stow the card in my purse and look up.

That’s when I see him, standing there in the empty parking space before me, illuminated by my headlights. Blood drips from the side of his head. His face looks pained, misshapen, the way it did in the road that day.

Ben.

My heart races. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to steady my breathing. My hands grip the steering wheel as I try to remove the apparition from my mind. When I look up, the parking space in front of me is empty. Ben is gone.

The voice inside of me returns, and I stiffen, unable to keep the adrenaline from pumping through me.

Stop it. Get yourself together.

Inside, the fluorescent lights are too bright as I quickly make my way to the back of the store, where the display of clearance items is. The stale scent of mildew and bathroom cleaner fills my nose as I approach. A woman walks over with a shopping basket and looks at a shelf full of old candy and soaps. She eyeballs me as I quickly snatch up a few items to help get us through another day—a few dented cans of soup, instant noodles that are expired and broken, a box of dusty granola bars, which are also expired. I collect the other few items I’m allowed, then head up to the registers.

The gal checking out customers gives a half smile, which I recognize as pity. How must I look, traipsing in here late at night like this?

When I get home, I dump the groceries on the kitchen counter and put the few perishables away. A ringing begins in my left ear and travels across my skull until it’s in both ears at once.

Upstairs, I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment and sob into my hands.

Stop it. The voice returns, a stronger edge to it this time, as though it’s in my inner ear. Stop it, Nicola.

“No,” I answer. “Not right now. Please.”

Then get yourself together. Enough is enough.

At the mirror, I brush my teeth and wash my face without looking at my reflection. I avoid my own eyes. A strange feeling comes over me, and I lift my chin to meet my own gaze. My spine tingles with fear. The sensation washes over me, inexplicable, as though I’m falling through myself, as though the reflection will do something that I won’t do, and I won’t be able to stop her.

I step back, my whole body shaking, and brace the countertop. I shut my eyes.

She’s there. A bright, unearthly presence awakening inside of me like a sleeping child. She yawns and stretches. My body quivers as she takes form.

In the mirror, I lift my eyes to really look at the woman staring back at me. It’s me, and yet it is not me. Her face is familiar. I know her. She’s someone I have been before. She emerges, gentle at first, and then stronger, like a deep interior itch I cannot resist.

Hello, she whispers to me. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I blink once and try to resist her, to push her away, my head and body no longer my own, and then everything goes dark.

12

Bambi

Bambi presses on the accelerator and feels the sand crunch between her toes, the dampness from the sea air still on her skin. She brushes a loose hair out of her face, sticky with hairspray and serum to create unnatural beach waves. She never moved to LA for the beaches. She’d forgotten until the shoot how much she despised Venice Beach in particular because of the drugs, the tourists, and street vendors selling worthless crap. At a stoplight, she pauses and sniffs her left arm, the smell of the spray tan pungent like overripe fruit. She lowers the windows, and when the light turns, she presses firmly on the gas. Outside, the air is calm and fragrant with the jasmine that grows along this patch of Sunset Boulevard.

She takes a sharp curve on Sunset and hears the wheels screech a little beneath her, then revs her Porsche and dials Jason. No answer.

“Shit,” she mutters.

She presses on the accelerator a little more and speeds up past the next light as it turns red.

Bambi’s stomach rolls, and she curses quietly to herself as she takes a corner up into their part of Beverly Hills. She speeds, her engine revving as she winds uphill toward 1900 North Alpine Drive.

A red stop sign zips past her, and she glances in her rearview mirror. No cops out tonight. She’s going to be fine. Probably. As she speeds toward home, Bambi regrets lingering on set with the photographer and the other models after the shoot. She should have said no, but she enjoyed the moments after they wrapped, sitting beneath the stars, watching the beach crowd start to clear, glancing now and then at some of the photos on the monitor, a can of something sweet and sparkly in hand that she wasn’t really drinking. She allowed the thought to enter her mind that maybe she didn’t want to go home.

Before she moved to LA, she had been doing quite well on her own. Sports Illustrated. Vanity Fair. Vogue. Marie Claire. She was the face of Lancôme, a good campaign that had her staring smilingly over every drug store makeup aisle she went into. It’s not that Bambi liked modeling exactly, but it was something she could do, a thing she discovered about herself when she was sixteen and past her awkward stage of short hair and gangly, Swedish features. Somehow, at seventeen, she had found that her hair, now slightly longer and more blonde from the sun, and her limbs, which before were boyish and too slim, had a certain quality to them that others found desirable.

Near enough to her eighteenth birthday, she had a terrible tonsil infection and couldn’t eat solids for a week. The weight she lost was the final piece of the puzzle, and when it was spring, and she was just about old enough, Bambi set out for New York to stay with a friend and try to get some work. About eight years later, she met Jason and moved to Los Angeles, a lesser place for a successful model but somehow appropriate, nonetheless. He was alluring to her beyond his fame, but the fame part was nice, too. Being around cameras wasn’t the least bit unusual to her. So she moved into Jason’s house, redecorated every bedroom herself to fit her clean, Scandinavian aesthetic, and before long, Jason proposed, and they were married.

These days, the serious work had all but dried up. She did things like lipstick campaigns and the occasional indie designer, but it wasn’t like before. LA people were brazen when it came to measuring one’s success. Everyone here saw her a little differently, a little bruised, as though she occupied a lesser tier of fame. In their guest bedroom, she still kept a few old magazines in the wardrobe and on the bottom of the nightstand, in which she was featured or had graced the covers.

Bambi checks her Rolex as she turns up Maple and begins winding into the hills. It’s 12:16 a.m. She takes a moment before pulling into the driveway. What should she say? How to handle him? Beyond the stone wall gates and their tall affronting metallic door, Jason is already inside, a glass of Macallan in his hands, lulling him and rousing him at the same time, or perhaps he is swimming in the pool, doing his laps for the evening.

Bambi throws the car back into gear and presses the garage remote. It opens slowly and quietly, revealing Jason’s pristine white Wraith inside. She pulls in, then turns to reverse in next to it, cautiously, checking every mirror and every angle. Once, she opened her door and hit the edge of the Wraith, leaving a small dent in the side. She had it fixed before Jason had a chance to notice.

For a moment, she waits in the darkness of her parked car, her mind racing with possibilities. Jason calm. Jason swimming. Jason drinking too much. Jason shouting. A spark here. A hand there. Bambi pulls down her mirror and checks herself, reapplies some lipstick, and smacks her lips together. She tries on a smile to herself and lifts her eyes into an expression she thinks Jason might want to see. The effort exhausts her. Bambi’s face falls, and her smile evaporates.

An idea crosses her mind, one she had not considered before.

Bambi finds her spare stash of pills in her purse in a tiny, gold compass-like compact that used to be her mother’s. The coldness of the compact takes her back for a moment—her mother’s short blonde hair, the stern expression she’d use when Bambi had done something foolish or broken the rules. The compact is the only thing she has left of her. The mirror has long since shattered and broken. The place where powder once sat now long chiseled away to an empty compartment where Bambi keeps various pills she might need. Tylenol. Energy vitamins. The occasional hit of Molly. And Ambien. She picks out one little blue pill and cradles it in her palm, the fake tan spray still prominent. For some reason, the little blue oval staring back at her makes her heart stop racing.

The air inside the house is cool and still, like a mausoleum. Bambi kicks off her sandals in the foyer and groans softly at the ache in her legs from standing most of the day in awkward positions and jumping repeatedly on the hot sand to capture the exuberance the photographer wanted. The kitchen is dark, except for a slit of moonlight coming through the breakfast nook windows. The refrigerator hums quietly.

Bambi goes to it, hungry and dehydrated. She scans the insides of the fridge—plenty of food, food that Lucita has been stocking and restocking for her on rotation. Everything is fresh, and her mouth waters for the things she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Eggs. Milk. Bread. Cheese. Bacon. Chocolate.

Bambi grabs a bottle of water and lets the door close, her hands shaking.

Behind her, at the far end of the house, she peers toward the backyard and the pool, where a soft glow of blue light emanates through the rest of the dark house. The back doors are open, she realizes, a soft breeze coming in and the faint scent of Jason’s cologne—musk and peppermint—filtering in. She goes to him, stepping carefully along the large stones embedded in the grass that lead to the edge of the pool.

Bambi sits as he finishes a lap and comes up for a breath. “Hi,” she says as he notices her. “Did you just get home?”

Jason swims toward her, and Bambi sees he has the Macallan out next to a glass. He takes a swig, watching her, then lifts himself out of the pool to sit on the edge. “I’ve been waiting for you, Bambs.”

She swallows, a slight uptick in her heart rate. “I know. I’m sorry. We finished late. The photographer wanted to get some extra shots.”

Silence. Jason pulls a towel from the lounger behind him to dry himself. Bambi looks at the curve of his chest and back, the muscles knitting together at the top of his shoulders.

“How was your meeting?”

“Long. Exhausting. I didn’t even get my massage in.”

“Oh, sorry, baby. Is the film a go?”

“Yeah.” Jason swirls his drink around in the crystal glass. “Of course.”

“Where will you shoot?”

“Paris. London. Maybe Italy for a week or two. It is back-to-back with The Hurting Game. I told you that, right?” His voice sounds a bit exasperated to her, and Bambi scoots closer, putting her hands on his biceps, then his shoulders. She massages him slowly to try to calm him.

“Yeah, you did.” The Hurting Game has only just wrapped, and already he’s off again. She feels a pang of sickness she cannot place, her mind wandering to the last time Jason shot a film abroad several years ago for the WWII drama Telegraph. Bad connections. Lost signals. With Jason always eight or nine hours ahead, Bambi stayed up late, trying to catch him before his day on set began. The film itself was a flop, and since then, Jason has insisted on filming in the U.S. She wonders what’s changed.

Jason shakes her hands off him and turns. “We had a date, remember?”

“I know, and I’m so sorry, baby,” she says, trying to kiss him. He dodges her carefully.

“We’ve talked about this. This kind of thing cannot happen.”

“I know. I should have left sooner. They kept us after for the extra shots.”

“They?”

“The photographer. The director. You know. Everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Yes. It’s for next summer’s catalogue.”

“I see.” Jason pours himself another drink. “Well, I missed you,” he says, his expression pouty.

For a moment, she thinks he’s being sweet, and her heart flutters. “I missed you, too.”

“You know I like you home when I’m home.”

Bambi nods, uncaps the water bottle, and takes a drink. In her palm, she can feel the blue pill against her skin, already starting to sweat.

Jason strums his fingers on the edge of his glass. “So, you were busy tonight with the photographer—sorry, having your ass kissed by the photographer—which is why you’re late for me?”

There it is. The turn Bambi was expecting. “I couldn’t just leave. Everyone else stayed. You know what it’s like.”

“I’m an actor. The whole set revolves around me. You’re a model. It’s different, Bambs.”

She doesn’t want to tell him that that’s exactly her point. He can make demands and control his own schedule, and directors have learned to put up with it. She’s never been quite so lucky.

“I’ve been here for hours waiting for you. Doesn’t that matter to you at all?”

“Yes, of course. That isn’t what I meant.”

Jason’s eyes widen with agitation. His pupils enlarge as he reaches out to her, stroking the side of her tanned face, then holding it between his thumb and forefinger tightly. “You’re browner than usual,” he remarks, an air of disgust in his voice. “You know how I hate that spray tan look.”

“I was going to take a shower.”

He releases his hand and studies her. “Have you been eating the meals Lucita prepares for you?”

“Of course. I eat.”

“You look like you’ve gained some weight.”

That’s impossible. Of course she hasn’t. Because of the shoot, it’s been nearly a week since she’s really eaten anything substantial. She wants to protest, but the words cling inside her throat.

“You have to want it, too.”

“I do,” she says, her voice small and vacant, like someone else is talking.

Jason stands abruptly. “Well, then you actually have to show up for me to fuck you.”

Her throat blisters, dry and hollow. She takes another sip of water, cold on hot. “I’m here, so what’s the problem?”

He snaps her up by the wrist, the Ambien tight in her palm, and holds her to him. The scent of alcohol is heavy on his breath.

She wrenches from him, feeling her heart race. “I’m going upstairs to take a shower.”

“Good. And don’t take forever. I have an early start.”

Upstairs, Bambi takes the Ambien. Her skin turns red and raw under the hot water as she scrubs and scrubs her body to remove the fake tan. She braces herself against the cool tile as the room spins a little, an effect of the tiny blue pill. Her head hung low, she watches the water run orangey brown past her feet. When it’s clear, she shuts the water off and steps out.

She thinks of the last time they made love. Jason has a way of being alluring, even when he’s demanding of her. And she loves him, of course. But a dark intensity had begun to form in him, as though she were a thing that he owned rather than a person to him.

This time will be different. This time, there’s a darkness waiting for her on the other side. She only has to make it from their bathroom to their large king-size bed. It’s easier knowing that the drug will whip through her veins, and like magic, she will be gone.

Cold tiles, cold floor. The fluff of her slippers. Toes emerge through, bright red, a color called Dominatrix. Bambi wipes her cold hand across the mirror, pulling the condensation this way and that. Her make-up off, face piqued with color, she forces a tiny smile, then braces herself as the room spins.

Jason switches off the TV and undresses, his frame muscular in the light. He pulls her toward the bed now, his lips on her ear. She feels him pressing against her, his body ridged and unmoving. “I want you,” he whispers, his voice so close, she can feel the moisture from his mouth, the scent of Macallan still strong on his breath. Bambi feels her body fall slack in his arms as he lifts her toward the bed and pulls open her robe. He moves between her legs, urgent, restless, intense. You used to enjoy this, she reminds herself.

But now she has the urge to slip quietly away.

There’s no sense in running from Jason, though. Not now. Maybe not ever.

13

Nicola

I can’t decide which light is worse: the crack of sunlight bouncing in from the window or the white light still on in my bathroom, hitting the mirror and stabbing me in my right eye. I cover my head with the duvet and try to block it out.

I peel back the comforter and squeeze my eyes shut. My sweaty palm smacks across my forehead, trying to cover my eyes, a pure instinct to get rid of the assaulting light. At the dresser, I fumble around for a spare packet of Imitrex. They seal each goddamned pill individually—paper with a peel-and-tear corner that, once removed, reveals a blister pack beneath. The bastards are really hard to open.

I tear it with my teeth and manage to put the pill into my mouth, the bitterness making me gag. Broken images fill my mind from the night before. A flash of the grocery store, then my own face in the mirror. What happened to me?

I amble to the bathroom, clutching my side, my one leg still dead, a sharp stab of pain in my temple. My hand flicks on the tap, and I bend over to slurp in some water and swallow down the two bitter pills, the taste metallic and chalky at the same time.

My legs buckle, my stomach lurches, and I vomit everything back into the sink, the white pills clattering against the porcelain. I blink my eyes open against the blinding light, trying desperately to see where the pills have gone, but it’s too late. The drain rattles with a deep, hollow sound as it carries the pills away from me.

I hobble back toward the medicine cabinet, searching for more Imitrex. Another packet, another tear and hack open with my teeth. I swallow at the sink and hunker down to the floor, praying I will keep them down this time. Twenty minutes is all I need for them to work.

I pry myself up, a thought fresh in my mind. Did I take my pills last night? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember? Everything is broken images, flashes here and there, the occasional color or sound coming through.

Why is the migraine so bad?

What did I forget?

Was it something I ate?

My head presses against the cool slab of the tile floor to keep the throbbing at bay while the drug takes over. Migraine, migraine, what the hell are you? Migraine, migraine, go away soon. My stomach heaves, threatening once again to cast the contents of my stomach onto the floor, but I push it back. I roll my forehead along the tile. Migraine, migraine, migraine. Die, you horrible migraine. The light pierces my head, needle-like, stabbing. The sun is rising, meaning time is marching on. The Imitrex slowly begins to numb the pain, and I start to remember the night before.

She was here.

A stab of pain—agony in my head—and the nausea returns. Quick relief. I know how to get it. Another packet, another pill. It takes all my effort to crush it against the sink with the back of a toothbrush and gather the fine powder into a line so that I can lean down and inhale the lot with one easy uptake, the bitterness suddenly down my throat, stinging my nose.

A quick bite of pain crosses my skull before it eases. Serenity. Relief, sweet like a breath that has been too long held.

Now do you remember?

I shake my head, willing the full recollection forward, but it doesn’t come.

My stomach lurches again. I gag, and a terrible heave of bile comes up that burns the back of my throat.

I roll my head back and forth and press the temple, hoping for relief, and suddenly, I remember how it started.

The voice.

The face staring back at me, so sure. So confident.

I remember now.

She was here.

And because she was here, I didn’t take Topamax.

She knows. Of course she does.

Smart bitch.

The last time she was here, I didn’t have Topamax. She’s been paying attention.

I muscle myself up onto the toilet and sit, holding my head in my hands, trying to remember. The weight of my torso like a thousand pounds of lead. I need Topamax. I need to think. I need to remember.

I shake out my leg, cold and dead. The nerves pop and prick inside my foot, ankle, and calf, resisting the movement. I rise and limp toward the medicine cabinet, blood rushing to my foot, my nerves awakening. I find my bottle of Topamax and examine it. Empty. A memory comes back, thick and sudden, like waves rolling toward me from the deep sea: tiny pink pills emptying into the toilet, the tinge of pink on the water. My lifeline—all 120 tablets—gone.

It’s not just the hundreds of dollars it will cost me to refill the prescription, nor the withdrawal that will come during the agony of waiting for them. It’s that she knew my dependency, my need. And she took them anyway.

A slow chill meanders up my spine, the steady creep of panic. With the pills, I’m numb, but I’m me at least. I’m here. I can control things. Without them, the panic attacks and migraines get worse.

But of course, when I’m weak, that’s when she thrives.

She’s enviably strong in those moments. Me, but not me at all. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. She is part of me, but better. I almost believe in her, this woman. As if she can do anything. As if she can survive anything. She was made for that.

So why am I afraid?

“What happened?” My own voice echoes, scratchy, tired, like sandpaper on sandpaper. My temples thump with a deep, stabbing pain once again, a warning from within. She is here now with me. I am her vessel.

“Martha, Martha. What did you do?”

14

Martha

Nicola pushes me down again, resisting too hard for me to come through, and it burns. She’s demanding to know what happened, her frustration mounting. After all this time, why can’t she trust me?

Topamax is the main one to worry about. It provides that constant undercurrent of safety for her, and I know she fears being without it like a child without her security blanket. But enough is enough. I need her to let me in. The pink pills flushed easily in a little bit of toilet paper. It’s expensive stuff, and I half thought of selling it along with the opioids, but I couldn’t take the risk.

When all the tablets were gone, I gathered the empty bottles into a CVS plastic bag and tossed them out with the rest of the garbage.

In the kitchen, I placed two tramadol onto a tissue and left a glass of water with a note for Emmy.

That’s all I could manage. I forgot how exhausting it is being the second in command, always fighting to have the light, always pushing her down, back, and away.

I will let Nicola have the light for now. I’ve waited years, after all, so what’s just one more day?

15

Bambi

Bambi wakes to the thin cries of birds outside her window. She rolls toward the window, still partially open, the scent of jasmine floating in from the bushes next door. For a moment, she lies very still, feeling the hollowness of her belly, the bones of her hips that stick out no matter what angle she turns, the places where the fat in her thighs has all but disappeared. She reaches down between her legs and winces in pain. The sensation is worse than usual, but what happened, exactly?

Bambi rolls over. The beautiful white and gray linen sheets are strewn just so across the bed, arranged almost romantically. Jason’s clothes had been left not quite neatly, but haphazardly enough, and it all looks too normal to bear, as though nothing happened here. Bambi’s stomach rolls as she sits up. Underneath the stillness and beauty is something ugly she can’t speak. She knows the word, but she doesn’t like to think it.

Rising from the bed, she sees a tiny circle of blood on the sheets, no bigger than a quarter, where she had been lying. She leans toward it, presses a finger to the fabric, and feels a slight dampness. Her body freezes for a moment, and her heart begins to race. Immediately, she rips the sheets off the bed and throws them into a laundry bag, the small red stain disappearing inside it. Downstairs, Jason’s on the phone, and Lucita is in the kitchen preparing breakfast, the scent of toast and eggs wafting up. Her stomach rumbles, but not from hunger.

Outside, the day is gathering heat. Bambi showers and chooses a light sundress, even though it’s still autumn, but the warmth inside is palpable. Downstairs, she cranks up the AC on the wall adjacent to the kitchen. Lucita has prepared a scrambled egg and toast breakfast with a giant fresh fruit plate.

“Just a coffee, Lucita.”

Lucita’s face falls. “Of course. A cappuccino?”

“Yes. Nonfat milk.”

“Very good, Miss Bambi. I’ll make it for you.”

“Thanks, Lucita.”

Bambi sits at the breakfast nook and scrolls through her phone. Her eyes glaze over, and the screen blurs. Messages from her agent. Missed calls. Twenty-three emails about promotion opportunities with newer brands. One designer wanting to dress her for Jason’s upcoming premiere. Another shoot, this time in Mexico. Bambi puts the phone down and shoves it away from her. In the next room, Jason laughs on the phone to someone. He comes through, nodding and smiling, the device pressed firmly to his ear.

“Yes, of course I am, Agnes,” he says and leans in to give Bambi a good morning peck. “I’m always a good boy, you know that.”

He turns and winks at Bambi, and she moves to stare out the window at the sun streaming through the trees, high in the sky. It’s almost ten. The driveway glistens. Beyond it, the stone wall gates catch the sun like a shield.

“Well, tell her we can go over her lines when I get there. I’m off book.”

Jason puts the call on speaker and sets it onto the counter, Agnes’s gritty smoker’s voice coming through. “Of course you are, honey. But LaMonte wants formal rehearsal time. With the director present.”

Jason takes a swig of coffee and a bite of toast. “Sure. Whatever she wants.”

Agnes clears her throat. “With just the director.”

Jason furrows his brows and glances at Bambi, then back to the phone. She turns, angling herself to listen.

“Well, how’s that supposed to work, Agnes? It’s a chemistry thing. Frank is a great director, but he hasn’t worked with us before. We have a style. You know that.”

Agnes sighs, her voice tight. “Of course I know that, honey, but LaMonte insists. It’s in her contract.”

Jason scoffs, his face creasing with frustration, anger. He takes the phone off speaker mode and presses it to his ear. “Well, did she say why?”

Mumbling. Broken consonants. Bambi strains to listen as Lucita deposits her coffee on the table.

Jason’s face tightens as he takes the phone off speaker. “Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“Jason—”

He straightens and holds the phone toward his lips, jaw clenched. Bambi’s body tenses. “No. Clearly, there has been some miscommunication. Leave it to you suits to fuck everything up. Like I said, I will talk to her.”

“Don’t do anything before you get to Paris,” Agnes says and then coughs loudly. “Promise me.”

Jason pauses and thinks for a moment. “Fine.” He hangs up and throws down the phone.

Bambi sips her coffee, waiting for him to say something. He stands still, chewing his toast. Finally, Bambi can’t take it. “What was that all about?”

Jason doesn’t look at her. “Oh, you know. Regular studio bullshit.”

“She seemed worried.”

“Who? Agnes? Fuck Agnes. She’s just eating executive dick again. You know she’s repping that young kid from The Murder Chronicles, right?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Bambi answers. “But what about LaMonte? Why is she doing this?”

“Who fucking knows.” Jason sighs. He slides down next to her into the booth and pulls her in tight. “I’m so glad I married a model. All actresses are batshit crazy.”

Bambi smiles, her stomach rumbling again. Jason kisses her cheek and squeezes her thigh. After a moment, Lucita returns from upstairs carrying the laundry bag, a few clothing items in hand.

“Miss Bambi, you want I take these to the cleaner?”

Bambi sets down her coffee. “Yes. Thanks, Lucita.”

“Okay, pero a few of these items have stains. The sheets. I do the stain removal first, no?”

Bambi shakes her head. “No, Lucita. Just take them in.”

“No, do the stain removal first, Lucita,” Jason interjects. “Otherwise, they never come out. You women and your cycles,” he says, nudging her playfully.

“I’m not on my cycle.”

Jason scoffs. “Whatever. Just get it out.”

A roll of nausea courses through Bambi’s center. Right, she thinks, Just get my blood out. It’s routine now, like morning coffee, like the shine of the sprinklers in the driveway, the slight wisp of dew that forms in the hills before dawn.

Lucita looks back and forth between them until Jason nods. “Ah, okay. Sí, Mr. Redfern.”

He smiles and winks at her. “Thanks, Lucita. You look beautiful today, by the way.”

Lucita blushes a little and fumbles with the clothes. “Oh, Mr. Redfern!”

While Jason showers and gets ready to leave, Bambi emails her agent and accepts the shoot in Mexico. She declines a few other jobs and posts on social media. Then Jason kisses her goodbye and heads outside, where the driver waits in a black Mercedes with dark-tinted windows. She waves from the front door, even though she cannot see him beyond the glass.

With the house to herself, Bambi takes a mug of green tea to the guest room upstairs. She picks up one of her magazines from the nightstand. Marie Claire. Spring 2010 edition. She knows the shoot without looking inside, but she does anyway. Crocheted tops, colored headdresses, painted faces. They shot in New Mexico for four days, and when she came home, she ate three eggs, bacon, and a baguette with butter that she prepared herself. It was the first real food she’d had in weeks.

Very early on, Bambi figured out that with a name like hers, she could do only one of two things: she could hide away and become frail and broken, or she could stand out so that everyone would see her. She learned to stand out most of her life and do it very well, successfully even. She was good at it, bold and confident in moments that would make everyone else shy.

But lately, Bambi has started to lose touch with this bold version of herself. As though that girl—the one on the magazine cover—were her shadow only. Perhaps it was never really her at all. The thought terrifies her.

Bambi finds her laptop and searches online for the local temp agencies, unsure of what she might be looking for. Jobs sites. Freelancers. Au pairs and nannies. Tutors. Nothing quite makes sense for what she wants, what she craves. She could post on social media, but of course, she would be inundated. Fame is a drug and a sickness all in one, she once heard one of Jason’s co-stars admit. It could be the greatest high, but it also leaves you empty and quivering for more. She longs for someone in her small world who stands outside all of that, to whom her name and Jason’s don’t matter at all.

At the bedroom window, Bambi stands looking out at the trees. They cover the slope of the hillside where the neighborhood below them, across Sunset Boulevard, lies, with its five- and six-million-dollar homes. She envisions herself back in her New York apartment, the tiny one-bedroom space, cramped and homey. For a brief moment, she feels as though she can still smell the scent of the bakery downstairs that put out fresh bagels every morning, a pleasant kind of olfactory torture since Bambi never ate them. Here, the air is empty, the dry California hillside more desert and arid than she had expected.

Loneliness.

The word shoots up in her, and Bambi feels for a moment like she could start crying. Instead, she goes to her laptop and opens a new browser window. She begins typing, her fingers flying faster and faster.

WANTED: BEVERLY HILLS WOMAN SEEKS PERSONAL ASSISTANT PRONTO TO WORK PART TIME. WILL PAY COMPETITIVE RATES FOR THE RIGHT APPLICANT.
WRITE ME A LETTER AND TELL ME WHY YOU ARE THE PERFECT PERSONAL ASSISTANT. BONUS POINTS IF YOU ARE STRONG, SWEET WHEN THE OCCASION CALLS FOR IT, PRETTY ENOUGH, CAPABLE, GOOD WITH MONEY, A PEOPLE PERSON, ORGANIZED, AND SMART. MUST LIVE LOCALLY. MUST BE A SOLID CHICK. NO FLAKES. NO LOSERS. NO SMOKERS. YES, I MEAN WEED, TOO. EMAIL ME AT beverlyhills89@zephyrmail.net.

What more does she need to say? Submit resume? No way. People lie. No phone calls. No more listening to bullshit. What’s wrong with asking for just a normal, accountable person with a decent, good head on her shoulders? Bambi closes her eyes and tries to picture this person, but she draws a blank. She knows only one thing: this person would be a she, and that she would be company. Someone to spend time with. Someone she could rely on. And she would pay her so that it would be easy and clean. Not a friend, per se, but something else more important.

Another soul in the house.

It’s the first major thing she’s done for herself since moving here for Jason. Everything has been all about him. His house. His career. His life. His desires. Bambi realizes with a deep humming sensation in her gut that she has grown a little sick of it all. What about her? Isn’t anyone ever in her life going to care for her?

No. This will be hers and hers alone. As Bambi clicks the button and her post is out there in the world, she feels a shudder of excitement but also a tiny, inexplicable twinge of fear.

16

Nicola

“Who are you talking to?”

I swivel around. Emmy stands in a tee shirt and sweats, eating a bowl of cereal. She stares at me, chewing, her eyes wide and cautious.

“Myself. I’m talking to myself.”

“Who is Martha?”

“Emmy, not now, please. I have a migraine.”

I pinch my eyes shut. “I need my Topamax, but I’m all out. Can you find some? Please, Emmy. I’m in a lot of pain.”

She waits a beat, staring with suspicion before turning and trotting off to the kitchen. Moments later, she returns with an older prescription bottle and a glass of water.

“You forgot your meds? You never do that.”

“Yeah.” I rummage out two little pink pills and knock them back. Emmy is still watching me. “I know.”

“So?”

I peek one eye open. “So what?”

“Where did you go?”

Where did we go? We were gone all night. Until morning, in fact.

“I had to run some errands, that’s all.”

Emmy nods and chews. Her eyes big. “That’s cool.”

“What’s cool? What does that mean?”

“Nothing. Just that, well … you’re a really bad liar.”

“I’m not lying. I got groceries.”

Emmy shrugs. “Sure. If you say so. But your note was really bizarre. Like, I almost woke up and called the cops.”

I pause a second, unsure of what the note says. “Where is it?”

Emmy produces a scrap of paper from her pocket. For some reason, I expect Martha to have written to me. But the note is to Emmy.

Rough night. Your mom is going to feel pretty shitty in the morning. Bring her these.

My heart begins to race again.

“The note was with your pills. I heard you throwing up. But I figured you were hung over.”

Hung over? What game is she playing this time? I shudder, unsure of why Martha would have left Emmy with my pills, only to destroy the rest.

“Well, I am not hung over. I have a migraine.”

“Well, next time, don’t skip your meds.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

I notice the bottle then.

One bottle. Not Topamax, I realize when I spread them out on the counter to count. They’re tramadol for pain.

My eyes move up and spot a slip of paper wrapped around my toothbrush. A note for Emmy and a note for me.

I open it slowly, my hands shaking. Not again. Not right now. I know I need to be here for Emmy. This isn’t the time. The handwriting is simple, almost like a schoolgirl’s. It reads:

You can’t stay numb forever.

What does it mean? Help or a warning? I cannot say.

With Topamax, I’m listless, forgetful, not entirely myself. But that’s what’s so great about it. I can be here, even if I am rather numb a lot of the time. I prefer it that way, actually. Without it? I know the wise thing to do is not to find out.

My head thumps, a sharp pain behind my eyes. I press my hand against my forehead and succumb to taking a couple of tramadol, hoping that with a cold shower, I’ll be able to stop the blood flow to my raging head.

The water hits me, the steady thudding of the jets over my head. I listen to the sound of the old plumbing, my feet heavy on the cold tile floor. Under the cold water of the shower with the pain pills running through me, I begin to rewind.

Pressing my forehead into the tile wall, I get a sudden flash—dark blue carpet. Fluorescent lighting. The ding of cashiers. The sharp scent of something medicinal.

Then it stops. The memory is quick, washed out, like a reel of old film.

The cold, beating spray of the shower hits my back while I struggle to remember. The hardness of the tile floor drives a long, tender ache up the back of my leg, into my side. Soon, the pain settles as the pills take effect. I feel a quick rush of relief, but I know it’s temporary. It’s not Topamax, after all.

The recommended dosage of Topamax for migraine patients is 100 mg, tapering up from 25 mg per day. I’m on 200 mg twice per day. Doctor’s orders. They say to avoid operating heavy machinery while taking Topamax. Side effects may include confusion, dizziness, drowsiness, problems with memory, cognition, language, and the list goes on. If you have suicidal thoughts while taking Topamax, you should stop taking it and call your doctor right away.

Call your doctor. Yes. I remember.

Everything went dark, and now the moments are becoming clearer.

There’s the stale smell of mildew, a hint of something medicinal. Clinical colors, white and blue. A flash of the store behind me—behind her—at my pharmacy. A voice is speaking, low and insistent. Looking down, I spot her hands signing something.

I step out of the shower and immediately dial the number on the prescription bottle. Two tones. They place me on hold. When a man answers, I tell him, “I need to refill a prescription.”

“Date of birth and prescription number?”

I rattle off the number to him and wait, his fingers clacking loudly over the keys.

“I’m sorry, it looks like your Topamax prescription expired.”

“What?” I say, my voice surprised. “Call the doctor. Request a refill.”

“Oh, actually …” he pauses, sounding unsure. “The notes say that this prescription cannot be renewed.”

“What does that mean?”

He sighs, and static crackles as he repositions the phone. “It means you’d have to get a new prescription from your doctor.”

“Are you serious?”

Silence. More keys clacking. “Oh, wait,” he says. “Actually, it was your doctor who discontinued it. It says in the notes. Looks like they won’t renew it.”

“What? Why not?”

More typing and a huff of frustration. “It says ‘patient complained of adverse reactions.’”

Martha. You bitch.

“You’d need a new doctor to prescribe this medication.”

“Any doctor?”

“Well, a neurologist probably,” he answers and yawns.

A wave of panic hits me, and my body feels limp. A new doctor, a neurologist. That would mean a trip to my primary care doctor, a referral, then a visit, then a prescription, and then the insurance. The insurance! Approval of the brand name Topamax took forever last time. Months of waiting while I suffered. Months of persisting when they wouldn’t cover it, months of working the system just to get this one drug. I had a small stockpile for this reason.

Now it’s gone.

I don’t have months now. I have hours, maybe a day if I’m lucky.

The phone intones in my ear, the line gone dead.

I glance once more at the note from Martha, at her childish writing.

“What do you want?” I ask her. “Just tell me!”

My head snaps back unnaturally to the ceiling, my eyes wide open, staring at the lights overhead. I feel her within me—lucid and alert—like a dream you remember vividly but want to forget. My sternum contracts and expands. My hand reaches out and touches the condensation on the mirror. One word. Three letters. The moisture collects under my fingers as she writes, then takes my hand away.

I stumble backwards, or rather, she makes me move. The word is like a breath from the other side of the glass. Tiny drops of water fall from the letters, one by one.

H.

I.

M.

17

Martha

Nicola calls them panic attacks, but I prefer to think of them as gateways. Tiny openings where, if I’m clever, I can find my way through.

I can’t quite remember how long it has been since the flesh was truly mine like this. The blip on the street corner and in the hotel were not enough to really count. Nicola is not in great shape. She’s lost weight. Her bones feel fragile. Inside my temple is the low hum of her migraine fading into the background.

She’s been through a lot. I guess meeting Redfern in person was the final straw. It’s not her fault she’s ineffective. Nicola doesn’t always follow through.

Now we have work to do.

I push up from her floor and go straight to her closet, and it’s obvious: Nicola has neglected herself. Neglected us. The once tidy, pristine, organized woman has been replaced by a haphazard, careless hoarder of sorts. Clothes strewn everywhere, dust on boxes and old purse bags. The scent of mothballs and fabric softener. My insides twist at the sight of her jumbled clothes, her unmade bed, the pile of trash, and old prescription bottles on her dresser. The anger that has become so rife within her fades, a drop in a bucket.

My leg prickles, cold and dead. I slap the flesh and feel pins and needles down the back of my leg, into the foot, which is cold and slightly off color. This is fixable. We need a yoga class, a latte, and a motherfucking round at a department store with a credit card.

There isn’t an item in her bedroom that I would wear, but I make the best of some workout clothes and pull my hair back into a tight bun. The makeup in her bathroom is old—dry and caked—so I fling it into the trash can and wander down the hall into Emmy’s room.

Top drawer of the bathroom: bingo. Mascara, eye shadow, foundation, blush. It’s untouched, new, like unopened Christmas presents. I start applying things the way I like them. Nicola keeps her face bare these days, but that’s just not me. I pat my skin down with a sponge—foundation and concealer in place. In the corners of my eyes, I begin dragging a cool blue pencil liner. Then the sweep of mascara and the glint of blush on each cheek.

When I finally glance up and see my reflection, it’s like coming home to myself. “At last,” I say aloud, just to hear my voice again. My ears ring with it as I open the door and have a look around Nicola’s apartment. It’s the same out here as it feels in the dark place—dingy, tired, and filled with sadness. Everywhere I look, there’s something that could be cleaned up, thrown out, or dusted.

I poke inside Emmy’s room, the walls painted a soft, pink color from the previous tenants, the popcorn ceiling speckled with stick-on glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. On the dresser, I spot a framed photo of the three of them, Emmy about eight years old, with Nicola and Ben looking like younger, fresher versions of themselves. Their smiles are large and plastic, hiding a shit ton of pain and money troubles, I’m sure.

Downstairs, I jolt when I see Emmy at the fridge. She’s much bigger than I remember. A full human. Her head has the scar Nicola has been going on and on about. A long, shiny pink rat’s tail, etched into the left side of her head. She turns, noticing me, and makes a face.

“What are you wearing?

“It’s makeup. I’m going out.”

I spot a sun patch near the back door to the communal garden, where the little white dog is lying. He seems harmless enough, and maybe he’ll keep Emmy busy.

“Where are you going?”

“None of your business. I need the address of that doctor and the attorney.”

Emmy gives me a look. “Um, I don’t know. It’s in your phone, probably. Did you forget?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. On the kitchen counter is a stack of past-due bills shoved into a corner. “What about these?”

She looks at me, confused. “The bills?”

“Yeah? Am I paying them or what?”

She shrugs, looking concerned. “How should I know? You always tell me not to worry about the money.”

“Right.” My voice comes out low and sarcastic.

Emmy plunks down on the sofa, watching me curiously as I flip through the bills. Water. Electric. Cell phones and internet. A vet bill. A couple of letters from the attorney. I note the address: 8990 Wilshire.

“Mom?”

“Mom’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

“Very funny.”

“Seriously. She’s off duty.”

Emmy gives me a look. “What’s with the attitude? And the whorish makeup?”

I knew I didn’t like this kid. She was always a challenge, Nicola said. Now, as a tall, ratty-haired teenager, she’s just a nuisance. “I don’t know? What’s with the dirty tee shirt and crusty sweatpants? Ever hear of a thing called laundry? You’re a mess. Clean up!”

“You’re impossible.”

“Impossible is my middle name, toots!”

I grab Nicola’s keys and purse and let the front door slam on my way out. I make a mental note to go grocery shopping later when I get back to get the stuff I like.

Los Angeles is more built up than I remember. I drive up to Sunset Boulevard and roll the windows down—the heat palpable on the side of my arm, the scent of fried foods in the air from a restaurant nearby. There are shops and cafes with serene, modern interiors and billboards for shows and movies I haven’t seen with actors whose names and faces I do not recognize.

Outside, I watch tourists flock together and take a picture as locals pass, their street fashion new to me, and above, the sky bluer and clearer than I remember. Everything is a little noisier, a little louder, the scene more colorful and vibrant somehow. And at the same time, there are homeless people where there weren’t before, trash and graffiti on almost every corner, and the odd scent of marijuana appearing here and there in passing clouds. It’s all faster, slicker, stranger. It’s been a long, long time.

I count them. There are exactly ten skinny bitches crowding outside what looks to be a salon. Probably actresses or models. They are on their large, rectangular devices, tapping and snapping pictures of themselves. Last time I was here, this wasn’t what people did. It was flip phones and AOL Instant Messenger. Facebook had just come out. This seems like something else, something strange. Pictures upon pictures upon pictures, moving fast with a flick of their thumbs.

I should know what these are, but she gives me so little, Nicola. When Ben died, I was there as she cried herself to sleep, consoling her from an inner yet distant place as she grieved. I felt snapshots of her grief, her rage. Blips of emotions and snapshots of life that felt like looking at an old film, the picture grainy, choppy, sputtering into white noise and snow. Life had to go on. She had her job and the kid, after all. She told me I need not stick around. She was handling it, so I stayed away, in the far recesses of her memory, where she couldn’t tell whether or not I was lurking.

I know some things well, like the deep musty scent of Ben’s shirts, because she wore them to work until someone noticed, and she was forced to take a leave of absence. A leave of absence that soon turned into a redundancy and a less-than-desirable severance that kept them going for all these months. But it wasn’t enough.

On moving day, the big house became a brief flash in my mind: the echo of empty rooms, the smell of warm cardboard in the sun as the boxes were piled high on the front lawn, and the final glance as she and Emmy drove away. Nicola’s last glance is the thing I see—sun-blanched patio, black shutters, a lawn so green that it hurts. But despite this, there are vast stretches of time that are totally absent for me. I bided my time. A bystander, a bird-watcher, waiting patiently for a particular moment.

I’ve been holding time and space inside her for years. This does something to a person. The time makes you impatient, restless, itchy for action.

I park the car alongside the salon and approach the throng of bitches standing in front of the salon and shove my way past them. “Move,” I say, my voice stern. They turn to look at me, a couple scoffing, the others stumbling backwards as I push through them, nudging a few on heels to the side.

“Excuse you!” one of them retorts.

“Yeah, we were waiting here!” another shouts. I shrug it off, but the girl has the audacity to mutter at me under her breath. “Stupid old bitch.”

I spin on my heels and stare at them, removing my sunglasses to glare deep into their eyes. I lock eyes with the one who said it, the smirk on her face evident. Inches from her, I get right up into her personal space, my breath hot on her skin. “Say it again,” I breathe, egging her on. My fists clench as my eyes burn into her, helping her realize who she’s talking to.

“Jesus!” The girl cowers and starts crying. Her friends pull her away from me, and rightly so. Who knows what I might do? I can feel Nicola scratching around, urging me from inside. “Relax,” I tell her. “I was only trying to scare her.”

Inside the salon, the receptionist is sitting behind the counter, also holding one of the oversized, rectangular devices. She looks down and begins tapping on the wide, flat screen in her hands. Colorful, bright. Rounded edges. A camera lens in the corner. No buttons. I stare at it for a moment before the device rings, and I realize it’s a phone. I feel around in Nicola’s purse and realize she has one too, but not quite as large. I take it out and look at it for a moment before I feel her eyes on me.

“Can I help you?”

“Where would I go if I wanted to sell this?” I pluck off Nicola’s engagement ring and plunk it on the counter.

She looks at it, then looks at me blankly. “What?”

“I need to sell it. Is there a pawn shop nearby?”

Reluctantly, she taps something into her device, and I’m about to snatch her up by the hair from behind the desk when she stands, angles the screen toward me, and shows me a map in bright technicolor, like a TV screen. A little blue line extends from where we are to about two blocks away, down La Cienega. “This is the closest one,” she says. “According to Google.”

“Thanks,” I say and quickly memorize the address. Back in the car, I head down Sunset again toward La Cienega and find the shop. A little black-and-gold awning reads “Russell and Co. Jewelers.”

Inside, everything is dimly lit except for the cases of secondhand jewelry, sparkling with old diamonds, gold, silver. Elevator music plays overhead alongside the noise of the air conditioner unit. My fuck-you-very-much smile is securely on as I tap the glass display case and scan the contents of the engagement rings, none of which look quite as nice as Nicola’s ring.

A small man wearing suspenders and a tie emerges from the back room. “Can I help you find something?”

My left eye twitches. Nicola groans inside of me, but I ignore her.

“No, but you can tell me how much you’d give me for this.”

I place her ring on the counter and watch as the man takes out a monocular and looks at the stone.

“Hmm, nice clarity. Good setting, but I’m sure you know that the resale value of diamonds is quite low,” he tells me.

“Course you would say that.”

He looks up, his expression thoughtful. “I’m just being honest. There’s only so much margin for me on a piece like this. I’ll give you $2,500.”

“No.” I snatch the ring away. “It’s worth at least twice that.”

He laughs a little and glances away, appearing to be thinking. “I could go to $3,250.”

“That’s okay. I’ll sell it to the shop on Sunset and get my price. Thanks for your time.” I begin walking to the front of the store. Just as my hand touches the doorframe, he stops me.

“$4,500, final price.”

I turn, letting my eyes roam the shop for a moment. “$5,500. Final price. You do want to be fair, don’t you?”

He smiles and extends his hands on the glass counter. “All right, $5,000. You have a deal.”

The noise in my head is loud with Nicola screaming as I leave the shop. One thing less of her and Ben but $5,000 richer. She’ll get over it.

I buy groceries—the good ones—like Emmy and Nicola used to get. The car gets a quick wash. My nails and hair get done at a place on Robertson that’s still there all these years later. They don’t remember me, though. Of course they don’t.

When I get home, Emmy is upstairs, and I call her down.

“What is it?” she asks me, lingering at the bottom of the stairs, her computer in her hands. A girl’s voice squawks loudly from the speakers. She lowers the volume. “I’m watching a livestream. CelebrityStalkShow.”

“A live what?”

“A livestream? CelebrityStalkShow is live right now.” She takes me in, a subtle note of surprise coming over her. “Who did your hair?”

“You like it?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “It looks good.” A breath. “You seem different.”

“I just needed a little pick-me-up, is all.”

Emmy comes toward me, then passes me on her way into the kitchen, leaving her computer on the counter. She spies the groceries. “Did you get a new job?”

“Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

I pull out two one-hundred-dollar bills and slide them to her across the counter. “Here. For your shoes or whatever.”

Emmy looks at me, puzzled. “Seriously? I thought we had, like, no money now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “Just get what you need.”

“Okay. Well … thanks, Mom.”

My shoulders tighten as she says it, and I can’t help but cringe. But I don’t correct her this time. There will be plenty of time for that soon enough. Emmy turns the volume back up. The girl—CelebrityStalkShow, presumably—gets louder, her face close to the camera. Over her shoulder, I spot a white car, its shape familiar.

“Who is that?”

“Jason and Bambi Redfern. They’re going to a restaurant opening.”

My hands grab the computer and pull it toward me. “This is live? Happening now?”

Emmy grabs the computer back. “Yeah. Since when are you interested?”

“Since right now. Where are they?”

“I told you. That expensive restaurant is opening on Beverly.”

“South Beverly?”

“Duh. Why do you care?”

There isn’t time to explain things to the kid. Upstairs, I grab Nicola’s hotel uniform. It’s a little dirty and still smells of sweat from the day she was fired, but it will have to do.

Back in the car, I plunk down in the front seat where I can see myself in the mirror. I—we—look tired. Eye bags. A ring of sun damage that wasn’t there last time. I apply lipstick quickly, shut the mirror, and start the engine.

Don’t do this, Martha, I hear Nicola say, her voice surprisingly close in my right ear. But it isn’t up to her. I’m in charge right now. At long, long last.

Nicola is deep on the other side, where I was. She needs time to understand. After all, I have been so good, so patient. And there is so much I have been missing that my flesh stings and pricks with anticipation.

Fuck their limits. Fuck everyone, and fuck the strangeness of the world with its fast cars and bright signs and strange flat devices that emit computer screen light. Fuck Nicola for keeping me in the dark this long. I’m here, and my God, does it feel good.

As I pull up across the street from the little restaurant, my heart skips a beat. The entrance is full of people lining up to get in. And he must be inside now, too. I find a spot to park and check myself in the mirror once more before I get out and head around the back.

The sun hangs low in the sky like a bulb, and I realize the time. Almost sunset. Outside, the horizon glows, washing the city streets in a warm, yellowy light. Magic hour. As I step inside the busy restaurant, I feel Nicola barreling toward me, as though sprinting down a long hallway in my direction. She picks up speed as I spot the Redferns in the foyer, standing in the center of a crowd.

“Stay back, Nicola. I’ve got this.”

No, I hear her whisper. I can’t let you.

And before I can even get close enough, I begin to fall backwards, and the world slips away.

18

Bambi

Bambi normally wouldn’t be caught dead in a restaurant in this part of town, but Jason had insisted she go with him tonight. Why Bruce and Kimberly even opened the place here is beyond her. Even though it is technically still in Beverly Hills, no one of any note comes here.

“Just smile and be polite,” Jason instructs her before they get out of the car.

Bambi turns to him and gives him a look. “I know how to act in front of cameras, babe.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s different with paparazzi.”

“Cameras are cameras,” Bambi replies. His hand shoots out to her wrist and gives it a forceful squeeze. “Just don’t make a scene.”

Bambi tears her arm away. “Relax,” she says as a valet opens the door. She gives him a curt little nod. Paparazzi waiting at both ends of the restaurant rush forward, and lights begin flashing. Bambi smiles and gives a little wave as Jason gets out and comes to her side. He grips her wrist again, hard, and whispers in her ear, “Behave.”

Outside the front door, she gazes up at the restaurant sign that says Empire and cringes. A pretentious name for a hole in the wall. What an embarrassment. Bambi’s stomach growls with the scent emanating from inside—something warm and doughy. She smooths her hands over her waist, making sure her fitted white dress isn’t creased. Jason takes her to the side before they go in.

“Let’s stick together in there, make a good appearance.”

Bambi smirks, unable to help herself. “I know.”

Jason leans in and tilts his lips up to her ear. “There are press inside.” She tingles, snowfall along her shoulders and spine.

He tries to hold her hand. Bambi yanks it back, but it’s too late. He’s caught her two fingers, so Bambi lets him.

“You’re not still mad about the other night …” he coos.

“I’m not mad; I just want to get this over with.”

“Just fake it, babe. You’re good at that.”

Bambi turns on her smile as Bruce, an older man with a fake tan, receding hairline, and sportscaster white teeth, spots them through the door. He waves and comes toward them, followed by a camera. “Of course,” she says, feeling emboldened because they are out in public. “I forgot how much you like it when I fake it.”

“Don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Jason yanks her hand, jerking her whole arm sharply as the camera turns toward them. He smiles large, his leading-man smile.

Bambi marvels at the way his whole energy shifts as he turns on his charm. It makes her feel sick.

“Hi, Bruce! Great place you have here!”

“Welcome to Empire!” Bruce almost shouts, angling toward the camera. His teeth are even whiter up close. “We are happy and excited to have film star Jason Redfern here and his wife, Bambi.”

Bambi waves at the camera gingerly and blows a little kiss. The camera stays on them, and she hangs on Jason like it’s the red carpet.

“So, Jason, tell us about your latest film coming up.”

Jason steps forward, letting Bambi go. “Well, we just wrapped on The Hurting Game, starring myself, of course, and the beautiful Lauren LaMonte. And next up, we are shooting Without Her in Europe for the next eight weeks.”

“Without her? Without LaMonte?” the journalist asks.

Jason smiles and strokes his hair back. “No, no, it’s the name of the film. It’s a psychological thriller about a man whose wife mysteriously goes missing in Paris. I play a very complex guy, the husband. Great script. Amazing cast. I feel so blessed to be part of this film.”

Bruce nudges the camera guy on the arm. “And are you excited for Empire’s grand opening?”

Jason smiles. “It has been an incredible journey for me, personally, watching him make this latest restaurant happen.”

“And what does your wife think of Empire?”

Jason’s eyes gleam, that movie star charm oozing from him. “I think she likes it. Right, honey?”

Bambi gives a little smile. “I’ll let you know in an hour or two.”

Bruce clears his throat. “Okay, thanks so much, guys. Drinks are over there by the bar. Please, enjoy. Have a great time. I’ll catch you in a few.”

The camera turns, capturing more people entering behind them.

Jason pulls Bambi past a few familiar faces she doesn’t want to stop and talk to. “Why did you say that?” he whispers.

Bambi shrugs. “Because it’s true.”

Jason’s eyes widen, and he grips her arm harder. Bambi stiffens beneath his grasp. “I don’t need this from you tonight,” he whispers, his face relaxed like he’s saying nothing at all. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

His words ripple through her like a shock wave. Stupid? He doesn’t mean stupid. He means reckless. Like posting an anonymous post on Craigslist, for example. Bambi smiles to herself at the secret.

He pulls back from her and finds a server with a tray of champagne flutes and plucks two off. He hands one to her, then sweeps his eyes across the room. Bambi gets a pang in her middle. “Will she be here tonight?” she says, keeping her voice low.

“Who?” Jason asks, playing innocent.

“Lauren.”

Jason shakes his head and looks away. “I think she’s already in Europe.”

“Oh,” Bambi replies and stares into the bubbles floating up from the bottom of her glass.

A tray of hors d’oeuvres passes by. Jason reaches out and grabs one. “I’m starving,” he says as Bruce returns with a gaggle of young women and men dressed in suits.

“Here he is, the man of the hour!” Bruce chimes. “Everyone, meet Jason Redfern. And this is his wife, Bambi.” The women’s eyes flick to Jason, then quickly to her, and back to Jason. Bambi loops her arm in his, but Jason removes it as he steps forward and shakes each of the men’s hands.

“We loved you in The Hostage,” one of the women, wearing bright turquoise earrings, offers. “Great movie. You were great. Just great.”

Jason lifts an eyebrow. “Great, huh?”

She nods eagerly as another smacks her lips and steps toward him. “Of course, my favorite film was Nightfall. Oh no, Strangers at Midnight. Yes, that’s the one.”

Jason gives a tense smile that Bambi knows means he’s displeased. “You know, I was nominated for an Oscar for Bring Me Caramel.”

“Oh, I didn’t see that one,” the woman with the earrings replies.

“You should watch it,” Jason advises. “You should watch them all. I don’t make bad movies.”

Bambi scoffs a little under her breath. Jason turns to her.

“I don’t make bad movies,” he repeats.

“Well,” she finds herself saying. “The Telegraph. That wasn’t so great.”

Jason turns and stares at her, then puts his arm around her, pulling her close. He squeezes the flesh of her upper arm hard. “My wife is such a joker,” he says, crushing her arm. “It’s the Scandinavian in her. They have such a strange sense of humor.”

Bambi smiles weakly. “It’s true, though,” she says to the group. “The Telegraph wasn’t a good movie at all. It got really bad reviews. Don’t you remember, babe?”

“I do remember, babe,” Jason says through gritted teeth. A server appears in the center of the group with an enormous smile. “Hors d’oeuvres?” she offers.

Everyone grabs a few morsels from her tray, including Jason. He sniffs a cracker with a circle of piped cream on the top, then shoves the whole thing into his mouth. “This is delicious,” he says to the server.

She nods expectantly. “That’s our crab-infused ricotta on an olive oil ciabatta crouton.”

Jason reaches for a napkin from her tray and spits the last morsels into it. “What?”

The server stares at them, alarmed. “Crab-infused ricotta?”

“Fuck!” Jason shouts. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“Oh my God,” the server intones. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

Bruce appears at their sides. “What’s wrong?” he says, taking in Jason’s expression. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

“What the fuck, Bruce?” Jason shouts. “Fucking crab? You could have killed me with this shit! You know I’m allergic to shellfish!”

Bruce nods, a panicked look on his face. “Yes, yes, I’m so sorry, man. I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

Jason turns to Bambi, eyes aflame. “Don’t just stand there. Get my EpiPen.”

Bambi darts outside, her heels clicking heavily against the floor, then the pavement of the street as she reaches the valet. She hands him her ticket. “We need the car immediately,” she tells him. “It’s an emergency.”

The valet grabs her keys and takes off running while Bambi waits and watches the sun drift past the horizon, a small vapor of smog tinting the sky a dark, hazy orange. Overhead, the moon and stars have started to peek through. Cars honk loudly, and faces stare at her on the street corner.

In moments, the white Wraith appears and breaks her reverie. Bambi throws herself inside toward the central compartment and grabs Jason’s EpiPen, prepping it as she runs back inside and shoves through the crowd that’s formed around Jason, who’s now clinging to Bruce, his lips swollen. Bruce turns to the two security guards rushing toward them and points to the cameras filming everything. “Get them out of here! Now!”

Bambi runs to Jason and shoves the EpiPen in his hands. Jason shuts his eyes, stabs himself in his thigh, and then crumples out of Bruce’s arms and falls to the ground. He breathes heavily, and Bambi takes his hand.

“Can someone get him a wet towel?” she shouts.

“Yes!” Bruce answers. “A little help over here!” he calls to one of the nearby servers, who rushes over with a damp cloth for Jason’s head.

The whole restaurant turns quiet. Someone lowers the music. Hushed whispers and stares encircle them. Bambi can practically see the headlines already. Her skin crawls as she thinks back to the moments before, as she prodded Jason about his film. Playfully, but still. She knows now what’s done is done. And he won’t see it that way.

“Should we call an ambulance?” someone in the crowd says.

“No,” Jason replies. “I’m fine. I’m going to be fine now.”

He sits up and meets her eyes with a slow-burning rage. Bambi feels herself backing away. “I think I’ll go find the ladies’ room,” she says and makes her way through the crowd of ogle-eyed wannabes and hangers-on. Her stomach turns as she passes them, avoiding eye contact.

In the back, she finds the women’s restroom and heads inside. Double sinks. Low lighting. The scent of floral air freshener. She leans against the counter for a moment, bracing herself, steadying her breath.

She flicks open her purse and fishes for the little gold compact and checks for the tiny blue pill waiting for her inside.

19

Nicola

The staff entrance is in the back, where there are a few parking spaces and a couple of closed dumpsters. I hesitate for a moment, then head inside the back of the restaurant. As my eyes adjust, I can just make out the storeroom area, the noise and bright lights of the kitchen ahead of me on the left, with the scent of fried food and booze in the air. Ahead of me, voices and commotion are coming from the main restaurant area. At the very corner of the bar, a server sets down her tray and strides toward me, removing her apron. She eyes me and shakes her head. “It’s a shit show in there,” she whispers.

“What is?”

“The whole scene.” She lowers her voice and comes nearer to me. “Jason Redfern just freaked out in front of everyone. The manager fired me and two kitchen staff.”

“What happened?”

She shrugs, not focusing. “I don’t know. It’s not my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know Jason Redfern had a shellfish allergy?”

She throws her apron into a box of canned tomatoes next to me, then pulls off the tie of her uniform. She starts unbuttoning her black shirt, revealing a white tee shirt beneath it, and tosses that in, too. She straightens herself, sighs, and checks her phone. “Are you working?”

“Yes,” I answer without thinking.

She laughs. “Well, good luck.”

She pushes open the back door and leaves. The pile of her uniform clothes in the box next to me seems to be calling me. My ears prickle. Martha is still close enough to pay attention.

Yes. Do it.

My hands take up the clothes, thick and starchy, and I make my way into the ladies’ room, trying not to be seen.

In the oversized corner stall, I whip off my sweaty clothes and sniff my armpits. Quickly, I dart over to the sink in my underwear and scrub myself down. The door swings open, and high heels clip toward me, so I dart back into the stall and close the door behind me.

Sitting on the toilet seat, I pull my feet up and peek through the gap of the stall’s door at the woman standing near the sink. A deep, long sigh emanates from her. She opens her purse and takes something out. She examines her face in the mirror and steps back. She puckers her lips, checks out her rear end, and then turns, pruning her hair with her fingers, each hand glittering with a perfect manicure and several large diamonds.

Another long sigh escapes her, then a mumble. “Geez, Bruce.”

I freeze, realizing she thinks she’s alone. I still my breathing and listen as the door swings open and more footsteps approach. She straightens further and runs the tap. She washes her hands, even though she didn’t use the restroom.

A new voice, light and colorful like a TV personality, echoes. “Oh my God, is he okay?”

So it is her. Bambi. Bambi Redfern. The model. His wife.

Peeking through the gap, I can see them. The first woman —Bambi—in her all-white, stunning, skin-tight dress. The other woman in a red number with Louboutin high heels.

“He’ll be fine,” Bambi answers, her voice flat.

“Well, thank God. I seriously can’t believe they fucked up the menu that badly.”

“I can,” Bambi answers. “I mean, just look at this place. Love the shoes, by the way.”

“My favorites. But you know what? I wasn’t even going to bother because it’s not exactly the Ritz. Am I right?”

Bambi smiles slightly and nods. “Yeah, it’s disgusting. And you know what Jason’s like with his allergy.”

I angle myself to see more of the woman in red. She’s a blonde with a wide, flat face and small, menacing eyes, made smaller by too much eyeliner and fake eyelashes. She dips forward, jiggles her breasts into position within her bra, and then straightens to look at her cleavage.

“I’m so sorry, babe. This place is totally rank.”

Bambi stills, but her lips form a smirk. “Whitney. Don’t be cruel.”

Whitney—the woman in red—sneers. “What? They always pick the worst locations.”

They both look at each other in the mirror and say simultaneously, as if mimicking, “It’s still Beverly Hills!” and burst out laughing.

“So, what’s happening with your help situation?”

Bambi turns, staring at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know, I thought Lucita wasn’t working out or whatever?”

“Oh,” Bambi replies. “No, she’s fine. But I did something a little crazy.”

Whitney turns to look at Bambi. “What did you do?”

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Bambi hesitates and lowers her voice. “I put up an ad on Craigslist. I just posted it.”

“Oh. Honey. No. You should use my agency. They have really great people.”

Bambi shakes her head and goes back into her purse for lipstick. She pouts and reapplies. “No.” A smack of her lips together. A ring finger wiping some off the side. Blotting with a hand towel. “I would rather no one really know about it. That’s why I made the post anonymous—Beverly Hills Home Assistant. That’s how I titled it so no one would know.”

Whitney’s eyes widen. “Oooh. A secret. I love secrets.”

“Well, it’s just that if she’s going to work in the house with me, I don’t really want someone from someone we know. You know?”

Whitney stares at her, totally blank. “Not really. Isn’t it, like, important to trust the help?”

“I will trust her.”

Whitney laughs a little. Her face takes on a mocking expression. “Bambs. Is this really a good idea? I mean, I can hook you up with someone …”

“No, but thanks. I really want someone different. Someone who hasn’t worked in other houses.”

“Seriously? You can’t just go with any random person off the street. They could be a murderer or something!”

Bambi shakes her head. “Look, it’s just a gut feeling. I need someone who isn’t going to be all over Jason, trying to talk to him, get autographs or selfies with him.”

“Yeah, like a professional.”

“Like, a stranger. Someone not from here. Someone who doesn’t even know who he is and doesn’t care.”

Whitney pats her on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.”

After they leave, my heart races for a good two minutes as I try to keep Martha at bay. There’s a deep thudding in my temple, low and persistent.

When I close my eyes, I can see the brightness of the car approaching—a white specter just in my peripheral. Then Emmy’s scream, the impact of body to vehicle, the gut-wrenching terror of moving through the air, being thrown from the hood right onto the asphalt, where I turned to see Ben, his hand bent unnaturally. Leg twisted inward. His face tilted away from me, blood pooling beneath his body.

Martha is needling inside me, picking at the threads of the entire conversation, pulling words out.

The wife is a nervous wreck. She knows what he did.

“How can I be sure? I mean, it’s the same car, but is it actually him?” I whisper alone in the stall.

Of course it is. Get closer, and you’ll see.

I pull back my hair into a ponytail and shove my stinky clothes far down into the trash can.

When I exit the stall, I pass myself in the mirror and stand for a moment, noticing the stark contrast between Bambi and me. I don’t have her polish, her beauty, her presence. I’m smaller and can clearly see my unkempt figure, the washed-out look of my skin, the lopsided, broken appearance of my body. It’s as though I’m a fragment of a person, all knotted up and twisted from what I used to be.

Don’t you worry, Martha intones inside me. You’ve got me. We can fix this.

Outside at the bar, a short, balding man thrusts a tray full of pre-poured champagne into my hands. “Serve these, then come back and get the tapas. Everything is just settling down after the incident,” he whispers.

“The incident?”

He makes a face at me, annoyed or repulsed—I can’t tell. “Mr. Redfern had a reaction to the shellfish. Only serve what I give you, understand?”

“Right.” I force a nod, trying to look efficient.

He rolls his eyes. “Let’s go. Hurry up.”

The dining room is jammed with people, bodies shoulder to shoulder, loud voices overtalking each other. The crowd is difficult to get through, tight cliques and elbows pushing me like I’m not even there. Bambi and Jason are easy enough to spot in the center of the room, surrounded by a throng of well-dressed men and women.

I recognize him right away from the hotel, looking as if nothing much has happened. I scoot around the periphery, careful to avoid his eyes, blending in with the crowd. He, of course, is the one doing the talking while everyone listens. Bambi is next to him. Nearing the table, I approach, forcing a smile. Martha is pinching, pushing, driving me with every step. She wants a closer look at them both. How can I blame her? Only … I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.

Then, as I approach, a woman to his right turns, takes a glass from my tray without asking, unbalancing it from my hands. I try to steady it, but Martha has other plans. The tray drops. Champagne and glass spill to the floor, a fantastic crash of glass and liquid over my feet. People stop and stare at me. Smirking glances. Snickers. They turn away, disinterested, and I feel my body sinking to the floor. My hands sweep up the mess with the cloth of my tray, but my mind is elsewhere.

That’s it. Right here, Martha whispers. Follow my gaze.

There’s a sharp object in my hand. Blood oozing, oozing. That perfect, unmatched color. A sting and a prick. I pluck the glass from my palm and hold it to the light, blood dripping down my wrist.

Forget about that. Look up.

She tilts my chin, a forceful but not uncomfortable nudge. I twitch a little and glance up at Redfern and his wife, still chattering. The angle is so familiar, being down on the ground like this. In the light, I notice his shoes. Black and shiny, almost oversized, slightly raised heel. Like a flash in the back of my brain, I see him stepping from the white Rolls-Royce, first one foot, then the other.

It’s him.

I know this already, I tell her.

With the large piece of glass in my fingers, my obscure reflection in its curve, I see myself and her there all at once. She gazes back at me, happily.

That’s right, it’s him. And what are you going to do about it?

Flesh of my flesh. Blood of my blood. I feel her confirm what must be done.

“Nothing. We can’t do anything!” I tell her under my breath, careful not to let anyone hear our conversation. “This has to stop—do you hear me?”

Oh, sweet Nicola. You don’t know me at all, do you?

20

Bambi

All Bambi can think about is getting her heels off and sinking into a nice, hot tub. The fake smiles and too-bright flashes, the sweaty hands of strangers, and iPhones snapping away at her and Jason have all but zapped the last of her energy.

When she’s back in the crowd, Jason takes her hand and squeezes it just enough to make an impression on her skin. In moments, they are standing outside, the cool air blowing her dress slightly and lifting her hair from her shoulders. She shuts her eyes, taking in the fresh air, the pleasing sound of traffic, and the blissful moment of in-betweenness of being neither somewhere nor with Jason at home.

Jason seems normal enough as they leave the restaurant and say their goodbyes, but when they get into the car and the doors close, his energy shifts. Bambi can feel the tension in the air, the quiet seething blame like static electricity—as though somehow, the crab mix-up was her fault. Her hands quiver slightly as she adjusts the temperature of the car.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually cold,” Jason says. “It’s like seventy degrees outside.”

“I’m not cold,” Bambi insists. “I just feel a little funny, that’s all.”

His head whips around toward her. “You feel funny, Bambs? Well, that’s ironic, isn’t it?”

She holds silent, pressing her hands beneath her thighs.

“I mean, I was the one with an EpiPen in my leg two hours ago. You don’t see me whining about it, do you?”

She turns slightly to look at Jason as he drives along Wilshire, the veins in his neck bulging slightly as the car picks up speed. He pulls through a yellow light, then a red.

“Jason, slow down.”

“And now you want to tell me how to drive, too?” He laughs bitterly. “You models are all the same. Demanding and selfish as shit. Did you even think for one second tonight about me? Did you?”

And there it is, the vengeful, hateful tone she’d been dreading. Her stomach sinks as she puts her hand on his leg, one last attempt. “Of course I did, baby. Just relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax!”

Bambi swallows, the ache to be alone for a few quiet moments all-consuming. Good thing Jason is leaving tomorrow. And even if being alone feels different in LA, with its perpetually sunny skies, its fake people, and the sprawl of the city that lacks the excitement and anticipation of Manhattan, it doesn’t matter. She needs space to breathe. To think. To exist without him for a bit.

“Are you listening to a thing I’m saying?” Jason shouts.

Bambi nods, but her mind is elsewhere now, on her Craigslist ad, her one thing that’s hers and hers alone.

When they get home, Bambi pours herself a glass of water while Jason fishes in the fridge for a beer. When she comes to check on him, he’s lying in front of the TV searching through the channels.

He groans and tosses the remote control onto the large coffee table, then pulls out his phone and dials Agnes on speaker. Bambi stands listening as her voice answers, gruff and tired. It’s after eleven.

“Hi, honey, what’s up?” A smoker’s voice.

“I want the press lineup.”

“You have press on Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, then the shoot on Friday.”

“Which shoot?”

“The Guardian. We’re doing Entertainment first, then People, Rolling Stone, and then The Guardian.”

“Fuck The Guardian. I’m not doing The Guardian.”

Pause. A cough. In the background, someone calls Agnes’s name. She ignores it.

“Okay. Can I ask why not?”

Bambi motions for Jason to calm down. But she can tell by the tone of his voice that it’s a little late for that. “You know why.” Jason gets up and starts pacing. “They fucked me over the last time with that article. That cocksucker journalist with his review of The Telegraph. I’m not stepping into that trap again.”

“Yeah, but he won’t be covering,” Agnes says patiently. “And I’ve talked to them. So has my assistant. We won’t let them run it like last time.”

“But see, this is where I have a problem, Agnes.” More pacing. Jason flicks his hands through his unwashed hair. Bambi’s nose wrinkles. “You already let them run the piece before, and that shit was very, very damaging to my career.”

Agnes clears her throat and coughs. “I know, sweetie, but this time will be different. Just be your charming, lovable self, and it will be great.”

“No,” Jason half shouts down the phone. “Fuck them and their review. I’m not doing it. They can fuck right off!”

Bambi goes outside. Jason’s raised voice echoes through the house. So, what’s next then? Finish shouting and come outside for a swim? Drink until the haze in his eyes creates the illusion of contentment? But something will stir him, upset him—as it always does—and Bambi will have to deal with the aftermath.

Bambi walks the perimeter of the pool, a decision forming in her mind far away, like the marine layer rolling in off the coast, enveloping her slowly, distantly, so imperceptible she hardly notices. But it’s there, nonetheless. Inside the house, Jason hangs up the phone and comes outside, the ice in his glass tinkling from across the pool. He stands watching her, his stare icy and yet alluring. Bambi shivers, but not from the cold. She feels the painful creep of desire forming in her belly, the feeling of wanting to be wanted by him.

Stupid Bambi, she chastises herself. But she can’t shake the deep-rooted desire to please, to be close, to feel loved. Or Jason’s version of love. A wave of exhaustion forces her to sit at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling into the water. Across the water, Jason silently removes his clothes and steps into the pool, leaving his drink at the side.

She watches him swim toward her, the strong arches and curves of his shoulders, the ripples of his back and chest. Bambi splashes the water, frustration mounting at herself for wanting this asshole.

He nears her and pulls himself through the water until he’s parallel with her legs.

“Everything okay?”

He pulls himself to her through the water, embraces her legs, and rests his head on her shins. “Everyone’s out to get me, Bambs.”

He turns his head, kissing her legs lightly, the scent of alcohol on him.

For a moment, she collapses into the feeling of him touching her. Her legs part. She feels him kissing her inner thighs, pulling up her dress until his mouth is closer and closer to her center.

“Jason,” she says, pushing him away with her hands. “Not here. Come on.”

But he doesn’t stop. Bambi angles back as his hands grip her bottom, his mouth consuming her. She tries to pull herself away, the fabric of her dress tearing beneath her on the wet concrete.

His strength overwhelms her, and Bambi cannot resist. She leans back, taking in the sensation of him, his wet hands caressing her. After a few moments, she gives in, holding the back of his head near her, unable to speak or to move for the pleasure.

“I want you,” he whispers and pulls her down into the water. Her dress floats eerily to both sides of her, the white fabric like a ghost on the water as Jason pulls her toward him once more.

Twelve a.m. Upstairs, the house is cool and quiet, as if no one lives there. In her office, the sound of the crickets and the coos of a few birds drift in with the night air through an open window.

She sits and flips open her laptop to check her email. Her inbox is flooded with replies to her ad. One by one, she clicks through them, most of them duds with shady email addresses and single-sentence replies that she can’t wait to delete. Her heart sinks. She should have known. She’s about to give up when she sees one final message. Its content catches her off guard.

Congratulations, you have met your woman. I’m everything you listed and more. Give me the chance to show you why in person. Strong. Yes, I’m a Goliath. Sweet, only when I need to attract certain bees with honey. Pretty enough, according to my daughter (I’m a single mom), and highly educated, thanks to the school of life. I live nearby and can be the reliable, solid chick you are looking for. Just ask my therapist …

Kidding.

Seriously, though, I won’t flake, I don’t take kindly to losing—never have—and I don’t smoke weed. I’m a top-notch organizer, and I will take care of business the right way. I can be there for an interview; just say the word.

Also … I’m a professional. I always do my utmost without ego, without drama, without oversight. Let me make your life easier and take the hard stuff off your plate.

Thank you for your consideration. Hugs and kisses,

Martha

Bambi never got gut feelings, and if she did, she’s very used to ignoring them. But something about this letter is different. Something is telling her to call this woman, this Martha. She jots down her name and number into her phone, pops two Ambiens, washes her face, and sets a reminder to call her first thing in the morning.

21

Nicola

The hum of lawn mowers outside wakes me. Downstairs, Emmy must be making toast. I wince, thinking of my daughter alone with her—Martha. She’s still nearby.

My esophagus burns, and my stomach feels sour. There’s something lurking in my awareness that makes me feel uneasy, but I can’t recall precisely what. Moments later, I remember: Martha sold my engagement ring. Fuck! How did I not notice until now? I sit up and feel the empty place on my ring finger, the subtle indentation of the lines from where it was. Instinctively, I reach for an Imitrex and my morning Topamax, but then I remember. Thanks to Martha, they’re all gone, too.

No more pills. I hear her in the back of my head, nails tapping on a window. We’re done with that, Nicola. Done. Done. Done.

My hands clamp over my ears, and her voice disappears into the recesses of my skull. A slight throb in my temple emerges, like her fingers pressing on me from within. I get ready and dress quickly—8:45 a.m. I need to get all the way down to Wilshire before it’s too late. Before she comes back.

Downstairs, I hug Emmy and try to leave before she has a chance to ask me anything. She looks up at me from her laptop with big, concerned eyes. “You okay? You look freaked out …”

“I’m not freaked out. I’m fine.”

You don’t seem fine.

My head twitches at the sound of her voice coming through so strongly. Emmy doesn’t notice. I breathe a quick sigh of relief.

“I was worried we didn’t have the money,” Emmy says, chewing.

“What?”

“You threw away all your pills. I was worried we didn’t have the money to replace them.”

The money. The money. Right, we didn’t have the money. Until Martha sold my ring.

“Did you get a new job?” Emmy asks.

“Not yet. I will, though.” My armpits start to sweat. The unbearable itch of Martha beneath me is constant now. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Are you going to Dr. Constance?”

I start to answer, but Martha interrupts me. No. You’re done there. Things are changing, Nicola. Try to keep up.

Emmy stares at me while I think of what to say. Damn you, Martha.

“I’ll be home later, and we’ll talk about everything.”

Emmy makes a face. “Ew, that sounds bad.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Emmy rolls her eyes and replaces her headphones. “If you say so.”

I park on the road adjacent to Wilshire, feed the meter, then head into the office building, the fog of last night still distant and strange, like a half-formed dream. As I turn and head into the lobby, I catch myself in the reflection of the mirror and stop for a moment, noticing my tired, skinny frame, the weakness that’s formed in my limbs, the slight, stooped position I now walk with. Martha pokes at me.

Do you see now? I had to come.

“Go away,” I whisper low enough so that no one hears me. “Not today.”

Her voice burns in the chamber of my throat. You can’t keep me back now. Look at you. You know this is right. You need me. Emmy needs me. We have to fix things, don’t we, Nicola?

“Everything was fine. We were doing fine.”

But you weren’t. You were one bad day away from a total breakdown. Admit it.

“It’s not true.”

I turn and notice the security guard behind the desk staring at me. A woman brushes past me, giving me a concerned glance. I quickly dart to one of the open elevators, willing Martha to be quiet.

For a few moments, I try to keep my thoughts from her, but Martha is so close now. I get the chilling sensation that she hears everything I think, even though I’m getting only a tiny bit from her. The balance is all wrong.

Inside Constance’s office, a woman with headphones rocks back and forth in her chair, saying, “It’s gonna be okay,” over and over under her breath. A man in dirty clothes sits next to an old woman with a walker decorated like it’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I wait in the chair furthest from the door, my feet positioned on either side of the large reddish-brown stain in the carpet. Grape juice? Vomit? Blood?

The door parts, and I hear someone else’s name, but I bolt up anyway and tell Silvia, “It’s an emergency.” She takes one look at me and doesn’t argue. Back I go into her office, the AC blasting, and the scent of stale plants and old furniture overwhelms me. Dr. Constance ushers me in and sits.

“Nicola, you look very upset. Tell me, what is going on?”

I swallow, thinking of what to say. Don’t do anything stupid, Martha instructs.

My head shakes involuntarily, and Dr. Constance watches.

“I’m having some kind of a crisis here …”

Constance’s brow narrows. “What do you mean by crisis?”

“I feel like I’m losing control.”

She pulls my file and notes something down. “Losing control, how?”

My leg pricks with numbness and sends a shooting pain of electricity down the back of my leg. “Of everything. My life. My thoughts. Myself.”

“How are you losing control of yourself, Nicola? Can you give me an example?”

Martha pokes me. She will think you’re crazy. And you know what happens to crazy people.

“Right,” I agree and stop myself. I feel a bubble of shame starting to form around me. No one can know about this. No one. “Someone took all my medication,” I blurt. “I need my medication, Dr. Constance.”

Constance frowns, looking rather irritated. “What happened to your medication?”

“I just told you. Someone took it.”

“Someone like Emmy?”

“No. Not Emmy. I don’t know, but it’s gone, okay?”

“You’ve been robbed, then?”

A low grunt escapes me. “It’s not like that. It’s my fault. I lost track of it. It’s just gone.”

“Nicola. What you are saying isn’t making sense.”

“I lost it, okay? And I need to get more. But my prescriptions … I need new prescriptions.”

“I hate to point this out, but it’s important you understand: you are more anxious than usual. Agitated even.” She notes something down and stares at me with interest.

“I am. Yes, to tell you the truth, I’m very agitated. I’m anxious. I’m depressed. I’m scared …”

Constance frowns. “Scared? Do you feel that you may hurt yourself or someone else?”

I shrug uselessly.

Not a good answer, Martha warns.

Constance continues writing something in my file, waiting for me to elaborate. My stomach churns. I pinch the bridge of my nose, focusing the pain into the tips of my fingers. I dig into my purse for the Imitrex I didn’t take at breakfast. But, of course, I come up empty. A sense of panic runs through me. How can I function without it?

“I didn’t come here for a session, Dr. Constance. I need more pills. For the migraines. It’s an emergency.”

“Your doctor must prescribe that. I’m not a physician.”

“Yes, but I don’t have time to wait for an appointment. I need them now. Today. Immediately.”

“Are you in physical pain?”

“Yes! And it will get worse if I don’t take them. They’re preventative. I need them.”

“I can send you over to urgent care.”

My temple throbs as I stare at her. Urgent care took hours last time. The thought of waiting brings forth a new stab of pain behind my left eye. “I can’t wait.”

Constance leans forward and folds her hands across the table. “You see, that’s what concerns me, Nicola. Your urgency for the pills. It suggests a dependency. And your PTSD and panic attacks have been getting worse. These are warning signs. Do you understand that?”

Somewhere deep inside me is a kernel of recognition that I should be remembering something important. But I can’t.

“The pills help me function,” I say to her. “I need them.”

She stares at me, contemplating a response. “I will ask my colleague to write you a temporary prescription as long as you will do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She leans back, apparently pleased with herself. I can feel the heat of the sun rising against the glass. In the park across the street, a homeless woman rummages in a trash can near the bus stop.

“I would like you to talk about your father.”

My arms tense. A trickle of sweat forms under my breasts and down my back despite the AC. “What do you want to know?”

“What emotions do you associate with your father?”

I don’t have to think about it. The answer lives with me. “I hate him. I’ve always hated him.”

She pulls another piece of paper from a folder and continues scribbling.

“And why do you hate him?”

“He was abusive. A drunk, too, if you want to know.”

“Yes, you’ve said that before.” Dr. Constance stops and looks at me. “But there was something else, wasn’t there? Your father suffered from mental illness. Panic attacks. PTSD. And the thing your family called ‘his sickness.’ Do you remember?”

I remember. Of course I remember. How could I forget the thing that haunted my childhood?

“Is that why you’re angry?”

“I appreciate the deep dive and all, Dr. Constance, but this isn’t about him. Something is happening to me, and I need help.”

Constance’s face scrunches. “I am trying to help you, Nicola. But I can’t if you don’t want to face the truth.”

“What truth?”

She notes something down. “You are self-reporting to be anxious and depressed and showing signs of paranoia.”

“Paranoia?”

“Yes. And you are experiencing an increase in panic attacks and worsening PTSD symptoms. You are not taking care of yourself. These are the warning signs of psychosis. Do you understand why that might be a concern, given your family history? Given your father’s history?”

“My father wasn’t psychotic. He was just a bad father.”

“A bad father with his own demons, as you once told me.” She pauses, staring at me. “What did you mean by demons, Nicola?”

Careful, Martha warns.

“Look, I’m trying to take care of myself,” I tell her. “That’s why I came in here. I am trying, but it’s not all up to me.”

“What does that mean?”

I slam my hand down, starting to feel heat rising in my belly. “I told you! I’m totally out of meds. I have no idea where they are, but they’re gone. All of them. I need a prescription, and I need it now. I need to get my thoughts in order.”

“Nicola, I’m not able to prescribe you anything. I can have my colleague do it. But I need to understand. What happened to your medication?”

My body bolts forward. “How the hell should I know? It’s just gone. All of it. I don’t know what she did with it!”

A deep jab into my ribs. Stop!

“You said Emmy didn’t take your medication.”

I think for a second and collect myself. “Yes. She did. She must have. Okay?”

She writes more. My temples throb. The AC hums even louder, and I feel the chill of the cool, artificial air on my arms. It could easily be 50 degrees in here right now. If I could throw myself out the eighth-floor window into the fresh air, I would.

“When your father killed himself, what happened to your family?”

“I told you this before. Things fell apart. My mother got depressed and started smoking again. My sister developed an eating disorder. And I was … I was fine. I was the strong one, you know? And my father was selfish. He took what he wanted and left us all to rot. When I was eighteen, I left home, and I haven’t bothered to go back since, okay?”

“People who commit suicide are not well people. They are mentally ill. They need help,” says Constance. “Do you see that?”

“I see that he was a monster.”

And he had to be stopped.

My hand claps close to my left ear, as if swatting a fly.

Dr. Constance flinches at my movement.

“We don’t see mental illness because oftentimes, it is invisible until it becomes visible.”

A tingle at the back of my neck. Martha’s nails scratch at my insides. She’s right, you know.

“Fair enough. But people have a responsibility to seek help for their condition. Especially if they have kids. My father never did that. He went right on living until he couldn’t anymore, and now, here we are.”

“Here we are,” says Constance. “Do you see that your life now, after the loss of Ben, is very similar to your family’s experience after your father died?”

“Not really, Dr. Constance. My dad had his problems, okay? He lost control over his life and had to end it.”

She stares at me, letting the words sit idly in the air between us.

Constance writes something, then puts her pencil down and folds her hands. “And do you worry that you will be the same? That your father’s sickness may become yours, too?”

My throat tightens. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Really?” Constance probes. “What do you think Ben would say about all of this?”

I feel my palms moisten. I don’t talk about Ben. It’s a rule I have.

I want to tell Constance the truth, that the reason I can’t talk about Ben is that I’m too broken, and I’m too angry, that if I have to utter his name or conjure his face one more time … things start to happen inside me. I hear his voice. I see his expression. I feel his heart beating through his tee shirt, my ear pressed to his chest, listening to it slowing. I want to tell her that if I talk about Ben, I will lose my mind. That my world will fall apart, and my one true reason for living—our beautiful Emmy—might not be enough anymore.

If I tell her this, I worry she will become afraid of me, that she will have me locked up and medicated. She will take away my child. If I tell her how I lost my will to live after the accident, she surely won’t let me see Emmy again. And the worst thing of all, I fear Martha and what she will do this time.

“I don’t want to talk about Ben.”

I stare at the ground. Martha starts scratching again. You need to get better at lying, sweetie. You need to get better at a whole lot of things. Or is that why you brought me here to begin with?

“I have to go,” I say. “I’m not feeling very well.”

Constance’s eyelids flutter. “That’s okay.” She writes something on a notepad and hands it to me. “Call this number so you can see my colleague next week for your medication.”

Next week. May as well be next year.

“I told you, I need it now. Right now.”

She shrugs, an air of resignation in her. “It’s the best I can do.”

I take the slip of paper, and I head out past all the other patients. Silvia squeezes past me in the narrow hallway.

Once I’m in the elevator, I feel Martha start pricking again at the back of my neck. You wanted to tell her about me, didn’t you?

I say out loud. “Of course I didn’t.”

Well, I think you wanted to. You can’t do that, Nicola.

I slap the back of my neck where I think Martha will feel it. It’s relieving to hit her. To keep her at bay. She disappears for a moment, and there is quiet. All I hear is the ding of the elevators and the sound of the tiny box moving eight floors to the ground.

At home, I find Emmy making grilled cheese sandwiches in our old panini press. She looks up at me, holding a packet of cheese.

“I thought you didn’t eat that,” I say, pointing to it.

“It’s vegan,” she says, holding it out to me.

“Sounds fantastic,” I mutter and start rummaging through the cupboards and drawers, searching.

“What’s gotten into you?” Emmy asks.

“I’m out of meds. I need more.”

“But you threw them all away.”

“I know that,” I say under my breath. “I made a mistake.” The pounding in my temple is creeping forward, sneaking under my eye. It’s happening fast now.

Pounding.

Sickness.

Days without light.

I check the stash of junk in the far-right kitchen drawer, the bottom of my old purse in the closet, and a jacket pocket from last winter, still stuffed with tissue—jackpot! A small plastic baggie filled with two Imitrex. This will buy me a day, maybe more.

I sit on the barstool while Emmy serves me a toasty brown sandwich and brings me a glass of water. Down the hatch. I swallow the two Imitrex whole but push the plate of food away.

Emmy takes a ketchup bottle from the fridge and squirts a puddle onto my plate. The smell and color make my gut roll.

“Where were you last night?” she asks, putting another sandwich on the griddle.

I clear my throat and feel the heaviness of the Imitrex taking hold, the blinding stab in my temple fading to a dull, warm ache.

“You were gone last night. You missed dinner, remember? After CelebrityStalkShow.” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Mom? Where were you?”

“I had something I had to take care of, Em. Me and a friend.”

“Wow, that’s freaking vague.” Emmy opens the panini machine too soon, the sandwich still not done. She slams it back down, making a loud clang.

“Yeah. It is. Just leave it alone, Emmy, okay?”

She rolls her eyes, but not in a pissy way—in a hurt way.

“So did you go to that restaurant where Jason Redfern was?”

“No.”

Careful.

“No. And don’t talk about it anymore, okay?”

“Why? Did something happen?”

I reach out and grab her hand. I pull her toward me across the counter. “Look at me,” I tell her. “Stop asking about it, okay, Em?”

Emmy nods slowly. Her eyes brighten. “You went, didn’t you?”

“I’m not going to discuss it, Em, okay?”

Her eyes grow bigger. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I told you. Please, just leave it.”

“Did you see him? Did you see his wife?”

Keep her out of this.

“Emmy, please …” I beg her.

“What were they like?”

“Em, stop!” My fist comes down hard on the counter. So hard, I don’t think it’s my fist. In fact, I know it isn’t mine. It’s Martha’s.

Damn, Emmy. Look what you did.

I climb off the stool. No. She climbs off the stool. She takes the plate of grilled cheese and hurls it at the wall, the plate smashing behind Emmy’s head.

“Mom, stop! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

Emmy’s cries are distant now. Martha squirms through like a cockroach beneath a doorjamb. She’s so quick, so relentless. Emmy screams, and I know it must be loud because of the look on her face. I know I’m scaring her, but there’s nothing I can do.

It isn’t me anymore. I feel myself sinking back into that black space where I can’t be a part of anything, where the world is not mine anymore, and life continues on without me.

22

Martha

I despise teenagers. Boys and girls in equal measure. They are good for nothing, truly. Like, what is the point of a teenager? They still live in your house and drain and drain and drain you while they become educated. And the education part takes a really long time and so much energy that any adults left in the house are depleted beyond recognition. This is what pushes them into this thing called middle age. It’s a hideous and unworthy phenomenon.

When Nicola said we were dealing with Emmy—dear, sweet little Emmy—I expected some nice, little pre-pubescent thing that wasn’t menstruating yet. Instead, I walk in to find some vegan-cheese-eating witch questioning me on where I was last night. If she knew what was good for her, she would just keep her mouth shut, eat her grilled cheese, do the dishes, clean the house, and go to sleep without talking so much. That’s not what happened.

My hands are on her shoulders, my fingers pressing into her flesh. Let’s get one thing straight, Nicola. Emmy is not my kid. She’s yours. I’m single, remember? I’m here to assist. That’s the deal.

Nicola squirms inside, begging me to stop, freaking out about the fact that she’s only living for Emmy, etc., etc.

But what about me? I insist. Haven’t I made your life better, Nicola? Aren’t I worth getting out of bed for? I mean, fuck! Before I came along, where were you? You know you couldn’t even figure your shit out, let alone deal with the debt you’re in, the case, or Redfern.

But I can.

“Listen, kid,” I start. “I’m sorry I threw the plate, but you were warned a couple of times. Stop asking about the other night.”

Emmy’s eyes won’t stop tearing. She’s sniffling like some girl in a horror movie.

“If you talk about it, if you bring it up, if you ask about last night or anything like that,” I press, “That’s an issue. We can’t have that.”

Emmy sniffs once, long and loud. “We?”

“Yeah. You and me. And your mother.”

She nods. “Mom. You’re acting like a total freak.”

I shove her backwards against the kitchen counter.

If you hurt my kid, I will end you, Martha.

“Fuck you, Nicola!”

“Mom! What are you doing? You’re scaring me!”

“Your mom is having some kind of moment.” I smack my head, hard, knowing Nicola will get the picture. “Be quiet.”

“Mom, are you taking your medicine? Do you have a migraine right now? Is that what this is? Are you hallucinating?”

Emmy puts her hand on my arm. On her wrist is a friendship bracelet under three black leather bands. I always wanted one of those. The friendship, not the bracelet.

“Just don’t ask about the other night.”

“Fine,” Emmy says, wiping her face. “Can you let me go? You’re acting like a real nut job.”

I release my hands and scan the kid up and down. “You really need to rethink your look, you know that?”

“Jesus Christ! What the hell has gotten into you?”

“Me? Nothing! I look normal. You’re the one with the raunchy tank top, the shaved head, the dyed hair, and the jewelry that screams emo skank.”

Emmy stares at me. “Mom, are you kidding me right now? What is this?”

“Did you ever think that’s why kids at school are talking shit about you? I mean, holy shit, that scar on your head is bad enough, but you’re decorating it like it’s some kind of prize or something. Maybe you should try to cover it up.”

Emmy looks down at her hands. “You know I’ve tried a million times.”

“Yeah, well, why hasn’t your mom ever helped you?”

“That’s a good question. You’re busy.”

“You’re your mom’s entire world. Don’t you know that?”

Emmy’s eyes tear up. “I get it. You’re having a really tough day. But the plate and everything? Geez, Mom!”

I sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.” My body arches and stretches in my chair. “I just forget sometimes, you know? It’s hard coming back from the dark and trying to exist again.”

“Tell me about it.” Emmy plays with her black bracelet, snapping and unsnapping it on her wrist. “So, you think I look like an emo skank?”

My hand finds her grilled cheese. I bite into the corner. “Yeah. I do.”

She smirks. “That reference is so nineties.”

My shoulders shrug. “Well, that’s my era. Live with it.”

A laugh bursts through her lips. “You’re on drugs.”

“I’m not. Don’t need them.”

“No. That’s what it is. You’re smoking weed.”

“I’m not, but if you have any, I will smoke it right the fuck now.”

“Geez. How much pain are you in?”

“Gee, I don’t know, let me check my pain weathervane.” I lick my finger and stick it into the air. “Your mother reports she’s in a ton of pain. Just give her all the weed you have.”

Emmy runs upstairs and comes back down. She has a small bag that she dumps on the table. They look like regular wrapped candies.

“What’s this?”

“Don’t freak out. Someone at school gave them to me. She got them for free. Her brother works at a dispensary.”

“ ’Course he does.”

Emmy’s eyes are big, glowing orbs. She watches me as I take one, unwrap it, and pop it in my mouth. A lime-green Jolly Rancher. A smile passes over her lips as I pop it into the corner of my cheek. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to eat one?”

“I don’t know. What if I feel weird?”

“You mean you’ve never been high before?”

Emmy shakes her head no. I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “You mean to tell me that you look like that, and you haven’t smoked weed?”

“What has gotten into you? You’d literally kill me if I came home stinking of pot. It’s not that I haven’t been offered. I just say no. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

“No, idiot. You’re supposed to say yes and then realize what you like and what you don’t like in life. If you don’t try, how do you know?”

“But it’s drugs …”

Careful, Martha. I swear to God, I will make you nonexistent.

I cough and nearly swallow the candy whole. “Look, you did the right thing, or whatever. You should always show it to your mom first and not accept anything from someone you don’t know. Period. Listen, little sister, this THC is already doing a number on your mom’s chronic pain. So, what do you think about that?”

Emmy gives a wary smile. “I think it’s good, I guess. But you’re really freaking me out, Mom.”

“Tell you what,” I try. “Let’s give Mom a little vacation for a while. And let’s you and me have some fun for a change.”

Emmy shrugs, but her eyes are twinkling. “Okay, I guess so.”

I take her in, her small frame, her warm brown eyes. If she wasn’t dressed so weirdly, and if her face wasn’t scowling so much under all that black eyeliner, Emmy might actually be beautiful.

“Come with me,” I say and head upstairs. “And bring the candy.”

We move upstairs and sit in Emmy’s bathroom, crowded with the small, single sink and bad yellow lighting. Nicola and Ben used to have a big, wide white marble bathroom countertop with two sinks and cupboards underneath filled with all sorts of goods. I pull open drawers and fish out her makeup, including the stuff I borrowed before. It isn’t half bad.

“Sit up there,” I say to Emmy and point to the counter space around the sink. She looks at me the whole time like I’m nuts.

“I thought you hated it when I wore makeup.”

I throw a couple of bags of makeup onto the counter, then a few brushes and hair products. “I don’t hate it. Your mom does. And she’s on vacation, remember?”

Emmy bursts out laughing. “Okay, whatever, loony. Is this, like, some coping mechanism from Dr. Constance?”

“Yep. Good. Exactly. That’s exactly what this is.”

“Okay, Mrs. Loony.”

“Seriously, you need to get to grips with this hair situation,” I say, sticking a mirror in her hands. “Is your hair going to grow back over that scar or not?”

Emmy’s eyes tear up. “It’s a skin graft. Why would you ask me that?”

Stop it, Martha! What are you doing?

Oops. “Okay. Sorry. Well, so that’s the point, isn’t it? So instead of flaunting it and making it a big deal, why don’t you try to work with it a little bit?”

“What do you mean?”

I turn her to the side so that the part of her hair with the skin graft is facing me. “May I?”

Emmy shrugs. “Do I have an option?”

“Yeah. You can tell me to fuck off, if you want.”

She shakes her head. “Just do it.”

I part her hair slightly further up and bring it down so that the skin graft isn’t so obvious. Now it looks like the side of her head is just partially shaved, instead of totally bald.

“You think I haven’t tried that?” Emmy says. “It gets windy, and it just blows back over. Everyone can see it.”

“Right, that’s challenging,” I say.

“Yeah,” says Emmy. “See my issue? I can’t just wear a comb-over.”

“Fair enough. Well, how about we focus on the rest of you?”

“Good luck,” Emmy says. “There isn’t much to focus on.”

“We’ll see about that.”

I make Emmy wash off her makeup and remove the black eyeliner so we can start fresh. Her eyebrows are a little wild, so I shape them and groom them to accentuate her eyes. Then I moisturize her face. Her skin is flawless. For her cheeks, I mix a few different shades together to get a nice peachy color, and I add something similar for her lips. For her eyes, just a wisp of mascara over her lashes. I comb her hair and style it with moisturizer for her curls. That’s it. She’s fourteen, not twenty-four. She should look it. I don’t let her look in the mirror until I’m finished.

“That’s me?” she says, her voice small. “I look so … different.”

“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. We go to the computer and open the Internet browser. “What’s your favorite store of all time?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “We haven’t been shopping in a really long time. Since before Dad died.”

“I know,” I say. “That’s not the point. We’re shopping now.”

I do a Google search for clothes for teenage girls. A whole bunch of sites pop up, and Emmy and I browse through them, picking her favorite stuff, from dresses to jeans to cute tops and jackets, until she has a whole new wardrobe. When we’re finished, Emmy looks gleeful and excited. “I can’t believe you just let me buy all that stuff!” Her face falls flat. “How are you going to pay for it?”

“Remember what I said to you about asking questions?”

She nods.

“You don’t need to worry. It’s not going to be a problem.”

“You got a new job?”

“Yes,” I tell her. It’s basically as good as done now. “Remember in The Secret Garden how Martha helps Mary get well and get back on her feet?”

“Um, yeah … I read that, like, a million years ago, but yeah. What’s your point?”

“Well, your mom has Martha to help her. And now that Martha has helped her, she can help other people, too.”

“That’s … weird. So, you’re going to be someone’s housekeeper?”

“More like someone’s personal assistant.”

“Don’t we need help?”

“I told you,” I say, eyeing her. “That’s what Martha is here for. Don’t you worry, little sister. Everything is going to be all right.”

Emmy lies back on the sofa and turns on the TV. “If you say so.”

My gut hums, all the while Nicola is scratching at me from the inside. From inside Nicola’s purse, I take out the little black-and-white photo of the white Rolls-Royce that Steve gave her. “You found him,” I remind her quietly. “Now let me do the rest.”

Emmy looks over at me. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one, Emmy. No one.”

I stretch back and relax for a moment, contemplating what it will be like to work for someone else. I know Nicola isn’t happy about it, but she doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does. I can be a good Martha, a nice Martha, a home-and-garden Martha. For a little while.

23

Bambi

Bambi wakes on the cold, guest bathroom tiles. To her left, there’s broken glass and a pinkish stain on the white cabinet. The smell of perfumed bathwater, rose oil, and blood in her nostrils sends a chill up her spine. A handprint on the wall—hers. From where she lies on the floor, she can just about reach her robe crumpled up beneath the washbasin. Her knees ache, and a dull pulsing starts in her bottom lip.

And oh, the effort it takes to pull herself up to the sink! She runs the tap and lifts her head, her reflection staring back at her in the mirror. Pale. Eyes puffy, dark. A small patch of dried blood at her temple, her lip badly bruised. Something reddish-purple on her wrist and arm—bruising?

If she were someone else, she would cry at the face looking back at her, at the naked upper torso too sore to move, at the gaunt and wiry frame before her. Her body is like a shell that has been dragged across the rocks so many times that it’s lost its true form, worn down in places. Hollow, scratched, and broken in others.

Slow, careful steps to turn on the shower. There’s a small cut on the side of her right hand and two broken fingernails splitting off at the nail bed. Her stomach pangs. How did they break? She doesn’t want to recall. Her body seems foreign to her, like a strange, exotic city where you cannot be alone at night, where the lights are neon, and you’ll get your purse stolen—or worse—if you’re not careful.

In the shower, Bambi reaches for the bottle of lavender soap. The scent buoys her, ushering in a memory. The pool. Jason’s voice. Agnes, with her smoker’s cough and constant kowtowing. Behind her deference, a quiet air of disdain, as if she were growing tired of him. Bad boy reputation, unpredictable during interviews, never able to handle himself well on set. A people person, just as long as he is getting his way.

Bambi remembers she’d gone into the guest room to escape. Or that’s what she had thought. But Jason followed her, his fist heavy on the door, demanding to be let in, his hands on her body, forceful, determined. Her lack of obedience had angered him even more. And what had been different this time?

The soap bubbles on her skin as she remembers: this time, she had tried to resist.

Outside, the doves had stopped cooing, and Bambi took refuge in the bathroom. Jason’s patience wore thin. He’d smashed his glass of whiskey on the edge of the tub, the shards colliding with her skin. He’d pulled her onto the white bath mat they’d picked out together that time in Europe. The mat had collected her bright red blood in its long, plush fibers. She’d turned her head, watching it seep in, soaking the cotton like it was a garden that needed to grow.

Could anything really grow in their house? Their house, where this happened?

While Jason was on top of her, a piece of glass had dug into her thigh, cutting, cutting. But she couldn’t stop him, couldn’t get him off her to pluck it out. How could she ever raise a child with him? The thought kept circling, circling. Her body grew tired from resisting, her voice hoarse from telling him to stop. She turned her head so as not to look at him. After it was done, Jason left and slammed the bathroom door, and it echoed across their cold and empty house.

Now in the shower, the remnants of last night drain away. She pulls the shard of glass from her leg at last, feeling the sting of it scraping against her bruised flesh. A fresh wave of bright red blood pours from her leg and pools around her toes. The basin of the granite shower reddens, filling with her blood, and her hand jets out to the wall to stop her from fainting.

When she gets out, she lays down a fresh towel to step on and mops up the rest of the blood. On her hands and knees, she gathers the bath mat into a ball and shakes the glass into the small wastebasket beside the double sink. She stashes the soiled linens under the sinks, where Lucita won’t find them, and plans to throw them out later, after she goes home. Bambi sweeps up the rest of the glass and scours the floor for any remnants. She slides on her robe and turns to the mirror to mop down the condensation with a hand towel to reveal her face.

A thought nods to her from the recesses of her mind, drifting to and fro, like a child riding a seesaw.

If you don’t stop him, he’ll stop you.

If you don’t stop him, he’ll stop you.

If you don’t stop him, he’ll stop you.

It’s the strangest thing, this passing thought. Bambi lets it surface as if it’s something new, and yet she knows this thought has always been there somehow.

How did all of this start, anyway? How does anything like this start? The first time it happened, they had just moved in together. Of her own volition, Bambi had declined a few modeling jobs and stayed home to spend time with Jason before his next film, something she could never do now without fearing the consequences from her agency. They’d stayed up late watching movies, slept in, and stayed in bed until the afternoon, and Bambi asked Lucita to leave them alone for a week. Some mornings, she’d even cook his breakfast and bring it to him on a tray.

But one night after they came home from dinner, the paparazzi following them to the front of the house, Jason announced, “I’m going out.”

Bambi looked up, surprised by the sudden shift. “Going out where?”

“Just out,” he told her. “I need a little space.”

“Okay, baby,” she’d agreed timidly.

She waited up for him until 2 a.m., the television on low, casting shadows across their bedroom. The house felt eerily quiet without him. Bambi tiptoed downstairs and checked the front of the house and the back before heading back up and resigning herself to sleep.

Later, Bambi had been awoken from a deep sleep by Jason. She felt revulsion course through her as his hands roved over her body, the smell of another woman clinging to him, overly sweet and foreign.

“Get off me,” Bambi said and pushed him away.

Jason fell backward, momentarily stunned. Then he raised his hand to her, grabbing her forcefully by the hair so she had no choice but to sit up.

A scream echoed through the house, and Bambi heard herself beginning to cry. The act was quick and shocking. And then it was done.

They never spoke of it.

She’d never spoken of it.

But why not? Because everyone loved Jason Redfern. And she loved him too … didn’t she? It was easy enough to just ignore these small infractions because otherwise, things were perfect.

Except there was something beyond the captivating charm everyone hung onto, beyond the thrill and the allure of him. There was a certain darkness that stayed with her like a warning.

If you don’t stop him, he’ll stop you.

Bambi hurriedly gets ready and finishes cleaning herself up, wiping the remaining blood from her skin and covering the marks on her with makeup.

Downstairs, she hears Jason roll his suitcase into the hallway and give some instructions to Lucita for while he’s away.

If you don’t stop him, he’ll stop you.

His footsteps climb the stairs, and he stands outside the bathroom door. He clears his throat, knocks, then stills. “Bambs, are you awake yet?”

Her heart begins beating wildly in her chest. She can’t bring herself to open the door. Her palms begin to sweat as she backs away toward the glass wall of the shower, tucking her robe around her small frame.

“Bambs?”

“I’m just getting ready.”

A click of his tongue. “Okay, well, I’m leaving for the plane. Can you at least come to the door and say goodbye?” A pause. A rattle of the doorhandle. “Open the door, Bambs.”

Her heart rate quickens, and the room begins to spin around her, all tile and mirrors and light. She braces herself against the sink—cold porcelain and marble. “I can’t right now.”

He tries the door, but it is still locked. A frustrated grunt. “Okay, well, I wanted to say goodbye, but I have to leave.” He clears his throat. “And babe?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about last night. I really am. Things got out of hand. I know that. I didn’t mean for them to … I just …”

How is this Jason the same Jason from last night? How is this the same man? She longs to erase the memory, to be able to pretend a little longer that it didn’t happen.

A sob nearly escapes her lips, the burden of their secret heavy within her. “Have a good trip,” she manages.

He taps the door lightly with one hand. “Okay, baby. Be good while I’m gone.”

She listens for his footsteps heading back down the stairs. In moments, the front door opens, and his suitcase rolls through their foyer. Lucita says goodbye. When the door finally closes, and Bambi hears the car out front ferry him away, a rush of relief and sadness comes spilling forth. She sinks to the floor and cries into her hands quietly.

From the corner of the bathroom, a small, muted ping erupts. She crawls toward the sound and finds her phone face down in the corner of the bathroom. Flipping it over, she sees a message on the screen.

Reminder: Call Martha.

24

Nicola

I roll over, prying myself off the sticky, damp sheets. There’s a whiff of sour body odor, makeup, and hairspray. Downstairs, the sounds of voices and Scotch’s high-pitched bark stir me, but my head is like blurred video, static and unfocused. One thought, though, is very clear in my mind: Martha was here again last night.

My head thumps wildly. Eyes focusing, I zero in on a small glass of water and two pain pills that the bitch must have left out for me. Downstairs, a familiar voice rises, and it takes me a minute to place it. For a weird split second, I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality where Martha has doubled my body and come out to terrorize me, but I know that’s impossible and that she’s away now. I’m here. I’m in control.

I stumble out of bed, left side weak and dragging slightly. It’s an effort to pull on some clothes that smell reasonably clean. My head aches. I need to get my pills. Today. I remember the slip of paper Dr. Constance gave me—the number to call for medication—and search everywhere, but it’s gone. Immediately, I know: Martha threw it away.

I take the stairs gently, the nerves in my leg raw, my spine aching. Whatever Martha is doing, she’s forgetting that I’VE BEEN HIT BY A CAR.

Can you hear that, eh, Martha? WE WERE HIT BY A CAR, YOU IGNORANT COW, SO TAKE IT EASY!

I think this as loudly as I can as I go down the stairs one at a time until I hit the landing, where Scotch greets me with a brush of his head against my legs. A pang of guilt gnaws at me as I remember how long it’s been since I’ve paid him much attention. I stoop and stroke his back, and he thanks me with a wag of his tail. Emmy’s taking care of him. Another pang of guilt seizes me. Who is taking care of Emmy?

I’m on the landing collecting myself when it quickly comes back to me like a rushing breeze carrying debris and dirt. Martha taking over. Martha meeting Emmy. Martha taking my medication. Martha doling out pain pills, one at a time. Martha pushing me inside the restaurant so I could see him up close. So I could know for sure.

Good. Now you’re awake again, Martha taunts from within.

I hear the voice downstairs again and finally place it, out of context. I thought I wouldn’t see her again. In fact, I was sure of it. Now, here she is in my kitchen instead of the Whitmore, looking oddly at ease, as though it were her kitchen and not mine. Nubia.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks me up and down. “Woman, you look like shit. And nice to see you, too. Thank you very much.” I notice her new uniform, her freshly manicured nails, and her haircut.

“What’s going on?” I ask again.

Nubia turns to Emmy, who lowers her gaze a little. I sense something is deeply wrong. “Aww, I guess your mom isn’t happy to see me. Just because they fired your ass doesn’t mean I don’t love you!” She points to the counter. “Look, I made breakfast and everything. There’s Eggos, hash browns, and sausages. And that is huevos rancheros. Eat up, princess, and then, my God, you need to take a shower because you stink, chiquitita.”

I sit at the barstool where Emmy is making me a plate of food. My eyes must be huge and wild. “You cooked all of this?”

“Bingo, mama. Not the Eggos, though. Those came from a box. But still. Eat. It’s getting cold.”

I start cutting into the food and shake my head in disbelief. “So, what are you doing here, exactly?”

“I called Nubia,” Emmy says, her cheeks full of food. “After last night. I was a little worried about you.”

Nubia looks at me, her eyes serious. “Emmy says you had some kind of a breakdown.”

I almost spit out my food. “What?” I cough. “She said what?”

Last night is a fog. My eyes close, trying to recall, but everything is hazy. The questions. The sudden rage. Martha.

“She said you started acting really weird, calling yourself Martha?”

“No. That isn’t right,” I say. “Probably a side effect of my medication. You know it causes mood disturbances.”

“This didn’t seem like a mood disturbance,” Emmy says.

“Well, it’s over now, and it won’t happen again.”

Nubia shakes her head. “I don’t want to say it.”

“Say it, Nubia.”

“I really prefer not to, Nic, okay?” She crosses herself and whispers something in Spanish.

Emmy sighs, exasperated. “I was worried you were going to do something crazy, okay?”

“Jesus Christ. Have you both lost your minds? I’m fine. It was just a bad moment. That’s all. Christ!”

Nubia crosses herself again. “Don’t say Christ.”

“This is ridiculous. I wasn’t feeling well, so I took some extra meds. They made me a little loopy. Okay? Now, can we end this?”

That’s the best lying I’ve heard you do. You’re even starting to sound like me, Nicola.

I feel the itch at the back of my neck. If they weren’t watching me so intently, I’d scratch Martha. I’d scratch her hard to make her shut up and keep quiet. She can be a real bitch.

Nubia takes another bite. “Fine, if you say so. But I’m coming back in a few days to check on you. I have to get to work. I got promoted. Guess who replaced Esther?!”

“Congratulations!” Emmy and I say in unison.

“Thanks,” Nubia says and gulps down her coffee. The mug she borrowed says Mother knows best! on it and has a picture of me with a wooden spoon from a Christmas long ago, when Emmy was in diapers. It used to be my favorite. Now it just creeps me out.

Nubia eyes me. Then Emmy. “If this Martha shit happens again, you call me, you understand? Don’t hesitate.” She hugs me, then Emmy. “You’ve been through a lot. So, if shit gets weird around here sometimes, well … that’s to be expected.”

Emmy smiles. “Mom never told me you were so cool.”

“That’s because I was your mom’s boss, and bosses are never cool.”

“Huh. Right.” Emmy says thoughtfully. “Well, maybe you can just be her friend now?”

Nubia narrows her eyes and makes her laid-back, too-cool-for-school face. “I’ll think about it.”

After we finish eating, Nubia heads out, and Emmy goes upstairs to take a shower, leaving Scotch and me alone. Outside, the sun is dappling through the clouds, making the day a mix of hazy and bright. I let Scotch out for the bathroom and wave goodbye to Nubia as she heads to her car, the same gray Honda, despite the promotion. Cheapskates, Martha intones inside of me. They don’t know talent when they see it. She’s a tough cookie, deserves better.

I scratch my neck and pinch the skin with my nails until Martha stops talking.

Relax, Nic. I like her, Martha whispers, a little quieter this time. She seems like a good friend to us.

“To me,” I tell her. “She’s my friend, okay? My life. My kid. My friend.”

Like I said, relax. Soon, everything will be taken care of, and you’ll be thanking me.

“Thanking you? Yeah. Right.”

I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me and turn around. “Mom? Who are you talking to?”

“No one, honey. I’m not talking to anyone at all.”

Emmy looks away and heads back upstairs.

Around noon, my cell phone rings. It’s a local number I don’t recognize, but I answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Hi, may I speak with Martha, please?”

My heart beats faster and faster. I stand up from the sofa where Scotch and I were sitting and start pacing the living room. He jumps up to attention, studying me carefully, his ears raised in anticipation. “She’s not available right now. What’s this about?”

“Oh, yes. I’m calling regarding her job application. I’d like her to come in for an interview.”

My insides feel liquid, and I collapse onto the sofa. “I’m sorry. That’s not possible. Martha has gone away.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“She’s not coming back for a while.”

Her voice is at my back, creeping forward. Let me speak, Nicola.

“Really? She sounded like she really wanted the job in her letter.”

“Her letter?” What letter?

Let me speak. We need this.

Nausea. My stomach rolls like a ship over an ocean wave, and my hands grasp the edge of the sofa, dirty and frayed from Scotch sitting on one side. In an instant, my eyes seem to take in multiple details at once: the stale rental unit’s cheap carpet, the dusty furniture, paint peeling on the far wall by the kitchen.

“Are you sure there’s no possible way I could get a hold of her, like a cell phone number or something?”

“No.” My neck prickles hot and cold. There’s a flicker of her inside me, then closer, nearer, up under my skin like a splinter. Her voice is hot inside my ear: Don’t you dare blow this for us.

“I really need to hire someone soon. It’s urgent.” Her voice is faded, but I recognize something in it. A sort of loosely veiled desperation.

“She can’t talk to you right now.”

“Well, if you could give her my details, perhaps she can call me back? My name is Bambi.”

My blood curdles with her words: It’s her. Remember?

I can’t stop my body shaking. A thick, cold sweat forms under my arms, around my breasts, and over my brow. I drop the phone onto our stained carpet, the room spinning.

“Hello? Are you still there? Hello?”

I feel Martha inside me, powerful and deliberate. She reaches down and collects the phone. Let me, Nicola.

“No! Stop!” My own voice is small, an echo inside my head. I’m in a cavern of myself while Martha is out there. Her voice wraps around my vocal cords. She speaks like I used to once, or like I imagine myself in a dream—some other, better, stronger version of me. I’m sinking within now, drowning in quicksand. All around me, the world disappears. The blackness consumes me, and I start to fade away.

25

Martha

Nicola should be thanking her lucky stars right about now, or thanking me, more like it. Instead, she’s silently cursing me, even as I drive her away and pick up the phone. I’m sorry, Nicola. Right now, you are making this very, very difficult for the both of us.

I hold the phone to my ear, and I position my voice, our voice, where it needs to be. In my register, not Nic’s people-pleasing high-pitched tone.

“Mrs. Redfern?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Sorry about all of that. This is Martha speaking.”

“Martha! Oh great.” A pause, maybe mistrusting me.

“That was my sister you were talking to before,” I interject. “She isn’t well and gets confused sometimes.”

“Oh … I. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. So you got my letter?”

Papers shuffle in the background as I hear her switch the phone to speaker. “Yes. I’d like you to come in for an interview.”

“Great. I can be there anytime.”

“How about tomorrow? Can you be here at eleven?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“You’re welcome.” A pause.

“Yes?”

“Don’t be late.”

I hang up the phone and throw it back onto the sofa. Scotch glares at me and stands up. I offer my hand and let him sniff, but he yaps at me and growls. I never did like dogs much.

Upstairs, I dive into Nicola’s closet and find that it houses two kinds of clothes: pre-accident and post-accident. The pre-accident clothes are two sizes larger, all brand names, and hung up in a specific way, all the way in the back of her closet.

The post-accident clothes are another story. Jumbles of tiny items, cheap workout gear, hotel uniform shirts, and black tee shirts galore. I’m trying things on when I hear the front door close and Emmy humming to herself, opening and closing the fridge. I listen quietly as she makes her way up to her bedroom and switches on YouTube. I feel Nicola itching to get out, but I’ve barely been here long enough to take a shower, eat, and figure out what the next twelve hours are going to look like. In moments, I hear her shuffling down the hall toward me.

“Mom?”

Instinctively, my throat tightens. “In here!”

She pauses at the bedroom door. “What are you doing?”

My eyes take her in. Old sweats, her hair a little unruly, the same eyeliner back under her eyes, thick and misplaced. “Getting ready for an interview. Why?”

“I think the stuff we ordered online came. There are a ton of boxes outside.”

“Well, bring them in!”

Emmy leaves and returns with a few packages and an oversized box. She drops them in the middle of the bedroom floor and starts opening everything.

“I’m so excited,” she says. “I hope everything fits.”

I pull off a pair of oversized slacks and hang them back up. “Tell me about it.”

Emmy eyeballs me as she starts unwrapping items. “What’s this job interview, anyway?”

“It’s with someone very important.” From the closet, I take out a black cardigan and a skirt that look two sizes too big. “I wonder if I can belt this …”

“Probably,” Emmy answers me. “So, who is this very important person?”

“Don’t worry about who it is.”

Emmy sighs. “That’s a little shady, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think.”

“Well, can I know what you’re going to interview for?”

“I told you. I’m helping someone as a personal assistant.”

“Sounds like a step down from the Whitmore.”

Cool and calm, I turn to her. “Yeah, well, when you have as much debt as we do, you take what you can get, toots.”

Emmy stares at me for a moment, her brow furrowed. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what? I’m not doing anything.”

Emmy steps slightly toward the door, holding the one dress she has yet to try on. “Yeah … Okay then.” She pauses for a moment, then drops the dress. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Suit yourself,” I call after her.

Scouring the closet for something decent to wear, I notice an upper rack still full of Ben’s clothes. Suits in various dark shades, a tie rack, overcoats, and next to them, jeans and shirts untouched, like he still lives here. Moving closer, I smell him in the fabric, a subtle waft of musk and pine. Maybe that’s why Nicola keeps them. The “don’t talk about Ben” rule is becoming stifling. I liked Ben. Everyone did. Under a canopy of red and white flowers, they’d married by the sea on the lawn of an expensive hotel, white chairs spread across the green, the sun setting, Nicola in her white fitted dress. And then it was the honeymoon right there in the same hotel by the sea, making love many times over while I watched and waited.

All that watching makes you remember things. The way money came and went but never stuck around. The nights of listening to them argue, hearing the same story over and over again. And slowly, I felt the burden on Nicola growing as the sole provider.

When they bought the house—the two-story Cape Cod home with that green lawn—I thought it would be my turn, but it wasn’t.

I’ve been here a long, long time. Way before the car accident.

Do you want to remember, Nicola, or do you want to just keep living this way, hurting like you do?

Silence. I know she’s bitter. I can feel her as she can me in this worn-out body of ours.

From Emmy’s new stash on the floor, I unwrap a little black tee shirt that’s more my size and pair it with the skirt that’s too big. In the closet, I dig out a belt and wrap it round, then find a cardigan with brown edges on the sleeves, which I roll up to look more presentable. My midsection squirms, Nicola vying for control. Don’t do this, she begs.

A memory surges at the thought, sudden for both of us.

The cold glass of the kitchen table. The cheap plastic chairs her mother and father had long since forgotten to replace. The mellow lighting from one overhead bulb in their ceiling. Janice was already asleep, but Nicola stayed up to help her mother clean the house before her father returned.

When he did, her mother would serve dinner, and they’d eat in silence, Nicola hoping to be sent up to bed sometime soon. But this one particular night, something was off, a mood of malcontent brewing from her father so palpable Nicola could almost taste it. She was carrying the lasagna from the stove, the large, glass pan hot and slippery in her gloved hands. Steadily, she carried it to him, watching her steps—one, two, three—across the stained linoleum floor. But as she approached him to set the lasagna on the table, her foot caught a bulge in the floor, and she tripped, the hot pan catching her father’s arm.

He lunged at her, his hand raised, his nostrils flared, and his breath sour on her face. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

It happened so fast—the blow to her cheek—I had little time to react. She landed hard against the linoleum and fell back, her head thumping against the oven door. I heard the crack as she hit it, the back of her head splitting open—a hairline fracture. The trickle of blood ran down her forehead into her mouth, the taste iron-y. Her father raged. She had made him do it. It was all her fault. Did she like him now when he was this angry? Was this what she wanted?

But Nicola couldn’t hear him. Her ears were ringing with my voice, a lullaby I sang to her sometimes when she needed to be somewhere else.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Mama’s gonna find you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

She’ll snap its neck and drown it in the bathroom sink.

She rocked back and forth, humming my song in her head, as if at any moment she might drift away and never return.

Her father yelled, and she clutched her body. This is what you get, you stupid girl. This is what you get get get, she thought.

She thought she had made him this way, brought it out of him. So maybe she could make him better again. Maybe it was her fault. Her fault. Her fault fault fault.

I did this, Nicola said to me. Help me. Please help me.

And so I did. Not because I couldn’t do it before but because she asked me to, there and then. Shhhh, quiet, I told her. You didn’t do this. This isn’t your fault. This could never be your fault. Now get up.

I felt her body resist, her bones frozen solid. Her head was shaking “no” ever so slightly. No no no.

Get up. Go to him, I insisted.

But she wouldn’t move. She just sat there on the floor rocking. Bleeding. Crying.

So, I did what I had to do.

The rocking stopped. The bleeding slowed. I pushed back the tears.

Tilting my head up, I locked onto her father, my eyes boring into him. “If you ever touch me again, I will kill you,” I said, letting my voice get quiet.

Her father stepped back, startled. Then his expression turned stony, and he lunged at me and smacked me hard across the mouth. A fresh trickle of blood ran from my lips down my chin, and I smiled—a blood-filled grin—knowing that I wouldn’t let him go on much longer.

26

Nicola

The darkness is so thick I can almost touch it. Martha’s got me pinned down now, and I don’t have the strength to push her off. Dr. Constance says I won’t develop any strength unless I’m prepared to face things as they really are. She says I won’t get better unless I release my anger and that, without forgiveness, I can’t move on until I accept what happened. But I do accept it. That’s the problem. And I wonder if she knows that there are parts of me that can never heal.

It’s a strange thing to shuffle into her cramped little office and always cry. The empty chair next to me screams and screams, like Ben should be sitting in it, saying something important I’ve forgotten about the day he died.

Should I tell Dr. Constance about wanting to kill myself, Ben? Do you think that would be good for the personal injury case?

No, I don’t think so. His voice is a whisper here in the darkness. I don’t think that would be very good at all. Do you really want to tell her that before, everything was falling apart anyway?

Well, yes.

What’s the point of that, Nic?

To get it off my chest. I have to tell someone.

Tell me.

You know already.

Tell me again.

You were there.

So? I’m a good listener.

I know that, Ben.

Tell me about the time when you thought you’d do it.

You mean when Emmy was born?

Yes.

I thought I couldn’t be a mother. I thought I was going to screw it all up. There was too much happiness, and everything was so perfect, it terrified me. The fragility of it all. The tiny, careful balancing act that my entire life depended on. Emmy was so tiny, her little fingers and toes in my hand, warm, soft, and the scent of baby skin always with me. I knew that I could ruin everything in an instant. It would take almost nothing.

I remember.

So, I got some pills.

I should have been there.

You couldn’t have known. You didn’t understand. I didn’t let you.

I blame myself still.

How can you?

I can. I do.

But you’re …

You can say it.

You’re dead.

The dead still blame themselves, Nic.

Or is it that I blame you instead?

Probably. Does it matter?

Not really. I’m alone now anyway. Alone in the darkness again. And she’s taking over. I can’t stop her, even if I wanted to.

Do you want to?

The question lingers in the pitch black. I hear Ben’s deep voice and reach out for him, but I grasp only emptiness, only air. The place I’m in is a void, sheer nothingness for infinity.

Do you want to stop her, Nic?

I don’t know? Should I?

There’s only silence. The silence of me talking to myself in the blank space.

I feel myself losing time and getting confused again. Exactly when did Martha emerge for the very first time? Was it in this apartment we share, now that our life is in pieces? Was it after Ben died or before?

Don’t be stupid, Nicola. You know she came out long, long before.

Did she?

Yes. You know she did.

Tell me, then.

I can’t.

Why not, Ben? Why?

Because you need to remember.

27

Martha

Winding up into the hills, the roads turn narrow and tree-lined. Mid-morning light casts shadows across the windscreen. Up ahead, the road bends sharply as mansions set back from the main road loom like gigantic faces, watching me. Nicola claws into me, her fear palpable as I slow to check the house numbers. At 1900, there’s a massive stone gate. Behind it, the top floor and roof of the largest home I’ve ever seen peeks out. Out front, a large oak tree laden with silver lanterns hides the garage entrance. To the left, I spot the front door, which looks to be about ten feet tall and the color of polished steel.

I pull up toward the gate, where I press my thumb against a little keypad and wait. An eerie quiet surrounds the house, as if no one should be home. I peer inside the gate to the windows on the top floor, curtained and closed. A voice on the loudspeaker comes through, scratchy and with a foreign accent.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m here for the interview?”

“Qué dijiste? Interview?”

“Yes, I have an interview with Mrs. Redfern.”

“Oh, sí!” I hear a rustle of something like a paper bag, light cursing in Spanish, then a loud beep in my ear.

The gate opens and reveals the lower floor of the house, which is much larger than I initially thought. The perspective from the road is deceiving—the house is enormous, extending up the hill and back, at least double the size of the others I passed. I crane my neck up to where the front door reaches the second floor, at least twenty feet of polished steel—large and grand—the entrance to a fortress. I note a subtle pattern etched into it—circles, incomplete, nestled into each other and intersecting like a maze. A small chime issues from out of nowhere, and I dart back as the lower half of the door—regular-sized—opens. A small, stout Mexican woman in her fifties stands in front of me. She sizes me up, a look of reserved skepticism, like she half expects me to be selling something. I muster up a smile. “Hello, I’m Martha.” I extend a hand and force myself to smile wider. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Redfern.”

“Yes,” she says and opens the door a little wider, avoiding my hand. “You can come in.”

“Thank you.”

Nicola pecks at the back of my neck, and I fight her off with a flick of my hand that looks like I’m adjusting my hair.

Inside, the cool air smells of fresh linen, lavender, and something vaguely sterile. I take note of the high ceilings and pale walls made of stone that looks like alabaster.

“You are Martha? The 11:00 interview?” She sizes me up again.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This way.” She leads me into a sitting room decorated in pale blues, navies, grays, and creams, like a Williams Sonoma catalog on steroids.

“Wait here,” she says and leaves me standing in the middle of the room. The sitting room faces the garden, an expansive space of green lawn, an oblong-shaped pool, and a waterfall. I had an inkling the Redferns would have it good, but you don’t quite understand how the other half lives until you are literally surrounded by it on all sides.

High heels click down the empty hallway, and I turn, catching the faintest scent of Nicola’s fear in my nostrils. With a quick pinch, I urge her away and focus on Bambi Redfern walking toward me, her blonde hair swishing just below her shoulders, perfectly straight and slick. She’s tanned and slender in that way that is uncomfortably beautiful, her face so well-proportioned and flawless, you could marvel at it from every angle.

She gazes at me but doesn’t smile, then takes a seat in one of two boney-cream sofas and gestures for me to sit. “So, you were the one?”

Things don’t unsettle me easily, but for a second, I remember my face and the fact that I look like Nicola. Does she recognize me from the accident? Was she in the car that day? Or do I just look familiar?

“Sorry?”

Bambi raises an eyebrow. “You were the one who answered my ad so quickly?”

“Yes, yes. That was me.”

“Tell me about yourself.”

I feel Nicola kicking again, like an unborn child inside of me.

“I’ve been a PA since college. My clients are all high-net-worth CEOs and business owners, but I’m afraid I signed non-disclosure agreements, so I can’t reveal their identities because, obviously, I dealt with all their confidential personal matters. References can be provided assuming the job is mine.” I straighten myself on the sofa and take a breath. “I was with one individual for the past five years. She was very prolific in the tech industry.”

“You’re from Silicon Valley?”

“I move around, wherever my clients need me to be.”

“But where are you from originally?”

Don’t tell her Los Angeles.

“I’m not from anywhere, really. My family moved around a lot.”

“Well, where were you born?”

“The Midwest.”

She wrinkles her nose. Her head literally moves from my feet to the top of my head as if individually taking in the parts of me.

“Well, you called me Mrs. Redfern when you came in. And I only gave you my first name. So, you know who we are then?”

“Mrs. Redfern, no offense, but it wasn’t exactly difficult to piece things together.”

Her head tilts a little. “How so?”

“Well, there are only so many people named Bambi, and coupled with your address? It made sense.”

She gives me a thoughtful, satisfied stare. “And my husband?”

“I’m aware of who your husband is, yes.”

She smiles a large fake grin that doesn’t make sense here in this moment. “Everyone is aware of who my husband is,” she says coolly.

It’s the way she says husband that makes my skin prickle, my muscles stiffen.

“Yes,” is all I can think to say. She releases the smile.

I sense her discomfort and add, “But I’m not really interested in film, per se.”

She looks defensive. “Oh, really? Well, what are you interested in?”

“Helping people.”

There’s a long pause as she takes me in. Her hands fidget slightly in her lap. “Well, I can see you’re smart, and you speak English just fine. You’re obviously American. I’ll need your documentation, though, if I decide to hire you. The thing I need to understand about you, Martha, is really …” Bambi fidgets again. She turns in the chair and straightens herself. Something changes in her face. I spot a flaw on her left thigh, a tiny dot of color I hadn’t noticed before. She’s angling away from me so that I can’t see it, but it’s there.

“I need someone I can count on. For everything. Not just ordinary things, like errands, et cetera. I need a solid individual who will come to understand certain things about my life, my situation, and just take care of whatever I ask you for. Confidentially. Privately. No questions asked. Do you understand?”

“I think so, Mrs. Redfern.”

“And one other thing. My husband isn’t aware I’m hiring a personal assistant. He’s not to see you, and you’re not to see him. Ever. Understand?”

I nod, the full picture forming. “Of course. It’s understandable that you don’t want your husband’s fame to disrupt my work for you.”

Her eyes enlarge for a moment. “Correct. You work for me, not for Jason. He doesn’t come into the picture. Do you get that?”

“Absolutely.” My neck itches again, and I resist the urge to claw my skin that’s rubbing against the cheap, clingy fabric.

“Have you seen any of his films?”

“I don’t get out much.”

She gives me a quizzical look.

“What I mean is … I work a lot.”

“But you know who he is?”

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “But I don’t see many movies. My work is my life. I have a sister who is … unwell, and a niece. I’m like her only parent.”

Bambi’s eyes change, a mist of sadness. “How old is she?”

“She’s fourteen, going on twenty.”

“Where is her father?”

Nicola jets forth, a rash of heat against my throat. Don’t!

“He’s dead,” I say, a little too loudly. Bambi stiffens, like a rod. I lower my voice. “He was very tragically killed, I mean.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

I look down, as if hiding my eyes from her. I wipe a fake tear. “He was the breadwinner and took care of my sister. When he died, I had to step in and help. I’ve always been good at taking care of people, so now that’s my job.” I meet her eyes. “It’s my only job.”

Bambi nods and twists her wedding ring back and forth, the diamond as large as a hard candy on her finger. For a split second, the woman behind the ring and the designer shoes and clothing emerges. She stares out the window, pressing her lips together and separating them. The splotch of color on her leg grows a little, deepening in color. It’s red like a little teardrop.

“Mrs. Redfern, I think you’re bleeding.”

She glances down at her leg, a circle of red forming under her skirt. She gets up and returns with a tissue, placing it over her leg.

“So do you understand what I’m saying, Martha?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Good. I need someone I can turn to. Who can simply assist, get the things I need done with discretion.”

“Of course.” I lean forward. The spot of red soaks through the tissue and oozes to the surface. She’ll need another one soon. I reach into my bag, searching for a tissue. I don’t have any. Bambi—Mrs. Redfern—eyes me. I stop.

“Mrs. Redfern—” I turn my eyes from her, inclining to the apparent wound. “Is your leg all right?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly.

“I’m fine.” Her cheek flinches, a nervous twitch. And there it is. A flicker of the emotion that I could smell the first moment the front door opened, lingering in the air among the lavender and clean linen, clinging to things the way the scent of a stale, unused bottle of cologne clings to clothing long after it is sprayed. The one sitting underneath the sterile scent, as if someone had been trying to wash it out over and over with bleach. You cannot erase such a strong thing, the nights and hours of it emanating from a feral place inside. Fear is funny that way. It lingers long after happiness and even sadness have left. Fear leaves something behind.

I smile confidently in a way a mother would smile. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs. Redfern. I will take care of you.”

Her jaw clenches like she might cry, but she doesn’t. Her face is motionless and stoic. There’s the slightest exhale from her, as if she might protest, but she doesn’t.

Bambi nods once, as if to herself. “You can start tomorrow.”

Inside, Nicola claws at me, trying her best to scratch her way through. I push her away, my teeth gritted. The place under my hair at the back of my neck is becoming quite raw. But the days are mine now, and she’ll have to learn to live in the dark.

28

Nicola

When I finally emerge, it’s Saturday morning. I burst forth, sitting up with a shock. There’s a heavy thumping in my temple, the feeling of a vice across my skull. Days without light, without pills, and I’m a walking migraine. I scour the nightstand and find a single rogue pain pill, which I swallow hastily, then search the upstairs for more. Nothing to be found.

I hurl myself downstairs, the pounding heavy with each footstep, and find Emmy eating cold pizza in the kitchen with Scotch nestled at her feet, sleeping quietly. She stares outside at the rain-soaked courtyard and muddy patch of lawn.

Scotch wakes and comes to me, his ears down, tail tucked. He sniffs my hand once, then relaxes, his tail wagging happily as he leaps into my arms. I kiss his little head, and he licks my arm sweetly.

“What’s going on? What day is it?”

Emmy stares at me, her expression blank.

“If you mean ‘good morning,’ then it isn’t really. It’s been raining, and you were yelling all night in your sleep. I had to get up at, like, 3 a.m. and shut your door. I thought the neighbors were going to call the cops.”

My nose picks up a familiar scent. Coffee. Dark. Old. Who cares. I go to pour a cup. “I was yelling?”

“Yeah. Super loud. And I would not drink that if I were you. You made it like three days ago. You said our coffee was shit, and we should buy better beans from now on. You haven’t made any since.”

I plunk down the cup, my head still a pressure cooker. “I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” I throw open the cupboards. Empty shelves stare back at me. A thin layer of dust and grime has formed over everything. The fridge, too, is bare. Bills and pizza receipts cover the countertop.

“How many nights have you—we—had takeout?”

Emmy chews while scrolling on her phone, distracted. “What? Are you serious? I’ve had takeout every single night this week. You haven’t been home for dinner once.”

I rub my eyes. Shit. I’ve lost a whole week. Martha went in for the interview on Monday. It’s Saturday. I’ve lost all five days.

I grab a seat next to Emmy at the breakfast counter, and Scotch settles beneath us.

Our eyes find each other. “Em, this is really important. I need you to tell me what I’ve been doing this week. Since last weekend.”

“What the hell, Mom? You’re freaking me out right now.”

“I’m not kidding. I need your help.”

Emmy looks me over. “Are you having a nervous breakdown or something? Is this about your medication?” She grabs her phone. “Should I call Nubia?”

My hand jets out and grabs her wrist. I shake her, not hard, just enough. “Emmy, listen to me! This is serious. I’m not having a nervous breakdown. I just need to remember, and the only way I can do that is if you help me. Do you understand?”

Emmy nods slowly, a piece of pizza in her cheek.

“Good. Now tell me what has been happening.”

“Well, you leave early and come home late. I text you, usually at lunchtime and then again around five, but you don’t answer until eight. When you get home, we don’t really talk much or anything. Sometimes you go straight to bed.”

“I do?”

Emmy nods. “Do you seriously not remember anything? You said not to call Nubia because it was just a side effect of your medication. Remember?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh my God.” Emmy’s mouth falls open. “Oh my God. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What? What are you saying?”

“That thing you said before about Martha. She’s real, isn’t she?”

This is not the plan. My skin begins to crawl, and the hairs on my arms stand up as I realize the dreaded truth. Martha has been here, living with Emmy, for the past week of my life. A thought enters my mind, loud and certain: If anyone finds out about this, they will take Emmy from me, and I will never see her again.

“It makes sense. You talking to yourself, acting so different. You can’t remember things, things that you say and do. She’s real, isn’t she?”

“No, Emmy. Listen. You don’t understand.”

Let her understand, Nicola. What’s the difference now?

“She can’t know.”

“Mom?”

She knows.

“Fuck you!”

Emmy leaps off the stool and backs away from me.

“Mom, what’s going on? Is she inside you? Mom!”

“Emmy, listen to me. It’s not what you think.”

Just tell her, Nicola. Or maybe I should just tell her myself.

“No. Be quiet!”

Emmy comes to my side and hugs me. “Mom. It’s okay. I get it. I know.”

My eyes well up. “What?”

“Something is wrong, and Martha is there. She’s inside, talking to you.”

I pull away from her, the tears pouring down my cheeks. I can’t stop them.

You coward. This is why I’m in charge.

“Be quiet, Martha!” I sob and pinch the sore at the back of my neck until she falls quiet.

“Mom, it’s okay,” Emmy says. “I know she’s real. I’ve met her. She’s not you.”

“No,” I sob. “I didn’t want you to find out.”

Emmy holds me. “It’s all right, Mom. I can handle it.” Her lips touch my skin, and I see her tiny toddler face in my mind, two full lips sticky with cereal, the roundness of her chin, her dimples.

I wipe my face. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to see this.”

“It’s okay. Now tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being here, in the kitchen with you.”

Emmy tries to think. “What were we doing?”

“Nubia was here. She made us breakfast. You called her because you were afraid.”

“Yeah, I remember. You—she—got really upset at me.”

My throat tightens, and I instantly feel the urge to break something. “Damn you, Martha!”

“Calm down, Mom. She didn’t hurt me or anything. She’s just a little … intense.” Emmy looks at her phone. She scrolls and lands on a picture of waffles and huevos rancheros. It was last Sunday morning.

“I still can’t believe I’ve been gone all week.”

“I know. I guess it makes sense now. All the pizza. The late nights. You collapsing on the bed at night. You—she, I mean—hardly said two words to me.”

“Well, where have I been going?”

“I don’t know what you do. I just know you got a new job. You come in, you go to bed. You get up, and you leave.”

“That can’t be it.”

Emmy looks blankly at me. “Mom, I swear. This past week has really sucked.”

“Okay, so walk me through. I get up, and then?”

“I hear you come downstairs.”

“What time is that?”

Emmy rolls her eyes. “Like, 6:30.”

“Then?”

“Then you do some random stuff in the kitchen. You make noise in here. Sometimes I hear you on the phone.”

“Do I come home for lunch?”

Emmy shakes her head. “Nope.”

“What time do I get home?”

“Around 8 or 9 p.m. Sometimes later, I guess. Usually, I’m starving, so I text you, and you tell me to order in. So, I get pizza or whatever.”

“What do I eat?”

Emmy shrugs. “I have no idea, but it’s not anything here. I mean, there’s literally no food in the house.”

I feel myself nodding. “Yeah, I saw. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I sort of had a feeling something was wrong with you anyway.”

“You did?”

“Well, yeah. You’ve been acting so weird lately.”

“Emmy, there’s a way I can fix this. I’ve done it before. I can get rid of her.”

Emmy’s eyes look worried. “What do you mean? How?”

What are you going to tell her? You know there’s no way to get rid of me.

“There’s a way to put her back. I just need to get a handle on things and figure out exactly what Martha is up to.”

Emmy sighs, an expression of doubt hanging over her eyes. There’s a dark, sleepless quality about them I hadn’t noticed before. My stomach rolls with guilt.

“I think I know what Martha is doing. I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“What is she doing?”

I think for half a second about not telling her, but the impulse to keep Emmy safe is strong. She has to know. “She’s working for Bambi Redfern.”

Emmy’s eyes grow large. “Bambi Redfern? As in Jason Redfern’s wife?”

I nod. “I think so. I’m pretty sure that’s where we’ve been each day, but I can’t say for certain.”

Emmy laughs, cackles really. It’s a hollowed-out, feral sound. “Are you kidding me? That’s unreal. Do you know who they are? Who she is? They’re the definition of rich and famous.”

“Of course.”

“Mom. You have to admit. You’re—she’s—brilliant.”

Martha flicks a hair that tickles deep inside, near my eardrum, and I can hear her laughing. I cringe.

“Listen to me, Em. Martha is not brilliant. She’s crazy. And dangerous. No one can know about this, okay? You can’t tell Nubia, your friends, no one. Do you understand?”

Emmy smiles a little. I can see she’s doubting me already. “Sure I do. But dangerous might not be a bad thing. Dangerous might be just what we need.”

The day is a blur of organizing the house, cleaning, getting things back in order that Martha left awry. I wash Emmy’s clothes and mine, tidy the downstairs, change the sheets upstairs. The work feels easy and quick, and I’m grateful for the distraction from the flashes that keep coming to me from Martha’s week of my life. Broken fragments of thoughts, sounds, scents that belong to her, not me.

After I’m finished, I find Emmy sitting outside the apartment letting the sun hit the side of her head where the scar is still pinkish mocha. I sit down next to her and kiss it gently. Emmy winces.

“I still see the car,” she says. “Even now, the whole accident just keeps replaying in my mind.”

“I know,” I tell her. “It’s the same for me.”

She looks up at me, her golden-brown curls falling to one side in the sunlight. “How long is it supposed to be like that?”

“A while. Maybe longer. I don’t really know.”

Emmy rubs the toe of her shoe with her thumb. She squints and looks at me, the sun catching her brown pupils, making them honeycomb gold. “We’re out of money, aren’t we? That’s why she’s doing this.”

Oddly enough, it’s a relief that this is what she thinks. “Money is tight,” I tell her.

“So maybe what Martha is doing is good, right?”

I shut my eyes for a moment, collapsing the world into gray light. “No, I don’t think so.”

Emmy gives me a skeptical look. “Well, she got you a job with Bambi and Jason Redfern, and she’s making money. Isn’t that a good thing?”

I take her arm and fold it onto my lap. The loops of bracelets and chains are cool against my leggings. “Martha doesn’t always think things through. She just acts.”

Emmy listens, her eyes fixed on the ground. “She’s impulsive, but so are you, Mom.”

I turn to face her. “I know it’s hard for you to understand, but she doesn’t get right from wrong. She doesn’t think like that.”

“Well, what does she think like?”

I feel my spine stiffen. I’m unsure what to say. How to describe the woman who has both saved me and destroyed me—my crusader, my protector, my unearthly shame? “Remember how we talked about getting even?”

Emmy nods. “Yep.”

“That’s how she thinks.”

A quizzical look passes over her face, and her eyes search me. “Sounds like we need her then.”

“Wait a second. I thought you said there was no way to get even. That we should let it go …”

Emmy shields her eyes from the sun to look at me. “Well, sometimes things change, Mom.”

Overhead, two crows plunge from a tree toward a piece of trash in the corner of the yard. Their wings illuminate, feathered crests in the sun. They each emerge with something looking vaguely edible and lift off. Several streets away, the long, tuneless cry of sirens cuts through, and Emmy jolts. I stand slowly and shake the feeling back into my leg.

In the evening, Emmy and I go to the dollar store around the corner to get some food. As we enter, the scent of cheap air freshener and mildew makes my temple throb. I try to ignore the casino bing of the registers and the blinding fluorescent lights overhead, making my head ache.

Emmy perks up when we go inside, the twinge of embarrassment momentarily wearing off with the promise of food. “Mom, look, they have Eggos! Just like Nubia made.” She runs toward the frozen food section.

“That’s awesome, honey! Get a few boxes!” I call after her.

Emmy returns with a stack of boxes and dumps them into the purple shopping cart. “We really need food,” she says.

In moments, my cell phone rings. It’s Nubia. This time I answer.

“Hi!” I say and cringe. My voice sounds fake, overly cheerful.

“How you doing, mama?” There are children’s cartoons in the background and the sound of something frying in a pan.

“Oh, you know. Hanging in there!”

“That’s what I thought.” She fumbles with the phone, and there’s static. “Kelly, turn the TV down—por favor, mija! Mommy’s on the phone!” In a moment, she’s back. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. Listen, I have to run. We’re at the store.”

“Okay, but hey, guess what?” Nubia doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m bringing you dinner.”

“Nubia, you really don’t need to do that.”

“For the week. And yes, I do.”

There’s an awkward pause.

“Don’t be weird about it, okay?” she says. “I’m worried about you.”

“Thank you,” I reply and feel my shoulders relax a little. “I appreciate it, Nubia.”

I feel like I can hear a smile in her voice as she says, “Forget it. Besides, I have to feed you. Lord knows you can’t cook worth shit.”

I can’t help but burst out laughing. She’s right, of course. I’m a terrible cook.

I add soap, some milk, and basic canned goods to the cart. We head to the checkout line at the back of the store and wait our turn, Emmy busy on her phone. Our total comes to less than $26. We get enough food to last a week, especially with Nubia’s dinners that I feel a bit guilty about her bringing but accept, nonetheless. Emmy and I head toward the car, the purple shopping cart’s wheels catching the pavement as we go.

When we get home, there’s a huge cardboard box on my front porch filled with containers of food and a note from Nubia that reads simply EAT! Love, Nubia.

I start heating up a plate of Nubia’s tamales for us while Emmy takes a shower and puts on her PJs. Martha is impatient, itching to come forth, scratching at my insides like a cat on a post. How much time I have is questionable. I promised Emmy we’d watch a movie together tonight, and I intend to follow through. Emmy flicks around and finds an old horror film and looks at me. “How about this? It’s almost Halloween.”

“Sure,” I tell her. “Just don’t tell me you’re getting nightmares if we watch that.”

We sit huddled together on the sofa, Scotch in his corner, the comforting plates of tamales in our hands. The film opens with a family moving to a new house in the country, and the plot comes back to me. One death after another until just the mother and daughter are left. My fork cuts to the inside of the tamale, spilling the red sauce and meat onto my plate.

Red. The color of blood. But not when it’s against asphalt. Not when there’s so much of it …

My stomach turns, and I stop eating. “Let’s watch something else.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Em protests. “It’s just getting good.”

The next murder is the one I don’t want to see. The daughter. She dies, leaving the mother all alone in that terrible house. “Turn it off, Em.”

She gives me a look, angry at first, and then disturbed. “Are you serious? Why?”

“Because this is too much. I don’t want to watch this.”

“It’s always about you. Everything is literally about you!”

The scene is coming. It’s there now, the scratchy sounds of the evil entity taking the daughter. The mother screaming and screaming and screaming …

I grab the remote and shut it off. My heart is thudding in my chest. Emmy stares at me, a subtle recognition coming over her.

We both know.

I push Martha away with a dig into the soft wound at the base of my neck. But it’s too late.

Like a foghorn blaring, blaring, the sound of her coming nearer echoes in waves inside my skull, her voice rattling against me, screeching along my vertebrae. Our living room, Emmy—all of it—is spiraling into darkness. I’m losing control, even as I say the words, “I’m so sorry, Em.”

29

Martha

The house is quiet. I head upstairs to find Emmy curled up under the thick covers of her twin bed, watching YouTube. She presses pause and jumps up to sitting when I open the door.

“I’m sorry about all that,” I tell her and go to sit at her bedside. My voice is strained, hoarse now. I wonder if she’ll notice. I try to smile, the way Nicola might, but it feels tight and unnatural.

“I just don’t like those movies anymore. You understand, right?”

Emmy looks down. She nods and stares blankly out the window. Her hand trembles a little as she reaches for the covers on her bed and pulls them up slowly to her belly. “You know something?”

An exasperated sigh escapes me. “What?”

“You sound different.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your voice. You sound different.” The covers quiver ever so slightly, an imperceptible jitter that makes everything else seem impossibly still in the half-light of the room. Emmy’s eyes are large, her scar bright and glistening, facing me. I want so badly to lock her up somewhere where she isn’t a burden, isn’t asking questions. Whatever she’s after, I can’t give it to her. The shaking slows. Her hand reaches out, creating a long shadow on the wall beside her. It touches mine, clammy, smooth like a little eel.

“I know it’s you again,” she says quietly. “You came back, didn’t you?”

I yank my hand from under hers. She may be flesh and blood, but she isn’t my flesh and blood. She’s Nicola’s. She’s Ben’s. If there were a way to just put her somewhere or make her behave for a little while, just while I get things done …

“Yes, it’s me. Don’t make a big deal out of this. You stay out of my way, and everything will be fine, okay?”

Her hand reaches out again and strokes the side of my face. I flinch from her, and she stares at me, wide-eyed. “It’s so weird,” she gawks. “You’re her, but you’re not her at all, are you?”

“That’s right. I’m not.”

“You’re Martha,” she breathes, a sigh of recognition.

“I am.”

Emmy closes her gaping mouth and swallows for the first time in what seems like a century. “So, where’s my mom now?”

“She’s safe.”

“From what?”

“No more questions! This is exactly what I’m talking about. You talk, and you talk, and you talk. Let’s get one thing straight. I’m in charge. I lead. You do what I say, and we won’t have any issues. Capiche?”

“Fine. I just want to know one thing.”

I can’t help it. I want to grab her little neck in my hands and squeeze. I feel Nicola jam herself up inside me, her soul pressing against mine so hard I can barely speak. She could emerge from the darkness at any moment. I’m choked, but I breathe slow and deep until Nicola lets me go and the thought subsides. “What do you want to know, kid?”

“Why are you really working for the Redferns?”

My head tilts to the side. “You honestly want to know?”

“Yeah.”

The air is so still. I contemplate leaving the house, doing the whole thing from a motel. But it’s so inconvenient, and the kid is a nuisance and too smart for a disappearing act. She would call the police. Or that chick Nubia. Besides, maybe she could be useful. “Well, it’s simple. What do you do when someone ruins your life and gets away with it scot-free?”

Emmy’s mouth opens slightly, her eyes alight. I don’t have to say one freaking word because the idea was hers and hers all along. The problem is, her mother let her go on thinking that retribution would be impossible, that there is no way to possibly level the playing field or rebalance the scales of justice. But this is my game, and I always come out a winner.

“You get even?” Emmy asks.

“Fuck even,” I say with a laugh. “You bleed every last drop from them until they’re bone-cracking dry.”

The next morning, I charge Emmy with making breakfast. “How are they vegan if they are eggs?” I ask her.

“They’re not eggs. That’s the whole point. No chickens were harmed in the making of this breakfast.”

Scotch barks in agreement and gives me a little growl. I feel my eyes roll in my head. “That’s some weird shit.”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t want them, don’t eat them.” Emmy dumps a lump of yellow goo on my plate. “My mom likes my cooking.”

I smirk. “Yeah, sure she does.”

Emmy plops down onto the stool and gobbles up the vegan eggs and a piece of toast slathered with vegan butter. She chews, staring at me like I’m harboring a secret.

“So, you have this all figured out?” she asks.

“I don’t have it all figured out, Emmy.”

She’s chewing and staring at me still. “You’re lying.”

I slam my fist onto the counter, seeing if I can startle her into shutting herself up. “Leave it alone.”

“I want to help you.”

“Well, you can’t,” I tell her. “So, just forget about it.”

Emmy looks at me, a puzzled expression crossing her eyes. “Why do you think they’re the ones who did it, anyway?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

She sighs. “How do you know? Do you have evidence or something?”

“No.” I pause and grab her toast. I take a bite, contemplating whether to tell her. “I am going to get it, though.”

“So you don’t know for sure.”

“I am 99.99999 percent sure, Emmy.”

“Well, if that’s true, I want to help you get them.”

“You want to help me ‘get them’?” I ask with dramatic effect.

“Yeah. If they did it, I think the Redferns should go to jail. That’s the right thing, isn’t it?”

My eyes roam over her as I stand from the breakfast stool. “Listen, this isn’t a Marvel movie. I’m not your superhero, and you’re not my sidekick. We’re not in this together. We are not making them go to jail. That’s not how this works.”

Emmy stands from the stool. She stares me down. “Yes, it is.”

My breath quickens. I feel that same anger lurking. This is the soul that pushed me into the dark fifteen years ago and sent me away for nine long months. Now she’s giving orders once again. Who does she think she is? “What the fuck did you say to me?”

“I said ‘Yes. It. Is.’ It is how it works. If you figure out that they did it, we can tell the police, and they will arrest them.” Her chest rises and falls.

“Emmy, did it ever cross your mind that for obvious reasons we can’t involve the police?”

A look of confusion clouds her eyes. “Wait. What? No police? Martha, that’s insane. What are you going to do then?”

“I have my own ways of getting even. That’s all you need to know.”

Again, her breathing grows heavy. “Does my mom know about this?”

“Honey, this is why your mom called me, okay? Now leave it alone.”

She shakes her head, her brow furrowed with concern. “This doesn’t feel right. My mom isn’t like this.”

“Perhaps you don’t know your mom as well as you think you do.”

“I know my mom, Martha.”

“Do you? Do you really?” I lean forward. “Because I was there with her long before you were even born. Did you know that?”

Nicola comes toward me from within, her arms and legs scratching at me, a deep caterwauling in my throat wanting to come out. I suppress it and swallow.

When Nicola got pregnant, I went away for nine whole months. It was really very stifling, all those souls in one body. How selfish of her, though. Casting me out to bring in someone else for a term. Being forced into the darkest of places can be torture. What do you call that? I call it exile.

Until the moment Emmy showed up, I thought I was everything to her. But it was different, she said, having someone she could actually touch and feel growing inside her. A real person, a real body with a life of her own.

Having children is like having a God complex. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out again. That sort of thing. Nicola’s father used to say that to her when she was little. He had a God complex, too. I think that’s why he didn’t like it when I made him realize he didn’t have any of God inside him. He was just a man who had let Nicola down in all sorts of ways. I tried to shield her, and yes, there were times when I tried to take him from her, but she wouldn’t let me. I see him now in that basement and shake away the thought.

“Now stop asking questions and let me do my job.”

“This is my life, too,” Emmy protests, her voice rising. “I get to have a say.”

“Not on this you don’t.”

Her breathing quickens once more; her chest rises up and down. I think I even notice her hands shaking.

Emmy’s eyes are full, her nostrils flared. “They killed my dad. They did this to me,” she says, twitching her head to the side and pointing to her scar. “They took my mom and turned her into some crazy person. Our lives weren’t perfect before, but at least we were normal. We were fine. They ruined everything, and they got away with it!” she screams. “You think I’m going to stand here while you do nothing?”

“Emmy, that’s not the plan. Calm down, okay?”

“Did you know it was broad daylight? We were in a crosswalk! Now my father is dead because of him. Dead, Martha!”

Emmy’s sobs echo through the kitchen. Scotch cowers under the counter and begins to whimper. I know Nicola can hear them, and she’s close now. Too close.

“Okay. Fine!” I concede. “You can help.”

Emmy tears up, then wipes her fist across her eyes.

“You know what this means?”

“I think so,” she says, her breath shallow.

“I can do it if you can …”

She nods, her face trained on the floor. “Just make sure you don’t hurt her.”

I’m inches from her, my hands on her small, round shoulders. Her breath smells like toast and salty butter. Her eyes are sad but resolute because she thinks she knows what she is doing.

But she doesn’t. Not really.

I’ve been where Nicola is going. The deep well of darkness we’re sending her to was my home for nine months once. Emmy doesn’t understand. How could she? The point is, I have to pretend like sending Nicola there won’t destroy her a little bit. But the dark, ugly places where terror lurks and memories get banished will chip away at her, and over time, she’ll start to forget what it’s like to live in the light. The truth is, I don’t know what will happen to her, if she will ever be able to come back.

Sacrifices must be made. One must suffer for the good of the many.

But haven’t I suffered enough?

I put on my smile, look confidently into Emmy’s eyes, and tell her, “Of course I won’t hurt your mother, Emmy. She will always be safe with me.”

30

Nicola

I’m deep in the dark place now, where memories swirl around me, and my actual life is so far away, like a half-forgotten dream. The memory appearing now is a thick miasma of color and sound, shapes and figures sharpening until I can see my childhood bedroom, the pale pink lamp at my bedside, the worn fabric of my comforter, the walls covered in magazine pictures of places I longed to escape to.

“Nicola? What are you doing?” My mother’s voice cuts through the darkness, and she appears in her dark blue robe, face made up like she was going out, hair in curlers.

I sit up and stare at her, back in my nine-year-old body. “What?”

She glares at me, a strange suspicion in her eyes as though she’s caught me red-handed. “You’re doing it again, talking to yourself.”

“I’m not.”

She comes and sits on my bed. Her blue eyeshadow and black mascara make her eyes seem so small, I have to search for her pupils. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

I nod once.

“Good. Because sometimes I wonder what’s going on up there.” She laughs and taps my temple with her forefinger, the temple that would later throb as an adult, a beacon, a warning. I know what she fears most of all. That the sickness that grips my father has been passed down.

“I’m just thinking.”

“What about?”

“About Daddy, mostly,” I tell her. “He’s angry all the time.”

My mother sighs. “Your father has his challenges. He tries very hard, you know. It isn’t easy for him. But he still loves you girls. You know that, right?”

A stiff hand pats my back, but there’s no comfort there. I want to crawl away from her and hide inside the floor, but I can’t move. The darkness is holding me prisoner.

My mind flashes, and the scene changes again. My mother is whisked away, an apparition, a ghost disappearing into the blackness. Overhead lights illuminate. I recognize the smell first. It’s her smell. Clorox bleach and perfumed soap. The bathroom vanity lights are so bright bright bright I can hardly see. I’m huddled in a corner. At my back, I recognize his raised voice, the steam hitting my bare skin, the thick pang of fear oozing from my gut and creeping along my spine. Terrified to turn around, terrified not to. Do any of my friends have this happen to them when they disobey? The bathroom fogs with steam, and soon, I taste soap forced into my mouth. I feel the sting of the burning water on my skin, the redness like a sunburn.

In my mother’s bathroom, the clean, cold tiles are waiting for me. My body hits them, and I cry out in pain. “He isn’t a bad man,” my mother’s voice echoes distantly, though she’s nowhere to be found. “He just has a temper.”

I flinch at the sound of my father’s voice, cracking with rage and the wear of shouting.

Please, just stop, I pray silently. But nothing seems to stop my father once I’ve gotten in his way. My hands clutch my body, and I think I can hear another voice. Not mine. Not my mother’s. Not my father’s.

Hers.

I bolt from the bathroom and run upstairs, tripping on the thick, stained carpet. My head whacks against the baluster of the stairs, and white stars glitter in my periphery. I scramble up, reaching for the top, eager to escape the hot wrath of my father behind me. Through my bedroom door, I bolt toward the closet. Inside, I slam the door, lock it, and topple the dresser over against it, barricading it so he can’t enter. The door thumps once, then twice.

“Open this door right now!” he shouts. His fists and body hit the door. A grunt of frustration. My body quivers uncontrollably with adrenaline. The stillness and muffled quiet of the closet surround me, and I sink to the floor, my back to the dresser, just in case.

My hands cup over my ears, masking the sound. Finally, his voice moves further away, like a ship drifting from shore, its horn blowing softer and softer with every mile. Soon, I hear nothing at all, and I am alone in the darkness.

That’s when I ask a question. “Please,” I whisper. “Can you take him?”

And the voice I heard before answers.

That depends.

“On what?”

On whether you are ready.

“I’m ready. I’ll do anything. I just need him to stop.”

Then you are ready.

“So, you will take him?”

Yes, but you can’t have something for nothing, you know. There is always a price to pay.

“What is the price?”

One soul for another. A trade, if you will.

“What do I have to do?

Nothing. Just open the door and tell your father what you really think of him.

“I can’t. I’m scared.”

It’s okay. You don’t have to be scared. A friend is coming to help you.

And she did.

“Ben?” I call his name now into the void, hoping to hear him again. The void answers, a rush of his scent in my nose, the briefest feeling of his hand in mine. “Was that it? Was that the time she emerged?”

You know it was, Nicola. You know that’s when they gave her to you.

“You make her sound like a gift.”

Wasn’t it?

“I’m trying to remember.”

Try harder.

When I eventually gather the courage and move the dresser aside, I know he will be there. But it’s okay now because I’m not alone anymore. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. A gift from the nothing that surrounds me.

My father kicks open the door, knocking me back to the floor, the scent of musty coats and clothes in my nose as they topple onto my head.

My hands and arms tremble, and a wave of sickness careens through my body. I dig my fingers into the carpet. “If you’re there, now is the time I need you!” I whisper. “Whoever you are, please. Help me.”

She roars beneath my skin, then rises up inside of me, forcing me to stand and walk toward him. I feel her take her very first breath with my lungs, hungry and unafraid.

The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them. A wave of power courses through me like I’ve never known. I let them ring out, my father absorbing the fury I spew forth.

“Don’t touch me!” she spits. “You piece of shit! You’ll rot in prison like the garbage you are!”

My father’s eyes bulge. His arm raises. His fist flies toward me. It’s me who freezes, me who doesn’t know how to resist. But not her. She knows. She ducks, swooping past him, and bolts down the stairs. I tell her where to get the keys from the peg they hang on in the kitchen.

We sprint toward the car before he can stop us, working as one. Upstairs, my little sister, Janice, wakes, even though she usually sleeps through these moments. But I see her staring out the window at us from the window of the car. I asked her to go back for Janice. Don’t be a fool, she tells me. If you go back inside, you won’t make it out again.

And I know she’s right. So I show her how to start the engine, and together, we reverse out of the drive, barely a head above the steering wheel. The front door opens, and my father runs out, the pistol he keeps under his bed in his hand. “Can you make him use it one day?” I ask her. But she doesn’t answer. I know it is because she’s thinking. My father runs after us as we speed away into the night, the darkness swallowing us up, Martha and me.

31

Bambi

The first few days, Martha kept to herself, moving quietly about the house, taking care of chores and errands, and working out of their perfectly decorated Tiffany-teal-blue office at the back of the house that faces the pool. Bambi enjoys her quiet company, the calm nature of the house when she is in it, even the strange way she somehow always knows which room she’s in and what she needs, like a human weathervane to Bambi’s shifting storms.

In the evenings, when the traffic along Sunset and Santa Monica would be at its height, cars honking, music tumbling car windows, Martha enlists Lucita’s help in preparing the house for dinner and insists on Lucita’s cooking being a certain thing that Bambi craves. Casseroles and baked potatoes. Pot pies and pasta with vegetables. Soups with rich broth and noodles. The dishes remind her that she likes food more than she allows herself to think about. She and Martha initiate a habit of having dinner together in the dining room, which, normally, Bambi only reserves for special occasions. Over a lit candle and a slightly open window, they eat together, mostly in silence. Bambi pretends to read a magazine while quietly observing Martha preparing to-do lists or clacking away on the laptop next to her dinner plate. This continues until one night, Martha asks her about her leg. The wound hasn’t healed, and Bambi has taken to covering it and re-covering it daily.

“How did it happen, Mrs. Redfern?”

Bambi stops mid bite. Her cheeks flush a little red. How to answer? “It was a silly accident,” she finally says. “I slipped in the bathroom.”

“You’re going to need antibiotics,” Martha offers.

Bambi looks up from her meal, perplexed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Mrs. Redfern. It’s been weeks, and it isn’t healing well. I think you should see a doctor.”

Bambi cringes, a note of dread in her gut. “I don’t want to.”

“If your leg gets infected, you could get really sick,” Martha insists. She takes another bite and stares at her while she eats, waiting. A light breeze drifts in from the open window, and Bambi shivers.

“If you arrange it, I’ll go.”

Martha magics an appointment the very next day. They wait in the doctor’s office, the ice pack Martha brought from home searing into her thigh. Elevator music plays over a loop of commercials about lip filler and Botox on the flat-screen TV. Bambi stares into the room’s privacy wall, a scenic tropical fish tank. The water laps repetitively against the glass as the fish circle round and round in the confined, narrow space. She goes to tap the glass, then pulls back her finger, the edge of her nail ragged.

Martha hands in her forms after Bambi signs them. When her name is called, she glances briefly at Martha, who nods reassuringly, then follows the nurse into a brightly lit consultation room. A pair of ceiling-height windows looks out over Westwood’s busy streets and medical buildings.

The room hums with electricity while outside, footsteps click up and down the long hallway. After a few moments, there’s a brisk knock at the door, and the doctor appears in a long white coat, his hair slicked back, an oversized wristwatch that looks expensive peeking out of one sleeve. “Mrs. Redfern.” He nods curtly. “Now it says here it’s your thigh?”

She nods and lifts the fabric of her skirt up enough to reveal the wound. “Yes, here.”

The doctor plucks a pair of gloves from a shoebox in the wall. “Mmm, that looks like a nasty cut.” He sits on a small, beige stool and wheels closer to her. His cold, gloved hands carefully lift the bandage and prod the skin. Bambi winces at his touch.

At last, he pushes away and starts removing his gloves. “Well, you’re lucky it wasn’t close to a major artery. How did this happen?”

“We had an accident in the kitchen,” Bambi says quickly. She starts to say more but stops. His eyes search her.

“You need a few stitches. Sit tight. I’ll numb you up and then get this closed up for you.” His eyes lift to hers and then shift uncomfortably to his clipboard. Bambi notices his cheeks flushing. “I would imagine, given your profession, you are concerned about scarring?”

“Yes, of course.”

“In that case, I would recommend some dermatological treatment once the wound is healed.” His eyes float up to hers again. Bambi feels her stomach warm.

“I can arrange that for you, if you wish?”

“Yes, thank you,” she manages. The doctor begins typing on the computer, clicking away. After a moment, he scrolls through her file and stops.

“Your emergency contact is Mr. Jason Redfern. Is that still correct?”

Her throat tightens. The doctor turns and looks at her, his eyes studying her. Bambi feels naked, as if everything about her life is suddenly transparent. She has the impulse to bolt from the room and go find Martha, but she cannot move. “No,” she answers. “I need to change that.”

“Absolutely,” the doctor says, nodding. “And who would you like to add instead?”

“Martha. Martha Holiday.”

The doctor inputs her name and number, which Bambi has to scroll through her phone to retrieve. Her heart beats faster while she reads it out.

“Is Martha a friend, a relative …?” the doctor ventures.

Bambi hesitates. “She works for me.” Her throat clears a little. “But she’s also a friend.”

“How nice,” the doctor adds and looks back at her, smiling. “Okay, we’ll get you stitched up, get you some antibiotics, and you can be on your way.”

A nurse brings in the anesthetic and the needle and thread on a tray, and they prep her leg. She’s numb in no time, the deadness in her leg a sweet relief. “Just a few small tugs. You’ll feel a pulling sensation.”

“Okay,” she replies and flinches.

“I know, I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern. It’s painful because it’s infected.”

He apologizes again, and Bambi softens. The way he touches her—gently, calmly, carefully … How long has it been since a man was this way with her?

Eight stitches in place, and the nurse places a cotton bandage over the top.

“Keep it dry and clean,” he tells her and places a hand lightly on her shoulder. “It will heal up well. Just be sure to take these antibiotics with food.”

“I will.” She calms her shaking legs by crossing them at the ankles. “What about the pain? Can you give me something for that?”

“Yes, of course,” he answers. “I want you to be comfortable.”

Comfortable. The word rings through her, leaving a deep void in her core. When had she last been comfortable? Her eyes burn, and the room blurs.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Redfern?” The doctor turns and grabs a tissue.

“I’m fine. I just need something for the pain. Something to help me sleep.”

The doctor begins typing out another prescription. “I’ll give you some methadone for the pain. Please try to take it sparingly.”

“Nothing stronger?”

He shakes his head no. “This should suffice.”

He hands her the prescription. Their fingers touch for a quick moment, and Bambi pulls her hand away.

The doctor turns from her. “Mrs. Redfern, is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Anything at all?”

Bambi recoils. Her palms turn clammy, and the back of her knees stick to the plastic cover on the table. “What? No.”

His expression turns grim. “Do you need help beyond what I’ve done to treat you here today?”

Bambi laughs. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but no. I’m fine.” She stands from the table, her fresh stitches pulling. The doctor backs away.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern. But we’re required to ask these questions if we sense a patient might be …” His voice trails off as he looks down at the floor. “In trouble.”

She pulls her skirt down and slips on her heels. “The only trouble I have is you giving me this crap instead of what I asked for.” She waves the prescription at him, aware she is becoming irate. “You know, there are thousands of doctors in this city. I just need to walk next door, and I can get whatever I want, right?”

“Mrs. Redfern, please. I’m just trying to help you.”

She pauses, her blood curdling. The room shrinks around her. The stitches in her leg tighten in her flesh as she stands. “There’s only one person who can help me.”

Later in the afternoon, Martha brings her a cup of tea and sits beside her on the sofa. Bambi sips the hot liquid slowly, her hands shaking. It’s as though she’s walking a tightrope across a deep, black trench. Any moment, she could fall in and disappear.

“I’ll fill your prescription and get you booked with the dermatologist,” Martha says, noting something in her diary. “You have the Cancun summer shoot coming up,” she says quietly. “It’s swimwear.” She hesitates. “Do you want me to tell them you can’t make it?”

If the drugs were in her possession right now, they’d be taking hold. The abnormal hum in the back of her mind would dissipate, and she might have peace for once. “No, no, no, no, no, Martha!” She slams her fist against the sofa, spilling the tea on the fine white fabric. Martha leaps up and takes the cup from her. Their hands touch, and Bambi grasps her fingers for a moment. She squeezes them, not wanting to let go.

“Martha, listen to me,” Bambi says, aware that her voice sounds horribly desperate. She can’t help it. Her life is shifting inexplicably around her. “If I pull out of another shoot, my agency will drop me, and that will be it. Do you understand?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Redfern,” Martha intones with genuine surprise. “I didn’t realize.”

“No one can find out about this. About any of this,” she whispers. “If anyone found out …”

A look comes over her then, a simple yet profound understanding growing between them. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Redfern,” Martha tells her. “You can trust me.”

32

Martha

I love being good Martha, the home and garden Martha.

I spend the morning in the downstairs office booking Bambi’s upcoming appointments: the dermatologist, then tanning, waxing, Botox, nails, hair, cool sculpting. Her first summer shoot in Cancun is coming up, and apparently, you cannot begin planning too soon for the summer catalogue. Often at lunchtime, Bambi disappears, which leaves me alone with Lucita, a time I don’t typically relish.

Today, I carry a small plate of sandwiches and a cup of herbal tea into the back office and sit at the long white desk in front of Bambi’s computer to watch YouTube videos on mute—something new they didn’t have the last decade I was here. The back windows open to the garden allow in a warm breeze with the faintest breath of the ocean. It’s unusually warm for late October. I close my eyes, feeling the air catch the hairs on my neck. It’s almost enough to imagine that this is me, my body, my space, my life. I wish it were enough. I really do.

From the computer, I log into Nicola’s bank account—the one I recently deposited a whole paycheck into—and check the amount. Just a few weeks ago, it was empty, and she and Emmy were barely making ends meet. Now, of course, things are looking up, thanks to me. As I stare at the numbers, I hear Emmy’s voice in my head. “What would it take to get even, Martha?”

More, Emmy. Much, much more than this.

Clicking past YouTube to the celebrity news site, I get a glimpse of the latest headlines. A quick scroll reveals a headline: Jason Redfern and Sexy Co-star Caught in a Tussle off Set!

The photo, slightly blurred by bushes and what looks like an umbrella, shows Jason pulling Lauren LaMonte close, her arms flying back, purse dangling midair as though she’s trying to get away from him, her hair covering most of her face, his expression dark as though he’s a ticking time bomb about to blow.

In moments, a text comes through from Bambi: I’m coming home. Paps are out in force.

I think on a reply, wondering whether to tell her. A strange protective instinct forms in my gut, like I often get for Nicola. But this time is different, and I pause, unsure of what to say.

Another text. Check the gates and make sure the security alert is on.

Yes, of course. I reply, unable to say anything more.

Later, the house is quiet, and Lucita is upstairs cleaning one of the guest bathrooms. I hear the faint sound of her humming to herself, her phone playing Mexican radio upstairs.

I head over to the security system panel near the garage door, enter the code, and select “High Alert” on the security menu, which apparently protects the house from intruders. The door to the garage is slightly ajar. I go to close it but feel a cool waft of air that lures me inside.

I meander into the dark coolness of the multicar garage. Fluorescent lights flicker on automatically overhead, revealing Bambi’s Porsche, a Ferrari, and the white Rolls-Royce Wraith sitting expectantly. Around the front of it, the long, clean lines extend and stretch, death disguised as beauty. The bone-colored bodywork is flawless and perfectly polished.

One thing has been bothering me. I’ve been curious about that day and if anything—anything at all—is left over. After the car sped away, what did they—what did he—do? Surely Bambi hadn’t been in the car. And he must not have come straight home because, otherwise, Bambi would have seen the damage to the car. Plus, I know Nicola would have remembered her sitting there, perhaps the sound of her scream among the others. But from where she lay on the ground, it was just him—the single pair of black shoes with a slight heel, stepping out and then retreating.

Would Bambi have left them for dead? She is a little aloof and cold, certainly, but a killer? I don’t think so. It takes one to know one.

So, after the hit and run … where did Jason Redfern go?

The thought hits me like a spark from an electrical outlet.

Of course.

He went where he could continue to hide, continue to lie.

My hands trace the bodywork. It must have been thousands of dollars’ worth of repairs. Now, of course, the car looks pristine, untouched, new. Only someone like me would notice that only such an outer appearance could harbor death at its center.

My knee touches the painted concrete floor as I crouch and gaze up at the front grill of the Wraith, the faint smell of oil and gasoline in my nostrils, the rubber of tires. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, I can practically feel blood in the grooves.

Behind me, the sound of the towels spinning in the washing machine beats steadily, a thud thud thud of the cycle ending in a high-pitched wail. My fingertips stroke the clean chrome of the front wheel’s hubcap and leave a single fingerprint. In the reflection, my face stares back at me, dark hair, pale skin, distorted, unrecognizable eyes. Whatever evidence there might have been has been carefully scrubbed and polished away. But no one ever pays attention to the subtle details—the ones that only those with eyes like mine can see. When you’ve lived in the dark for so long, it’s easy to appreciate the light. Any light really will do.

My hand runs over the tire, inside to out, top to bottom, tracing each little groove, each indentation. The firm dusty tread, smooth until …

My finger hits something softer, embedded deep in the tire. Wedging my finger inside, I try to pry it out, but the groove is too deep, my finger too fat. I stand up and search the tool bench behind me until my eyes land on a Phillips-head screwdriver. I grab it off the wall and find the same indentation in the tire, the squelch of something stuck there that shouldn’t be there.

Carefully, I insert the head of the screwdriver and pull it out.

Blackness on my fingertips. The tackiness of something dried and biological. Several threads, black as night, attached together at the top.

Emmy’s hair.

There you are … I found you.

It makes sense that it would be here. After all, with Jason gone all the time, the car itself was barely driven. Cared for, sure. Cleaned, yes. But hardly driven. I feel myself nodding, the small clump of hair in my hand almost unbearable. An emotion—my emotion, not Nicola’s—swells within me that I cannot place, and I brace myself against the tool bench. My hand clutches my chest, and I feel myself breathing heavily. A single drop of water cascades down my cheek, and I realize I might be crying.

That’s a first.

These feelings, this body, they are so real to me now that I scarcely remember the numbing blankness of the dark place—where Nicola is now.

That day, the ambulance didn’t come right away. Eight minutes of waiting, holding back under the unforgiving Los Angeles sun, the asphalt a hot pan beneath her bloody hands. Emmy was first on the stretcher. On the road, the glass had shattered, and Ben’s iPhone was a broken mess littering the road. Of course something got left behind. In all the destruction, here was a tiny piece of what survived.

When I stand, the garage door is opening. Outside, the flashes of paparazzi trail behind Bambi, flickering as she pulls in through the gates. The Range Rover pulls into the garage, and the door begins to lower. She gets out, her hands visibly shaking, sunglasses still on as she catches sight of me. “What are you doing?”

I tuck the little clump of hair into my palm, feeling the fibers crack and bend. I need to preserve it, to keep it safe, this tiny fleck of evidence. “I came to adjust the security system and thought I heard a noise.”

She takes off her glasses and examines me, her eyes visibly alarmed and tear-streaked. “Your hands, they’re black.”

I shove the tiny piece of hair into my back pocket, pretending to wipe them. “I know. I was cleaning the oven. Then I heard a noise.”

“You don’t have to clean, Martha,” Bambi says suspiciously. “Lucita does that.”

“Right,” I say, trying to steady my breathing.

“Come inside,” she says. “I need your help.”

As I’m leaving the Redferns’ garage, the tumble dryer slows, a steady rhythmic beat. Nicola’s little song travels up through me.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Mama’s gonna find you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

She’ll snap its neck and drown it in the bathroom sink.

I know I’m the only one who hears it. Even Nicola is too far away now. I made sure of that.

33

Nicola

Minutes in the darkness feel like days, days like weeks, weeks like months, and so forth. The agony of nothing is difficult to bear.

All I have here are memories. The incessant blankness of my own mind spewing forth version after version of the past, as if nothing and everything happened, as if each instance of it were somehow true. No wonder it is easy to lose oneself in here. You cannot know yourself truly without the existence of others. But here in the darkness, you have only yourself.

“Are you angry at your father for dying?”

I look up, and Dr. Constance is staring at me, floating amid the darkness. Her messy desk appears, her papers sprawled across the surface. She writes something about me in the files, something untrue, something harmful.

“You mean, am I angry he killed himself? No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. He was supposed to die. Everyone dies.”

Constance smiles, her face a picture of sympathy. “Yes, but not every person takes their own life. You didn’t feel he was suffering?”

I remember now. I’ve been here before. This conversation is just a memory—an echo of sorts. Her words feel tired and worn, like a road that people drive on but never repair. I keep stepping into the potholes.

“I told you this before. My father wasn’t a good man. I’m sure he was suffering. But we were suffering, too. It was his time.”

Her eyes grow wide. “What makes you say this?”

I shrug. There are things you don’t say in places like this, with people like Dr. Constance listening. I know that now, but on the first day I’d met Constance, I had been given a psychological test that consisted of a series of statements that I could only answer true or false. Question number one stated, “I hear voices in my head sometimes.” I answered “False,” of course.

You’re denying me already, Martha whispered. Great job. I wanted to hit her and shut her up. It always came to this point with Martha, but finding the way to make her quiet was never easy. There are things you don’t say. I also answered “False” to the statement, “I sometimes have the urge to hurt myself or others.” The fact that I’d imagined numerous ways of doing both—a knife at my wrist, cold steel, the weight of a gun in my unsteady hands, the feeling of speeding past a stop sign and hitting the person who’d hit us, just because I could—I left that out.

Another thing: I can’t tell Dr. Constance that I knew my father was going to die that particular day. That I knew his time was drawing near, that I sensed it closing in on him like a snare. I can’t tell her that I knew it was coming weeks before and that I was glad for it, that I welcomed it like a long-lost friend that you’ve been aching to see. I especially can’t tell her how I enjoyed the particular sense of relief washing over me as the moment approached, how I whispered to the darkness time and time again to take him from us.

“What makes you say that it was his time, Nicola?” Constance repeats. The walls disappear. Only the infinite black surrounds us. I still know where I am and have no delusions. I’m somehow actually living this moment, but it doesn’t matter. I still have to be careful. You never know who is listening. The darkness plays tricks.

This is the answer that counts, that will be recorded. “Nothing, just I could tell he was unhappy, that he couldn’t go on much longer. We were all suffering. It had to stop. I had to make it stop.”

She nods and begins writing. “But how did it make you feel, seeing your father, his head in pieces on the floor of your basement?”

“Excuse me?”

Something is wrong. My gut hums as Constance smiles, her teeth too big and yellow, her lipstick smudged and running at the sides, melting beneath heat—a sad clown, frowning. Her eyes sink back in her head, and her entire face begins to smear and drip, watercolors on canvas. “I said, how did it make you feel? Were you happy? Were you celebrating inside, eager to know that the man who had been hurting you was dead?” She giggles unnaturally, her eyes growing larger and larger in her skull until I think it might explode.

“Did you remember that moment for years to come, the sudden wave of relief that washed through you?” Her voice deepens into a low growl, her eyes blacken, the pupils filling until the whites disappear. “Did it fuel you throughout your life, recalling the power you claimed, the gift you had to end him? How you wished him gone, Nicola, and watched happily as we took him for you? Did it give you strength and courage to live, knowing what you commanded?”

The darkness consumes her, erasing everything until her voice is a scream, vibrating in the empty air.

The scream is mine. The vision is gone, but the voice is still there, thick and low in my ears. I recognize it instantly. It’s all around me. The thing I spoke to. The thing that answered me once long ago.

“Is it time again, Nicola?”

What are you talking about?

“Is it time to feel that feeling again? That wave of relief you felt? The momentary glimpse of power. It would be good, wouldn’t it, to let yourself feel that way again?”

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Yes, you do. You’ve known for a while. That’s why you asked for help. And we brought her back.”

How long have I been here?

“Be patient, Nicola. Remember? These things take time.”

I don’t want to be patient. I want to see my daughter. I want to get out!

“Not yet. Not quite yet.”

A hand comes down on me. In the emptiness, I’m flat on my back. I feel cold tiles under my bare skin and smell the scent of steam perfumed with soap. Another hand swats my back, and I hit something hard and unforgiving in the absolute dark. My arm punches the air, my legs kick, but there’s only emptiness, and I realize they are doing this to me. It’s nothing more than a glimpse, a reminder.

I scream for Ben, even though I know the version of him in this place isn’t real. None of this is. And yet I lay quietly, smelling the soap as the steam hits my bare body, the cold tiles pressing into my skin. The sound of him breathing in the quiet makes me start. I feel him all around me. I can’t escape. I know he’s here, too, waiting, watching.

Daddy? I whisper. Is that you?

34

Martha

How do you know you’re at a gas station in Beverly Hills?

It’s the only place where someone can get a full tank of gas without literally moving a single muscle.

From across the street at the dry cleaners, I watch as a woman in a Bentley pulls up to the pump, sits in her car on her phone, while three guys in uniform run around her car, filling the tank, checking the oil and the tires, cleaning all the windows, and fussing around the hubcaps like bees near a hive. When they’re done, they stand back with their rags while the boss—the eldest man in his gas station uniform—goes to the driver’s window and waits for her to roll it down. Button pressed, the window opens two inches. She flings him a twenty, careful to avoid touching his hand with hers.

“Entitled bitch,” I mutter under my breath.

“Here we are!” I turn as the small woman with a short red bob and an unidentifiable foreign accent returns from the back of the shop and hangs up the bundle of dry cleaning for me to examine. She looks tired, and her purple eye shadow isn’t helping matters. I feel like saying something about it but bite my tongue like a good Martha.

“A big order today. These have been here for a while.”

“Yes,” I say distractedly.

She begins ringing up the ticket on the cash register. “I gave Mrs. Redfern a 10 percent discount. She’s a frequent customer. You work for her?” She glances at me, but I ignore her.

There are mostly suits, a few dresses, and a stack of bathroom linens. I go through each item, checking that it’s all here.

She pauses after ringing up everything. “Oh, I forgot. There’s one more item.”

She disappears behind the counter for a bit. I stand impatient, ready to get back to this afternoon’s tasks. She returns with a bundle of linens marked with a pink ticket in her arm. “Mrs. Redfern told me to just throw them away since we couldn’t get out the stains this time. But it’s such nice fabric, I wanted to make sure.”

“What stains?”

She goes to the linens covered in plastic. “From the linens. Here.” She unwraps something cream-colored and shows me. “These stains.” She points a finger at the dark, brown-colored stain. “See?”

I look closely at the deep red-brown stain, a large circle in the fabric.

“There are more on the others. We did our best, but the stains had already set. It’s a shame. Very nice fabric. Very expensive. Tell Mrs. Redfern we did our best this time and we’re very sorry.”

“You get these stains a lot?” I ask her.

She looks at me, a hint of knowing in her eyes. “All the time.” She shakes her head and leans across the counter. “I don’t ask questions. I just clean.”

I finish paying and pick up the bundle. “Thanks.”

When I get home, I give Lucita the dry cleaning and hold back the bundle of linens. She takes the cleaning from me and starts toward the upstairs.

“Lucita?”

She turns. “Sí?”

“Do you know what happened to the linens? What these stains are?”

Lucita shakes her head, her expression concerned. “No. I have no idea.”

She heads upstairs, her gray-and-white uniform rustling against the plastic of the dry-cleaning bags.

After I finish a few phone calls, I check Bambi’s appointment book and diary—hardly any upcoming jobs, except for the Cancun shoot, still weeks away. It’s almost 8:30, time to start getting ready to leave, when I hear Bambi’s car and straighten up in my chair, knowing she will come into my small office at the back of the house.

I hear her high heels along the hallway as she walks toward me, stopping to see what’s in the kitchen, then moving, moving through the house, toward the office.

I glance up from the computer, forming a light smile. “How was your day, Mrs. Redfern?” I’ve grown used to the salutation and address. It’s fitting for good Martha.

“It was fine. Long. I wanted to thank you for stepping in at such short notice and helping out around the house.”

I smile a wide, flat smile. It’s not an unfriendly smile, but a slightly dampened, unenthusiastic smile, which I’ve practiced. “It’s my job, Mrs. Redfern.”

“Yes. Well, we appreciate your efficiency.”

I nod, just once.

“I have some unfortunate news on the dry cleaning.”

Bambi stares. “Yes?”

“The stains. They weren’t able to remove them.”

Bambi blinks. “What stains?”

“On the linens.”

Her face is blank until a wave of something hits her hard and fast. She breaks, ever so slightly. If you blinked, you might have missed it. “I told the dry cleaner to throw those away.”

“Unfortunately, she didn’t,” I tell her. “They’re upstairs.”

Bambi shifts her weight, something sparking within her. “Well, go get them, would you?”

“The cleaners said to tell you they gave you 10 percent off. Since it’s not the first time they couldn’t get the stains out.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is that right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Redfern.”

“Well, that was nice of them. Wine stains are difficult to get out, after all.”

I lean forward, feeling suddenly intense. A long sigh escapes me. “Mrs. Redfern, can I ask you something?”

“Yes. What?”

“Why did you hire me?”

“What, Martha?”

“I mean, did you really want someone to sit here and just, you know, pretend along with you?”

A flash of anger breaches her. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a serious question. Is that what you hired me for? To play pretend?”

Her expression hardens. “I don’t like your tone, Martha.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Redfern.”

Her eyes narrow, like I’ve said something offensive.

“I haven’t seen a bottle of red wine in this house since I set foot in here, and since I’m in charge of shopping and groceries now, I think I’d know if a bottle were here. I also know for a fact your husband only drinks Macallan and beer.”

Bambi crosses her arms over her chest, making herself appear smaller. “And?” Her eyes dart around the room, searching the walls and the floor.

“How many times has this happened, Mrs. Redfern?”

“Martha, this conversation is over.” She stands.

I stay seated. “No, it isn’t.”

Bambi turns, shock evident behind her composure.

“How many times has this happened, Mrs. Redfern?”

She stares long and hard in my direction, then turns abruptly. “Good night, Martha,” she calls behind her and walks toward the stairs.

I log out of my computer and collect my things to go. Outside, the autumn sky is hazy with city light, the stars blurring like looking through amber. Somewhere nearby, a house has a fire going, the scent of the wood burning pungent in my nose.

Emmy texts me about dinner, but I tell her to just order pizza again. Before I drive off, I pop open the visor and touch my index finger to the little piece of Emmy’s hair nestled inside the pouch of fabric.

Killer.

The word hums deep within, and I know it’s from Nicola. A shiver runs through me as I sit idling in the Redferns’ driveway.

Killers, the both of them.

It’s time to have a chat with ol’ Nicola, so I call her forward, encouraging her.

“I don’t think Bambi had anything to do with this.”

Oh really? The evidence is right there. My daughter’s hair is in your hands. And what about the photograph? That’s clearly her in the passenger seat. She was there and did nothing!

I stare down at my fingers, now involuntarily stroking the little piece of hair, the long, fine tendrils that match Emmy’s.

See?

“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “Bambi had nothing to do with this. That wasn’t her that day. She’s got her own troubles.”

Because she knows what Redfern really is. Doesn’t she?

She’s got me there. But then again: “That doesn’t make her a killer, too.”

No. It makes her an accomplice.

Bambi Redfern is many things, but an accomplice to murder doesn’t seem to fit. Then again, keeping her husband’s reputation intact by hiding his true nature is exactly her M.O.

So, what are you going to do about it?

“Nothing, for now.”

You can’t play judge and jury by yourself, Martha.

I start the car and pull out into the road. “I can, Nicola. And I will.”

35

Nicola

It’s my twelfth birthday. We sing over a small homemade cake, no icing, my mother slightly off-key. When I close my eyes, I imagine a store-bought cake, tall and pretty, and my name written on the top in pink icing. I imagine little bows and swirls, maybe some piped frosting roses. My father cuts it into four pieces with two strokes of a kitchen knife, then walks away, taking his down into the basement.

“What’s gotten into him?” Janice mumbles.

My mother sighs, her eyes flicking toward the living room. She keeps her voice low. “He isn’t feeling well.”

“The sickness again?” I ask. My mother shakes her head as if to say Don’t mention that. Shame on you.

Of course, there are no doctors to call. No bottles of pills to feed him. Mom refuses to get him help. The embarrassment would be too great. And so, the invisible sickness lingers, affecting us all like a virus.

Downstairs, I hear him tinkering in the basement, talking in different tones and voices, and my stomach lurches. Something is coming, coming, coming for him. Maybe I could stop it, but do I really want to?

My mother catches my face and glares at me. “It’s just another day. You know, Nicola,” she says, her voice sharp.

Except it isn’t another day. It’s a very particular day for me. The memory comes swiftly, without effort. I will it away, but here in the dark place, there’s no room for resistance.

I wish I could run right out of here, right to Martha and Emmy on the other side. Back to my life and everything in it that I used to know. I want out of here so badly, but the cage Martha’s constructed for me is a vast fortress of remembering.

I freeze at the familiar squeal of the basement door opening. My father’s footsteps climb the stairs, a heaviness in his step that signals I’ve upset him by just being here, and now, I smell the deep odor of mildew and sweat and rage as he approaches me.

“See what you did?” His gruff voice sends an earthquake through my spine. I turn around. My father’s eyes are stretched far back, the whites too big, as if they haven’t shut for sleep in a very long time.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say.

He smiles, unnatural, large, his teeth bigger and sharper than I remember.

My father—or one of them—steps toward me and starts taking off his belt. “We talked about this, didn’t we?” He bends down low, his face inches from me, his breath sour in my nose.

This is the part where I need to move. I need to flee, to escape.

I fly up the stairs, the heavy thud of him behind me.

Adrenaline pulses through me like a thousand fireflies lighting up all over my limbs. My hands and feet dig into the carpet as I scramble up the staircase and cut the corner toward my bedroom. As I lunge forward toward my door, his hand lands on my back. His fingers scrape down my skin, but I wrench away from him and dart behind the door, slamming it shut.

My body plummets to the floor, hitting hard between the door and the opposing wall. At the same time, my father slams into the wooden door, shoving himself against it. I plant my body down behind my door without a lock, placing my feet against the opposing wall, my legs braced straight out in front of me. He can pound for hours, but he can’t get in. I’m the perfect size to hold him at bay.

“Open the door, Nicola!”

My body moves and jolts with every impact from him. I close my eyes as he pounds the door at my back, willing it to be over.

The thuds grow louder, harder against my back, and my legs begin to shake. Something is wrong. A deep ache starts in my calves and grows up into my joints. The pain intensifies, and then I realize, I’m too big for this now. My legs are just that fraction too long to wedge. My knees buckle upward and begin to bend slightly, and I know then: the brace won’t hold.

Suddenly, everything stops. It’s quiet. I pause, my breath going in and out like ocean waves. I hear footsteps coming, quietly at first, then louder and louder until they’re on top of me. I hold tight as my father charges the door.

My back shoves forward, my right leg collapses and goes numb. Something cracks, and I let out a tiny wail as shards of wood fall around me and everything turns dark. I reach for my left leg and realize in an instant that it is broken.

Pain shoots up from my leg and into my spine. I feel the stab of bone cutting through my skin.

My left leg, still weak and numb. He broke it first.

Everything is dark as I crawl toward my bedroom window. I think I may be able to get to it and climb out. I feel for the carpet and begin to crawl. His hands find my shoulders. He might stop now, I think. But then I remember and feel his hands grip my shoulders, rough and calloused. His eyes are on fire, a desperate, uncontrolled look that will take him far, far away. I shield my face with my hands as he forces me backward onto the hard floor.

It’s okay, a voice says to me from the darkness. I’m here. Let me take over now. You’ve done the best you could. It’s time now, Nicola.

“Okay,” I say out loud, knowing it is her. She helped me before. I know she can do it again. Her name is like a piece of glass on my tongue, smooth and cutting all at once.

“Martha, can you help me? Can you make it stop?”

Of course I can, little sister, she says. I thought you’d never ask.

36

Martha

Heading down through The Flats of Beverly Hills, I feel the slow crawl of dread I always do when I return to Nicola’s life. My hands grip the steering wheel, frustration mounting. The little bundle of Emmy’s hair is still tucked into the visor, the end nipping out like a little tail. I stroke it with my fingers and tuck it inside. In the rearview mirror, I catch a look at my eyes and realize there’s something like happiness lurking there. Maybe I like being at the Redferns’. There’s a freedom in being myself there that I’ve never known before. It’s almost as if I’m living my own life as myself in this body. It’s a strange, almost comforting sensation, like being hugged from within.

When I get home, Emmy is upstairs in her room with Scotch, the sounds of CelebrityStalkShow echoing through the apartment. On the kitchen counter, a box of pizza sits partly open, half consumed. I take a piece and head upstairs, following the rambling squawk squawk squawk of the livestream show. When I knock on the door, she opens it, wearing her PJs and a hoodie, Scotch tucked under one arm. Her eyes take me in. “You’re earlier than usual. What happened? You get fired from the Redferns or something?”

My arm pushes past her into her room. “No, I didn’t get fired.” I find a spot on her bed next to her laptop and school papers and shove them aside to eat my cold pizza, crust first.

“So, is school good?”

She sets Scotch down, and he runs from the room, barking at me as he goes. “Look, you don’t need to pretend, okay? You’re not my mom, so you don’t need to act like you actually care about me.”

“Ouch.”

Emmy sighs, her expression apologetic. “It’s the truth, though, isn’t it?”

I stop to think for a moment. The truth is way more complicated than Emmy knows. But I need her for right now.

“When is my mom coming back, anyway?” Emmy asks, not looking up from her laptop. “I mean, it’s been weeks and weeks. Aren’t you tired of living her life?”

A little chuckle escapes me. “I’m tired of a lot of things, Emmy. But let’s get one thing straight. I’m not living your mother’s life. I’m living mine. Okay?”

Emmy smirks. “Whatever.”

“No, I mean it,” I grab her arm, my fingers digging into her skin. Her eyes grow alarmed. “This is my life.”

Emmy tugs her arm out of my grasp. “Fine. Geez. I was just stating the obvious. I mean, look around you. This is my mom’s apartment. And you’re in her clothes. That’s her car parked outside, and tonight, you’ll go to sleep in her bed. How is that your life, Martha?”

My throat tightens. The little bitch has a point. All of this—everything—belongs to Nicola. Only the Redferns are mine. I found them.

“You’re right,” I say at last.

Emmy’s eyebrow arches. “I am?”

“Yes. Nothing about this life is mine. I stepped in to help, that’s all. I can leave anytime.”

“Hold on a second.” Emmy puts her phone away. “You can’t just leave. I mean, I miss my mom and everything, but I thought you were going to help us.”

“And I have, haven’t I? Your mom has money coming in again, good money at that, and things are better than they were.”

She leans in close, her little eyes sparkling. “Yeah, but what about the accident? Someone has to be held accountable for what happened, right? I thought that’s what you were going to do. Don’t you need, like, evidence?”

“I have evidence.”

“So then, finish it! Get him arrested. What are you waiting for? Once you do that, everything can go back to how it was before!”

“It’s not that simple, Emmy.”

Emmy makes a face like none of this is impressive. “So, what are you going to do exactly?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

Emmy stares at me blankly. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? I thought you had a plan.”

I take a big bite of my pizza and roll it around between my teeth. “Things have become a little more complicated. Besides, this isn’t about her. Jason Redfern is the one I’m worried about.”

“Well, obviously. If she’s nuts, it’s because of him.”

My head snaps to her. “Why do you say that?”

She chews her fingernail. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The guy has a major reputation for being a player.” She clicks away on her laptop and turns it to face me. A blaring red headline loops across the bottom of the screen:

CO-STAR ACCUSES JASON REDFERN OF SEXUAL ASSAULT

Emmy unmutes the livestream. Sure enough, it’s Jason making a statement outside a busy restaurant in Europe, lights flashing and paparazzi everywhere. I fumble for the volume on the keyboard and turn it up.

“She’s lying,” he says, a cocky smirk forming across his lips. “I’ve never had any inappropriate sexual conduct with co-stars and certainly not Lauren LaMonte. I’m a happily married man.”

An interviewer cuts in. “LaMonte says that you cornered her on multiple occasions, threatened her, and even sexually assaulted her during a private rehearsal. Is that true?”

“False.” Redfern crosses his arms. “LaMonte is a deeply unhappy person, from my experience, and prone to making up all kinds of fantasies. I did not have any inappropriate sexual conduct with her, and I certainly did not assault her.”

“Jason, you and Miss LaMonte were seen together numerous times in Los Angeles when you claimed you were still away filming—were you having an affair?”

“Lies. All lies.” He smiles, cavalier and definitive. “So, we both live in Los Angeles. We go to some of the same places. Is that a crime?”

Another journalist in a blue dress, hair perfectly coiffed, forces a microphone in his face. “Did you rape her?”

His face turns stony. “I’m done. I told you nothing happened. I’m done.” He heads into the busy restaurant as security bars the entrance from the media.

It cuts back to the livestream’s host. “There you have it. Jason Redfern denying the allegations of sexual assault with co-star Lauren LaMonte. We spoke to a source who claims she saw Jason and Miss LaMonte leaving her house and returning together late one evening. The source also claims that Jason appeared not to be wearing his wedding ring. More information as this story unfolds.”

Emmy stares at me. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

I shrug. “Probably.”

Emmy nods, like she understands. “I thought so. Bullies have that look about them. Like nothing bad can happen to them.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah. It’s worse than that.”

Emmy stops chewing. “What do you mean?”

“I found blood on her linens. A lot of blood.”

Emmy’s brow wrinkles in concentration. “Like period blood or whatever?”

“No, not like that.”

Her face contorts. “Well, what then?” She swallows, the question sitting between us. I nod carefully, confirming her thoughts.

Emmy’s eyes turn big and round. Her pupils shrink. “Are you saying he’s hurting Bambi, too?”

I nod carefully. “In more ways than one.”

Emmy’s eyes form a recognition. “Why doesn’t she leave him?”

“Look at their life,” I say, standing up. A wave of something rises in my chest, difficult to contain. “Everyone knows who they are. She would risk everything. Her life, her marriage, her money, her career.”

“Yeah, but what if he …?” Emmy sits up. Her eyes brighten, like she’s just finished putting together a puzzle. “You have to do something,” Emmy replies. “We already know what he’s capable of.”

“We do.”

“So, are you going to help her?”

I think for a moment. It was never part of the plan, but here we are. I like Bambi. And she needs me. So does Nicola, for that matter.

“You’re right,” I say calmly. “He deserves to pay for what he’s done. To your family, to Bambi, to that actress. All of it.”

Her eyes widen. “Yeah, but he’s a celebrity. He’s got so much money and everything. Who is going to believe us? It’s not like we can just go to the police.”

“We don’t need the police. We need to do this another way. A cleverer way. And I’m going to need your help.”

I jump up, motioning Emmy to follow. I offer my hand, and she takes it, my fingers encircling her little palm and gripping it tight. As I lead her downstairs, I feel Nicola nipping and biting at me like a small rabid dog.

37

Nicola

I sense Martha taking on a rapid, pulsing beat, like a clock ticking. The days pass into each other, day and night, day and night, a heartbeat of time throbbing in my veins. She’s moving quickly toward something.

I need to get out.

I need to stop her.

Emmy belongs to her nights. I feel her there, listening, watching. She waits for me but doesn’t try to get me back. I ache at this truth, and yet I cannot blame her. Martha is good that way. She makes people feel that she should have been there all along in place of me, that I was somehow unnecessary, irrelevant, the wrong version of us. I hate her for it and yet admire the way she scoots into my life so effortlessly, as if it were never mine in the first place.

I hardly remember a time before Martha. It’s as if her hand has always clutched at my throat, her long fingers the perfect length to dig in just where my vocal cords should be, cutting them off at a moment’s notice.

But sometimes, Martha has been my friend. She reminds me of this when she dips her head into the dark place and tells me that without her, I—we—wouldn’t be alive.

Yes, I know, Martha. You are right.

And now a memory is coming, swift and fast like a tidal wave. Soon, I will be consumed within, doomed to relive it again. There it is! The small blue light hanging over Emmy’s crib, the colors bouncing off her mobile, little furry animals spinning in the air, suspended in a sea of blue. Everything neutral soft—perfect for a boy or a girl. We don’t care either way, of course. “As long as she’s healthy!” we say on repeat. Then I’m there … in the exact moment she emerges from me, the searing incomprehensible pain of my body opening to release her. And her body lifted up to me—bright red and swollen, her face contorted and eyes sealed shut. I’m overcome with the most intense love I have ever known. And then fast forward to that instant we brought her home—something takes hold of me from the inside and starts screaming.

A deep-rooted fear unearths itself inside me and climbs up up up into my brain. The dark thoughts come, one after the other. Ugly, uncontrollable thoughts. At night, I wake, drenched in sweat, my body quivering with a swift release of hormones. The sheer panic of her cries sends me reeling. And then come the thoughts again. Quiet. Intrusive. Torturous. And I hate myself.

The baby begins to wail, filling the room with a desperate cry I’ve not heard before. I stand beside her bassinet, frozen, staring down at her in the dark. Eventually, I am able to gather her in my arms and bring her to my chest. She smells of me. Parts of me that are tired and hurting. Parts that need to heal. She smells of nothing. Her peaceful expression contorts, her smooth cheeks wrinkle. The beauty I see in her shifts, and Emilia Blair Holiday transforms into a tiny, unformed monster that requires more and more of me. It will never be enough. Sickness comes over me, and I need to be away from her, yet I am frozen, unable to move. I am terrified of my child. Terrified of loving her. Terrified of hating her. Terrified of failing her.

What have you done? This was a mistake. Martha’s voice screams louder inside me. You cannot love her like you should. Look at you. Look at where you come from. She doesn’t stand a chance. Not with blood like yours in her veins.

I place Emmy back in her bassinet, then turn and kneel on the floor near the tiny blue trash can we’d picked out from the cute home goods store at the mall. It is covered in cartoon clouds. My stomach lurches, and I heave, unable to stop from throwing up. The stench hits me, and I heave again. Emmy screams louder, but I cannot bring myself to go to her. I sit on the floor, paralyzed.

Take a good look. This is you as a mother. This is your destiny. Failure. Pain. Heartache. You were never meant for this, were you?

“Stop it!” I say, my voice muffled with saliva. Outside, a car passes, its headlights making the center of the room glow for a moment with a sweep of pale light.

You want it to stop? All you have to do is ask. I can always help you, Nicola.

My chest rises and falls, adrenaline pumps through me. Blood pumps in my ears, my face, my forehead. I know the way out, and for a moment, my eyes flick to the bathroom, where I keep pills—lots of pills. It would be so smooth and easy. So peaceful. Swallowing, swallowing, swallowing until I rest.

I huddle in the corner against the wall. My eyes catch the small pillow resting on the rocking chair with her name embroidered on it, and my body starts shaking.

The stench of me, my insides, and the baby’s fear fill the room, making it swell with unmistakable lack. I want to retch again, but I hold it back. Emmy cries longer and louder, her little body convulsing, searching for me. She wants me, but I have nothing to give her. I am empty. I am numb.

Come to us, the darkness whispered. We can take care of everything. We can help you, just like before.

A pathetic whimper escapes me, and I turn my face away in the dark and stand. I slap myself repeatedly until my right cheek burns. “Stop it! For fuck’s sake. Stop it!”

No more. I cannot go back there. I cannot face him in that place. I worked so hard to get through my father’s death, my mother’s apathy. I survived. I found Ben. Now here I am with Emmy and the threat of Martha lurking, waiting for a moment to strike.

The baby wails and shakes a little in the crib, and I freeze. Ben comes running in, his eyes lined with sleep but alert, nonetheless.

“What’s going on? Is she okay?” Panicked, Ben goes to the crib and lifts Emmy out. “How long has she been crying?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” His tone is sharp, accusatory.

“Ten minutes. Twenty. Maybe more.”

“Jesus, Nicola. What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I don’t know. I just—I couldn’t move.”

He picks up Emmy’s blanket, wrapping her in it. “She needs to eat.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

Ben sighs and kneels down to me, his nostrils widening. “You threw up?”

I nod.

He pulls Emmy back, shielding her protectively. “I’ll make some formula. Please clean that up and get into bed. We can’t let her get sick.”

As he leaves the room with our baby, I dump out the vomit in our bathroom toilet and then stand there rinsing my mouth out with the bright blue mouthwash. The swirl of blue circles the drain round and round and round. I watch it, transfixed. That’s when she returns, her voice louder in my head.

Well, that was pathetic, wasn’t it? Let me in, Nicola. Why are you resisting?

I’d learned to ignore her over time, to put her away where she couldn’t talk. It was the best way. Tonight, though, is different. My body is weak, and something is different in me now. Despite my staunch control of every last detail, my planning, my rigid, careful preparation, everything is spiraling. Martha has room now that Emmy is out. She is free again.

So … what? You’re just going to let her eat some store-bought shit instead of mother’s milk?

“I’m not exactly feeling up to it,” I say into the mirror. “Back off.”

You mean breastfeeding or motherhood? Because I can take over if you want.

My hands press into the bathroom countertop, the coldness sinking into my flesh. I’d felt this deadness before in me, and I knew what it meant. She had a way of making everything just a little less vivid, a little hazy from the inside, like she required some piece of me to exist at all. Perhaps I’ll never be rid of her. There is only one way to remove Martha from me.

“Why don’t I make it easy for both of us, Martha? Why don’t I give you exactly what you want?”

She is silent, her breath pulsing inside me.

“Wouldn’t you like the chance to be free?”

Downstairs, Ben feeds Emmy. I pass him and go straight for the kitchen drawer. I pretend to look for something. “I love you,” I tell him and kiss him on the cheek.

“Are you feeling better?” he says, rocking Emmy a little with the bottle.

“I will be soon.”

Once, when Janice was little, she cut her thigh open on a sprinkler in the backyard. The gash was deep and nasty, and instead of going to the waterpark that Saturday, we had to whisk her off to the ER instead. At first, I was angry at Janice for not being more careful around that rusty old sprinkler. But then I thanked her because I learned at age seven what a femoral artery was, and how, if you cut it the right way, you can just keep bleeding.

My hands find the sharpest carving knife, the one we got from Ben’s mother for a wedding gift. The blade, long and gleaming, sends a chill up my spine. Even now, even in here in the dark place, reliving this memory, I can feel the cold tip against my warm leg.

The blood arrives, slow at first and then so fast that Ben doesn’t know whether to hold Emmy or try to hold me and stop the blood. And I’m convulsing, starting to see my world shrink, wondering what will come next.

The memory collapses, and I am alone again in the endless night.

Back then, I had Ben to call the ambulance, Ben to help stop the sea of red pouring from me, Ben to tell the police I had post-partum depression, Ben to get me help so we could keep Emmy.

Martha, are you listening? Can you hear? Ben isn’t here to save us this time.

38

Bambi

The November air is crisp and cold, the scents of pine trees from the hills and fireplaces burning make the evening feel alive.

Bambi dresses quickly while Jason waits downstairs, Agnes on the speakerphone, her voice blaring. Her skin prickles at the sound of their voices. He had returned so suddenly when the scandal broke out and sent a text minutes after boarding his flight. Now he was back home and insisting on a public display of bravado.

“Please, Jason. Don’t do this, honey.”

“Do what? I’m not going to hide away like some criminal.”

Her hands shake as she applies foundation and then contours her face. A smear of lipstick—a blood red shade Jason always liked.

“You just got back. Why not let things settle down a little first, you know? We’re in talks with the studio. We’re hopeful they’ll agree not to cancel your contract.”

“My contract?” she hears Jason howl. “Are you kidding me, Agnes? They’re trying to ruin me!”

“Sweetie, I know. But you need to lay low, okay? Let us handle this. We’ll get things back on track.”

“No way. I need to show them they cannot destroy Jason Redfern that easily.”

“The media will be all over this. They want to see you misstep. You can’t afford another disaster.”

“Fuck the media!” he shouts, and Bambi jumps, smearing the edge of her lipstick. She quickly wipes it off, reapplies, and heads downstairs before they get in the car to leave.

Jason speeds the entire way in the Wraith, making Bambi’s legs quiver nervously. Jason swerves through the city streets, narrowly missing parked cars and pedestrians, running stoplights, and cutting through intersections. Bambi grips the leather interior, her hands leaving impressions in the cream seats.

Paparazzi are already waiting for them when they arrive. They rush the car as they pull up to the restaurant, and the valet takes the keys to the Wraith. Cameras flash in Bambi’s face, and Jason pulls her close to guide her toward the doors.

“Jason! Jason! Is it true that you sexually assaulted Lauren LaMonte?”

“Bambi! How are you feeling knowing your husband cheated on you?”

“Is Lauren LaMonte filing charges?”

“Will the studio pull the plug on your contract?”

Bright lights flicker with the snap, snap, snap of professional cameras clicking, and Bambi must remind herself to breathe. Her body pulses with adrenaline, and she whispers to Jason, “Please, let’s go inside.”

Jason lingers once more, before they escape into the cool, dark interior of the steakhouse.

They are greeted by the maître d’ and led to a table in the middle of the restaurant, right in plain sight. Jason settles in and takes up the menu for just a moment before putting it down. I know what I want, his gesture says. He gazes at Bambi, cool and calm as she shrugs off her leather jacket and positions it on the back of her chair, heart pounding. From nowhere, a server arrives with a glass bottle of water. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Redfern. My name is Jeremy. I will be taking care of you this evening. What can I get you to drink?” His eyes linger on her, as if her expression might give something away.

Jason sighs, a waft of exasperation. “Macallan. Neat.” Bambi notes his breath is sour, like rotting milk. She rubs her nose.

“Absolutely, sir.” The server tilts his head to look at Bambi. “I’m fine with water.”

A single nod and he disappears. The low thrum of voices all around suddenly hits Bambi’s ears, as if the entire restaurant had been listening to their order. She fidgets with her clutch, then stills, aware of the eyes on both of them.

Jason smiles—a bright jolt of white teeth—and darts his hand across the table. Bambi takes his hand, and he lowers his head to kiss her knuckles. She can’t help but stir a little at his lips on her skin, a spark of electricity out of context with the moment. She catches herself flushing. It isn’t him, she thinks. This is the actor, not the man. She knows the difference now.

“Here we go.” A hand lands a stout glass with amber liquid in front of Jason, then reaches over to pour Bambi some water from a chilled glass bottle.

“What can I get for you this evening?”

Jason glances up. “I’ll have the bone-in ribeye, cooked rare. A side of those greens you do. The tuna roll and a house salad to start.”

“Excellent choices. And would you like—”

Jason interrupts. “And I’m allergic to shellfish. Absolutely no shellfish in anything.”

“Certainly, sir.” Jeremy leans in. “I will inform the chef myself. And for you, Mrs. Redfern?”

Bambi hesitates, the hole in her gnawing with hunger.

“Get a steak,” Jason instructs. “Protein.”

Bambi flashes him an angry expression. She wants seafood—a nice piece of lobster—but of course, that is out of the question. For a moment, she imagines his bloated, swelling face, the way his lips would pucker up, how his throat would tighten and close, a red complexion coming over him. A little smile forms across her lips.

“Petite filet, please. Medium. And a side of greens. Steamed. No butter.”

The server nods and rushes off. Jason sits back in his chair and casually checks that people are indeed looking at him. He adjusts his watch and glances at Bambi while sipping his Macallan.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks her, setting down his drink.

Bambi stiffens. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Jason’s eyes intensify. “Really? Because you don’t seem glad. You seem fucking miserable to me,” he says, teeth gritted into a fake smile. Whispers cascade toward them from the back of the restaurant. A couple in the booth behind Jason adjust their positions so they can see her. Bambi breathes, her chest feeling tight.

“I’m scared,” Bambi finally says. “It feels like everything is caving in on us.”

Jason leans back and drinks. “You’re paranoid. This city makes people paranoid. You need to relax.”

“Relax?” Bambi whispers. “How exactly am I supposed to do that?”

A woman approaches Jason and asks for his autograph. Bambi cringes as Jason takes a pen from a nearby server and signs a slip of paper for her. She glows and seems like she wants a selfie but then nervously shuffles back to her table, giggling, where her friend is waiting.

Bambi’s insides squirm. He loves this. Once, she loved it too, and she used to get butterflies in her stomach each time they stepped out in public together. At first, the visibility was good for her. She booked more jobs and even became the Sports Illustrated model of the year. She made money and started gaining fans and followers, her social media taking off almost overnight. After all, she was dating the most famous actor in Hollywood, whose face was on every billboard and who had a string of hit films, awards, and media attention any actor would dream of. It was the perfect setup for her, too.

Then Jason began hopping from set to set, and his career took off. A few hits later, and it seemed they couldn’t go anywhere without people recognizing them and asking for photos. They were the golden couple of Hollywood.

Tonight, though, they are not quite so safe as before. Bambi scans the steakhouse, full of tourists and out-of-towners desperate for a look at just one celebrity before they fly back to Nowhereville. They sit and gawk at them from afar, her marriage on display like some kind of ticketed exhibition. She can’t shake the feeling that fame itself is insidious, like a magician’s trick—a strange illusion concealing the obvious truth from everyone.

“Jase? OMG, I thought that was you!”

A slender man in skinny jeans and an oversized blazer approaches them, drink in hand. “I was like, is that Jason Redfern?! I thought he was in Europe making a movie!”

Jason rises and shakes hands with the man, whom Bambi soon recognizes as a producer from one of his earlier films. “How are you, Steven?”

“Oh, I’m swell, thanks. New production underway. Scorsese film. Matt Damon is starring. A real ball buster production. I’m not taking another bath for that art house shit.”

“You still trying to finish that script?”

“Which one? The sleepy drama? Oh! Honey, no. I put that thing to bed.” He leans in and rests an arm on Jason. “Tell me, is it true what they’re saying? The press are relentless with it, aren’t they?”

“No. Of course it isn’t true.”

“Of course it isn’t. Just that LaMonte is all high and mighty with her women’s hotline and shit. She’s really become a voice of the times, you know? Speaking out against old Hollywood. She’s saying all sorts of things, and the news is loving it, aren’t they?”

Jason smiles aggressively, and Bambi’s stomach pangs with nerves. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t listen to the cunts on the news, Steven.”

“Oh well, of course. Cunts. The lot of them. I know. It’s insane, though, isn’t it? And I hear the studio is out for blood, huh?”

“No, everything is fine. It’s a misunderstanding. Nothing happened.”

Steven cringes exaggeratedly and, for the first time, acknowledges Bambi. “He’s good, isn’t he? Always has been a good actor.” He chuckles and sips his drink, spilling some on the restaurant carpet. He winks at her and laughs. “But he’s not that good.”

“Like I said. Nothing happened.” Jason repeats.

“Oh, I know, silly!” Steven replies. “I’m only teasing. News travels fast around here. Anyway, I sure hope they don’t cancel your contract. I’m sure they won’t. I’m rooting for you, big guy.”

“Thanks, Steven.”

Air kisses. Steven swings himself back to the bar. Bambi’s skin crawls watching him go.

A flock of servers arrives, hot plates held aloft sizzling with butter and steak. They position the food before them, and Bambi surveys it contemptuously. “Is there anything else I can get for you this evening?”

A pause. Bambi starts to say something, but Jason cuts in, jabbing something white beside the steak with his knife. “What the fuck is this?”

He flips over the item, revealing a hard red shell, a firm little thud on the plate.

Jeremy leans in, a terrified expression on his face. “Oh dear.” Leaning closer, he realizes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Redfern. I’ll have them remake it at once.”

“What is this? Some kind of sick joke?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s a fucking lobster, isn’t it?” He grins widely, his bright teeth flashing.

“Yes, my sincerest apologies, Mr. Redfern. I cannot imagine what they were thinking.”

“Is the chef incompetent or something?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I’m so sorry. I’ll remove it at once.”

Jason swats his hand at Jeremy, and off he goes. Bambi watches as he disappears into the kitchen. Moments later, a manager arrives and apologizes profusely. Jason smiles, his eyes gleaming, but a small bead of sweat has formed across his brow and sits ready to drip into his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Jason says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

There he is. The actor Jason, working so very hard to keep the animal within him at bay.

39

Bambi

At 4:04 a.m., listening to the low hum of Jason breathing, Bambi pulls back the down duvet, her stomach burning and queasy. As she sits up, the room is a haze of shadows. She runs into the bathroom, kneels at the toilet, and vomits.

She gargles and spits, slightly better but still nauseous. She wonders if she has food poisoning and then stands, realizing she feels a little dizzy, her body tender.

How long has it been since she had a period? She can’t remember, and anyway, it’s always irregular.

Bambi gets up and puts on her cream silk robe. She closes their bedroom door softly and goes downstairs into the office. Bambi sits in Martha’s chair and steadies herself. Her mind wanders to the last time Martha was with her and the promise they made together. She flicks open her laptop. The light from the computer illuminates the room in a pale blue light and makes her fingers glow whiter than the eggshell trim on the walls.

She opens the web browser and sets it to private. Her stomach flips, not from what had happened the night before at the steakhouse but from what she is about to type. Martha had warned her against this. She said to be patient, but Bambi can’t help herself. Her fingers tap the keys, formulating a question she thought she’d never ask.

A noise from upstairs startles her, a footstep on one of the stairs or a creak from one of the empty rooms above her. She freezes, straining in the darkness to listen. The house hums quietly, its heating and filtration systems kicking on and off every so often. The creak surfaces again, louder this time, followed by the sound of footfall.

“With everything going on, no one will think twice about it,” Martha had said. “You could practically get away with murder.”

Of course, the scandal would be the perfect cover. With the media focused on Jason and Lauren LaMonte, no one will think twice about it. All the questions will link back to him. More scandal. More drama. And she will be the desperate, loyal wife who did nothing wrong.

Bambi sits up as the dim light of the landing switches on. A haze of warm yellow illuminates the hallway leading toward her office. Jason comes down the stairs, his feet hitting heavily against the wood floor.

Bambi deletes the search and closes the tab. She shuts the laptop quietly and slides it away. When she looks up, Jason is in the doorway, his eyes dark.

“What are you doing up?” she says, attempting to sound cheerful.

Jason moves toward the chair in front of her desk that she sometimes sits in while Martha is working. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either. Do you want something to drink?”

Jason shakes his head. “You know what’s been bothering me?”

His eyes enliven, and she turns away, breaking his gaze. “What, Jason?”

“I’ve been thinking, what is it you’ve been doing these past few months?”

Her heartbeat quickens. “What do you mean?”

Jason nodded. “I checked your calendar. You didn’t have any shoots while I was away, but you booked a shoot in Cancun. Exactly when I’d be home again. Strange.”

A tiny blockage collects in her gullet. She doesn’t like being questioned. “Things have been a bit slow, I guess,” she says. She leans forward, feeling emboldened. “I haven’t exactly been able to work lately with my leg. There’s still a scar.”

“Your leg? What’s wrong with your leg?”

“It got infected. From that night in the bathroom.”

He sighs as if the information is an inconvenience to him. “And another thing. Who is Martha, Bambi?”

Her heart races, a bolt of panic in her chest. Somehow, she had always envisioned that she would be long gone before he ever found out about Martha. How had he?

“What?” is the only thing she can think to say.

“I asked Lucita to order more beer, but she said Martha does all the shopping now. Who is Martha, Bambi?”

My helper. My savior. My guardian. My friend.

“She’s no one. Just a woman I hired to help me while you were gone.”

Jason smiles, his eyes narrowing. “What exactly do you need help with?”

Bambi swallows, her mind racing. With you. With what you’ve done. What you are.

“Just errands. No big deal.”

He slams his hand down on the desk, his face suddenly inches from hers. “Except it is. This is my house, too. Don’t you think I deserve to know who is working for my wife?”

Bambi smiles, but inside she is fuming. How dare he? With all the lies he’s told, all the mistrust he’s created. A wave of nausea pulses through her, and she pushes it down. If only she could run from the room, out into the fresh air. Escape this place. Escape him.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” she mutters.

Jason turns. “What did you say to me?”

“I said that’s rich coming from you! You’re on set after set sleeping with who knows how many actresses, and now you come home, all the scandal and lies taking over our life, Jason, and you want to try to tell me who I can and cannot hire?”

His chest heaves. His hand whips through the air so fast she cannot move. Her cheek blisters. Her eye explodes with pain. She gasps, unable to steady herself, and falls out of the chair to the ground.

He stands above her, breathing, watching her quiver.

“Don’t ever speak to me like that again.” Jason sniffs once and turns from her. “You’d better ice that face,” he sneers, “if you don’t want to make the Cancun directors throw up at the sight of you.”

She glares at him, her body pulsing, her face throbbing with pain. She longs to stand above him, to watch him cower, to see him suffer the way she has.

Sure, Jason Redfern was Jason Redfern before she found him. But every bit of his success had been encouraged by her, supported by her, helped along by her. When he failed, when the press hated him, when his phone didn’t ring, she was there to pick him back up again, keep him strong and going. Jason Redfern, with his flashy career and adoring fans, needing her, keeping her, drawing from her like an endless well. He’d become fat, suckling off her for over a decade. She is unable to even justify why anymore. And where would her career be now with what he’d done to her? The bones in her body suddenly ache all over.

“You think you can keep this up, but you’re wrong,” she says quietly. “You don’t deserve this life. And soon, it’s all going to fall to pieces.”

He sits back and folds his hands in front of his lips. “You’re wrong about that, Bambs. I deserve it all. And more.”

She holds silent as he leans toward her.

“Don’t you think I deserve it all?”

“I think you deserve everything you get.”

In one swift motion, he pulls her up, hands tight around her waist. He pulls her to him, his expression vacant, like he feels nothing much at all. “Don’t ever try to leave me, Bambs,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “The only place you belong is right here with me.”

40

Martha

Pain is an emotion, a response to be controlled and nothing more. Once you find the switch, where it lurks inside you, you can simply turn it off. I’ve been trying to turn Nicola’s off for a long time, but she won’t let me. It’s almost as if she wants it, like the hurt is a feeding tube connecting her to an invisible life force. I wonder for a moment if Bambi’s is like that, too. Except that this pain is different. We sit in the upstairs guest room, Bambi in the bed. She hasn’t moved since the night before last when Jason returned for what Agnes termed “damage control.” She’s been listless, staring into space, eyes reddening and then filling with tears but never quite crying. It’s a funny, uncharacteristic mood that I welcome, knowing that beyond it lies a neat little opening into which only I can fit.

“What about Dr. Weis? You liked her last time, didn’t you?”

“Which one was she again?” asks Bambi, shifting the ice pack over her left eye to reveal part of the deep, purple bruising. Her other eye flickers open to stare at me. She’s reluctantly taking the methadone Dr. Allan gave her, this time for her face.

“She’s the one you were going to see for the cysts, remember? I made the appointment, but you had to cancel?”

Bambi lets her eyes fall closed. “Yeah, all right. Call her. Tell her I need to get in.”

I take out the office phone, but Bambi sits up and grabs my hand. “Actually, no. Not her. She’s Whitney’s doctor, too. I thought I told you to keep track of these things.”

“Right,” I say, trying to sound calm. “Sorry. I forgot about Whitney.” I run down the list of names. We’re almost near the bottom. “Dr. Lin?”

“Who’s Dr. Lin?”

“Jason’s dermatologist. I know it’s a stretch, but she might be good?”

Bambi laughs. “That’s just perfect. Jason’s doctor. I can ruin my business and my personal life in a single day!” She takes the ice pack and throws it into a nearby table, knocking a crystal vase to the floor. Lucita comes running in.

“Oh, Mrs. Bambi!” She stoops to scoop up the vase and collect the ice pack. “Don’t worry, I will clean this up.”

“No, Lucita. Don’t. Not right now.”

Lucita nods, her eyes worried. “Yes, Miss Bambi. I make lunch?”

Bambi is silent. Normally, this question would be followed by a quick no from Bambi, then a protest about what Lucita would cook, followed by more resistance from Bambi, but not today. Today, Bambi just sits, thinking. Lucita shifts her weight, waiting for an answer. She breathes in like she’s going to add something but doesn’t. Bambi shuts her eyes. She looks like she wants to cry.

“Lunch would be nice,” she says, her eyelids pressed tightly together.

I nod and smile at Lucita, my most good-Martha nod. “Thanks, Lucita.”

Her expression changes, a rare burst of joy coming over her. “Don’t worry, Miss Bambi, I fix something really healthy. Maybe salad, lite dressing, and your coffee?”

She shakes her head side to side, rolling her hair over her face. “No. I don’t want a salad.”

“No?” Lucita rubs her hands together. “Quinoa cakes?”

“No.”

Lucita is lost for words. “Kale smoothie?” she asks at last.

“No!” Bambi intones. She pulls herself forward like it’s a great effort. Her white pajamas are creased, and the buttons of her shirt are undone so that her bra is showing underneath. She doesn’t seem to care. “What can you make with cheese?”

Lucita’s face contorts. “Queso? But you don’t—”

I hold my hand up. “How about a quesadilla, Lucita?”

Lucita gives me a look like I’m the devil incarnate. “Sí, I can make quesadillas, pero Miss Bambi don’t eat queso. Or tortillas.”

“She does now,” I tell her.

Lucita stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and heads to the kitchen.

We sit for a second in silence before Bambi opens her eyes. “I need to get this fixed, Martha.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, unsure of what any doctor can do in time for her shoot. The bruising is deep, her face black and blue where Jason unleashed on her.

“And I need something stronger for the pain.”

“I might have something.” From my purse, I pull out a few of Nicola’s pain pills that I stashed away in the zip pouch long ago—just in case.

Bambi’s eyes enliven. “What are those?”

“Just something to take the edge off,” I tell her and hand her an Oxy.

She swallows the pill with a sip of water. “You’re a genius.”

I can’t help but smile a little. Nicola never talks to me this way.

“I just want to help,” I add, feeling a strange circle of warmth in my body. “Now, what else can I get you? Vicodin? Valium? More Ambien so you can sleep?”

“Yes, all of those,” she says quietly and leans back in bed. “How long does this take to work?”

“Give it a few minutes,” I say. “You’ll feel better in no time.”

I set down the notebook and diary I keep with all her meetings, appointments, and my tasks inside.

Bambi stares at me, watching, a flicker of desperation passing through her eyes. “They’re going to drop me,” she announces.

“We still have time.”

She shakes her head helplessly, her hair disheveled and dirty. “No, no, no! He knew what he was doing, Martha. Don’t you see? I’m finished. Just like him.”

A strange sense of outrage explodes in my chest. “Don’t say that. We can fix this.”

“Look at me! Look at this! I’m tired of fighting. I just want this to be over.” The tears are back, pooling in her eyes. But something stills in Bambi, and she blinks once, looks away, and it disappears.

“You know why I hired you, right?”

It’s the question I’ve been waiting for, the one I’ve been hoping she would ask.

“I think so, Mrs. Redfern.”

“Cut the shit, Martha. I’m not Mrs. Redfern anymore. We’re friends now. I mean, you work for me and everything, but you’ve seen this,” she says, pointing to her swollen face. “So I think that makes us friends, right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“So, tell me, why did I hire you?”

“Because you need help.”

“I need help, that’s true.” She shifts, reaching for the edge of my chair. For a second, I think she wants to touch me again, but it isn’t that. She’s just trying to get her bearings.

“But you’ve seen things, things no one else has seen. I could have kept them from you just like I keep them from everyone else. But I wanted you to see. I needed you to see.” Her hand stays on the edge of my chair, lingering.

“I know,” I tell her, even though there is no way Bambi could have kept her secret from me for long. I had a sense about it as soon as I walked in the door. “So now that I’m here, now that I’ve seen everything, the question is: what do you want me to do?”

To my surprise, Bambi looks shocked when I ask her this. Maybe I read her wrong. Maybe this isn’t the point. Maybe I missed something. But I’ve never been wrong about people before. I can read their insides.

“So, you understand? You actually get it?”

I reach for her fingertips. Her nails are a beautiful baby pink, the color you would add to a little girl’s room if you were going to have a child. I let my hands fall over hers, and she flinches just slightly. “Of course I do.”

Bambi blinks her eyes at me and leaves her hand beneath mine. I know she wants to move it, but she doesn’t. “I just, I can’t do this anymore. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

His name is lodged inside her, trapped. I know she wants to say it, needs to say it, but getting it out is like vomiting thorns.

“You mean Jason, don’t you?”

Her head falls. “He makes me feel like I can’t do anything, like I’m nothing without him. And still somehow, with all of it, he makes me feel like I’m something special, like I’m lucky to be with him. It’s all so messed up.”

I know arguing is useless. I know browbeating and encouragement are useless. I know pushing her or trying to boost her self-esteem is useless. There’s a monster lurking, and if he’s allowed to, he will swallow up everything in his path. “He hurts you,” I say and let the words sit there, hanging in the air like cigarette smoke.

Bambi nods.

My fingers close around her hand. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

When she looks up at me, her eyes are full of tears. “Sometimes he’s the most wonderful, charismatic person on the whole planet. Other times, I’m scared I’m not going to be able to get through to him, like I’m not real to him anymore, you know?”

“He likes control,” I say.

Bambi nods. “He wants a baby.” She pulls her hands away and wipes her face. “But I don’t. Not with him. Not like this.”

“Do you want it to stop?”

Her expression changes, shame washing over her. When she starts crying, I can hear Nicola inside me, whispering like a ghost at the end of a long, dark hallway. Remember who she is, remember what she did, what he did. I brush her aside. She always thinks I’m like her, that I have a short-term memory.

Bambi wipes her face and looks far off, her expression stony. “My mother died when I was eight years old,” she says quietly. “One day she was there, the next, our house was dark and empty. My father made sure of that.” Her breathing stills a little, her shoulders soften. “I took care of him, you know. My whole childhood, that’s what I did. Sometimes I think Jason is just like him.”

I stroke her hand, and she doesn’t flinch from me this time. “You don’t have to suffer anymore,” I tell her. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

Bambi meets my eyes. I love the way she looks at me because I know she sees me. Martha. Not Nicola. In fact, she doesn’t even know Nicola exists. Unlike Emmy, for instance. To her, I’m just a stranger dressed in her mother’s clothes.

“So, you’ll help me?”

I let a smile pass over my mouth, a rare show of true happiness. I’ve been keeping it hidden for a long time, waiting, watching, not ready to set it free. My hand finds her hand again and holds it. What is that saying about two birds with one stone? Never mind. There’s a certain joy in what I’m about to do.

“Of course I will.”

41

Bambi

Bambi slides into the breakfast nook, a plate of quesadillas on the table. Martha taps away on her iPad, both of them silent until Lucita finishes packing her carrier bag, takes her keys, and heads out for the evening. At the kitchen door, she pauses. “You need anything else, Miss Bambi, you call me.”

Bambi’s heart freezes, a tightness in her chest. “Thank you. I’m fine, Lucita.”

Lucita nods, and the empty house darkens and fills with shadows after she leaves. In a few hours, Jason will return home from the damage control press junket, and Bambi’s stomach is already knotted. She pushes her plate away and leans back, a slight bulge in her stomach from the food. Foreign and familiar at the same time, it reminds her of when she was little. Her face throbs beneath all the swelling, and she lightly touches the puffed skin with her fingertips.

She glances at the small clock above the kitchen stove. Martha’s time is almost up, and they had been holding back while Lucita was there. “So, what do we do then?”

Bambi searches her for the usual signs in someone. A nervous swallow, a flush of the cheeks, but Martha is calm, centered. “Well, we make a plan,” she says. “But are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Christ! Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe entrusting this person, with her sloppy haircut, her roots showing through, her cheap clothes, and heavy eye makeup, was a dreadful mistake. Why had she done it? Fear? Desperation? Self-loathing, perhaps? Stupid! What might happen if anyone found out?

“I’m ready, Martha. It’s you who sounds uncertain now. Why are you doing this, anyway?”

Martha puts down her knife and fork, letting them clatter against the plate. The house throws the sound back at them in the empty quiet. “You really want to know?”

Bambi leans forward. “I do.”

Martha smiles, satisfied. “Everyone has someone in their family they’d rather not talk about. Someone who, for all intents and purposes, they could go the rest of their lives not remembering, and they’d be happy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Who was yours?”

Martha wipes her mouth, smearing grease across their good linen napkins. “My father. He had a hard time dealing with his demons. He took it out on us until he couldn’t anymore.”

Bambi has to ask. “So, you knew? When you first got here. You knew about me? About us?”

“I had a hunch, yes.”

A rush of panic. If Martha knew, did everyone? Can they smell it on her, what she tries so carefully to hide?

Martha’s eyes flick up and down her. “I knew you were afraid, that’s all. I knew it the same way I knew my father was going to kill himself.”

Bambi spits water forward onto the table. “Oh my God, Martha.”

She nods, her demeanor calm, reticent. “There was no rage that day or the night before. He wasn’t drunk or smashing things or hitting us. He spent the morning sitting, staring out the window, his hands idle, his face unshaven. An hour later, he was dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.” Martha turns to stare out the window. “With him gone, the four of us were a lot happier.”

“I can’t believe you went through that,” Bambi said, not wanting to look at her.

Martha lets out a little sigh. “Kill or be killed. That’s the way for men who have monsters inside them.”

Now Martha stares at her, studying her face. A realization coming over her. “You’re different,” she says, her tone stern, certain. “Something’s different.”

Bambi shrugs. “I think I’m just in shock.”

Martha shakes her head, adamant. “No. It’s not that.”

She shifts uneasily in her seat, fondling the frayed edges of her shirt. “It’s just … what if I’m wrong? What if they’re all wrong about him?”

Martha’s head tilts to one side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if there was no affair? What if that actress is lying?”

Martha sits up, her back perfectly straight. “That doesn’t change who he is. What he’s done to you.”

Bambi’s throat is suddenly dry, her skin clammy. “But what if I’m wrong and all of this is a mistake?”

Martha sighs and reaches into her work bag at the side of the table. “I didn’t think you’d need this,” she says, keeping her voice quiet. “Here.”

She slides a manila envelope across the table. Bambi takes it, her fingers quivering. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Bambi sucks in air and hesitates. She pulls open the flap. Inside is a photograph. Black and white. The license plate obscured. The quality so poor that it’s impossible to make out, but Bambi freezes. The tilt of the driver’s head, the outline of his hair, the height of his shoulders. It’s unmistakably Jason. And beside him, a paper-thin shadow of someone in the passenger seat. A waif of a person. One slender arm propped up on the window ledge. The date and time stamp printed at the bottom. Middle of the afternoon in May.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s a traffic photo. That’s Jason driving.”

“I know it’s Jason,” Bambi whispers, her eyes flitting over the details once more. “Where did you get this?” Her voice is harsh, accusatory. But she cannot seem to help it.

Martha sighs. “That’s not important. The point is, that isn’t you in the passenger seat, is it, Bambi?”

She shakes her head. “No. It isn’t.”

“But you know who it is, don’t you?”

Bambi nods, a little lump forming in her gullet. “So, he was with her then? When he said he was filming?”

“Seems that way. You can see from the photo that it was taken just a few streets from where she lives.”

“Sunset and Crescent. He’s a fucking liar and a cheat,” Bambi whispers.

Martha nods once in agreement. “At least you know the truth.” She stands, ready to leave.

Bambi fumbles, sliding the photograph back into the envelope, and passes it to Martha. She looks away, suppressing the burning tears in her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Martha says, taking it, clearly sensing her panic. “I said I would help you, and I will.”

Bambi gets up and steadies herself. She sees her to the door. The lights outside are already on, and a cold chill in the air makes her skin dimple.

“There’s just one thing,” Martha turns back to her. “I know you want to leave now. But you can’t. Not yet.”

Martha had plucked the thought from the far recesses of her head.

“So, what, then? I just stick it out until …” She no longer has the words.

“Until we are ready. I left something for you in the upstairs bathroom. Call me when you’re done with it.”

Bambi shivers, a terrible sense of dread in her core, the kind she got before Jason became violent. But something tells her to trust Martha.

As Martha turns to leave, Bambi grabs her hand. “Wait.”

Martha turns and catches her eyes, her expression curious.

“I’m scared,” she whispers, her voice thin and childlike.

Martha smiles, that same assured look coming over her. “I know. You’d be crazy not to be.”

42

Nicola

I need to get out. I need to get back to Emmy. The darkness has me in its grasp, cold fingers wrapping around my arms and legs, holding me down, keeping me trapped in the endless night. I long to escape, to hold my daughter, to feel her heartbeat and know she’s okay.

Instead, I feel nothing except the occasional impulse that I know is Martha’s. Her wild thoughts intrude, interrupting the stream of memories that appear as if to torture me—daggers stabbing, stabbing from the past.

Pack the bags.

Buy a fresh bottle.

Make sure there are none left in the house.

Make sure there are none. None what, Martha? But she won’t say. Something is happening. I can feel just enough to know she’s arriving at her purpose. I feel the change in her, swift and palpable like a change in the weather.

Clouds are brewing in the sky, and a dark haze forms overhead. Daylight turns to dusk. The gray early evening takes on a heaviness I remember but have tried to forget. The heaviness of that day.

In the black beyond, I inch toward the doorway of the memory, light from my father’s basement cutting into the dark with a single sharp beam. Through to the light and down the basement stairs, creaking, creaking. I pause at every step, my body trembling, my child-sized fingers holding the rail. The entire room thuds, as though my heartbeat is outside my body. A few steps more, and my father’s frame comes into view, sitting slumped in a chair, his head tilted to one side.

I stop, the sound of something drip drip dripping catches me off guard.

There’s a sulfur smell in the air.

A few more steps, and I reach the landing, something black and hand-sized at my feet. My father’s pistol. Peering closer, I go to touch it, then yank back my hand. Blood is splattered everywhere. Tiny fragments of flesh cover the floor. A great pool of dark blood is growing beside him.

My ears prick as the house creaks overhead, as though everything is shifting, groaning from the release of him.

I can’t resist moving toward him and getting close. What’s left of his face is turned away from me.

“He’s gone,” I whisper. “He’s really gone.”

The voice appears inside me. Her voice, so confident. So assured.

Yes, Nicola. Your father is with us now. Just like you asked. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.

A light flashes, and the memory dissipates, fog drifting away from the shore.

Now, the lilies on my father’s casket are gaping mouths upturned to the sky. My mother jerks my arm trying to keep me from staring, but I can’t help it. I keep imagining what his face must look like inside. Would he still be recognizable? There was so much blood.

My mother leads Janice and me toward the casket. Our little reflections are curved and distorted in its shiny brown lid. Janice leaps forward and flings herself into the hard shell of the casket like it’s my father’s chest. “Goodbye, Daddy,” she says. My mother clutches my hand and snivels. The faint smell of mildew from the carpet mixes with the pungent scent of my mother’s perfume, and my stomach rolls. I wrench from my mother’s grasp, eager to remove the feeling of her hand upon mine. “How long do we have to stay?”

My mother’s eyes are dead. “Until it’s time to leave.” She looks me over, a flicker of bitterness. “Tuck in your shirt. You look like a ragamuffin.”

I catch the corner of Janice’s face, smirking. My mother places her hand on the casket and starts to cry heavy, strange sobs that almost sound like laughter. Someone hands her a handkerchief with little yellow tulips embroidered on the bottom. She blots her makeup and dabs at her eyes. Janice hugs her waist and buries her face in her stomach. “It’s okay, Mommy,” she says. “You still have me.”

Later, the guests have left, and the house is full of containers of food that make me sick to look at. I have long since retreated to my bedroom. My mother comes in and sits at the edge of my bed, careful not to get too close to me. A hand on my back, firm, unfeeling. “You didn’t cry.”

I sit up, aware that she expects me to answer. “I don’t feel sad.”

My mother is quiet. She turns away, shakes her head. “You’re in shock. That’s all. I’ll make an appointment with the psychiatrist. I think it would be good for you to talk to somebody.”

“I don’t,” I tell her. “I feel fine.”

“You are not fine, Nicola.”

I reach for a magazine under my bed. This one has the latest celebrity boy crush on the cover—blond hair, sweet blue eyes, a jaunty expression like he’s just shown up at your birthday party to sing a song for you. My bedding wafts faint odors of grease and dust into the air as I flip onto my stomach. “Cut me some slack, why don’t you?”

My mother’s eyes flare. “You watch the way you talk to me, young lady.”

I pull away from her as she reaches for my arm. Her nails dig into my flesh. I look at my arm, then up at her.

“You know, it wasn’t just you. I was afraid of him, too.”

I sit quietly, watching her recall her particular shades of pain. “I didn’t show it to you, but he used to hurt me as well.”

“Well, at least you were a grown-up when it happened.”

I watch her face stiffen, her eyes narrow.

“You could have done something. Daddy needed help.”

She stands up, and I realize she’s now wearing the same slippers and blue robe that belonged to my father. The smell of grease was him, not my bed. She pulls her robe around her, releasing another waft of him. I feel sick to my stomach. “What exactly could I have done?”

“I don’t know, get Daddy a doctor? Medication? Anything!”

“Your father didn’t want to get help. I could hardly force him, could I?”

I’m quiet, but my heart is lurching in my chest, banging forward on the walls of my sternum. “Well, maybe you should have.”

My mother leans toward me, her dark eyes cold, vacant. Her lips pull back, like an animal snarling, ready to bite. I brace myself for the sting of her words.

“You little ingrate,” she whispers. “One day, I hope you live this.” Her arms spread wide as her voice envelops me, a low and deadly frequency. “I hope you feel exactly what this is like.”

One day.

One day.

That day came and went.

Then Martha arrived.

Or was she always there?

My mother’s body stiffens unnaturally. A crack forms straight down her middle, the center dark and thick. Her mouth gapes open and hangs, blackness emanating.

The walls of my bedroom turn charcoal gray, cinders in a pit of fire. A million cracks and crevices climb the walls, and ashes spill out as the room crumbles into dust around me. The light dims and goes out, leaving nothing but the cold and bitter emptiness of the place I am in. It extends forever and ever, this great void. I reach into it, clutching at the vacancy, hoping that this is the final memory, and now that Daddy is gone, I’ll have a chance to escape, to return to Emmy and put Martha back where she belongs.

Back with the darkness.

Back with the memories.

Back with him.

Stop fighting, Nicola.

Lay down. Be quiet.

Rest. Be at peace.

Martha’s words echo in the black beyond.

It isn’t so bad here in the dark.

It’s the light that brings the real terror, remember?

“Shut up, Martha! Let me out! That’s enough now. You’ve had your time!”

My time? What a funny thing to say, Nicola. You know very well that I’ve had so little time of my own. Always playing you. Being you. Your life. Your problems. Your fears, hopes, and dreams. My time hasn’t even started yet. My time is just beginning.

Aware of my body, I begin to quiver and shake. Right now, she is the one in charge. I’m just a shadow, lurking here, a trace of myself. But I can stop all of this. I know I can. I just have to escape.

I just have to … escape.

Escape …

Moments ago, I could hear the sound of my own breath. Now that, too, is becoming fainter. There is a vast sweep of empty quiet, as though a great pause has come over my inner world. It is actually peaceful and serene when there are no memories. Maybe this is what you liked so much about the darkness, huh, Daddy? The way it wraps you in a blanket of emptiness, the hug of oblivion surrounding.

That’s right, Nicola. Just surrender. You don’t have to fight. You can rest now. Everything is fine, remember? You can trust me.

She is right, after all. Martha has control, and I’m lost in a sea of remembering. Daddy is dead.

Ben is dead.

But Emmy is alive.

Emmy.

My heart. My reason. My everything.

Her eyes appear to me, two little stars. I realize she is there, waiting. I feel her reaching for me, and I claw through the darkness, desperate to break through, desperate to find the light.

43

Bambi

The house smells of pork fat and Spanish spices. The sticky thickness of grease burning hits her as the clang of an iron skillet banging the stove makes her sit upright. Jason is home. For a split second, she pictures his face, his vengeful and bitter expression just before he hit her, and wishes she were gone already.

Bambi checks the clock: 7:00 a.m. Lucita won’t be here for another thirty minutes, and Martha, another two hours. She gets up from the bed and closes her robe, steeling herself. Her cheek still burns, her eye stinging from the blow. Part of her longs to take something for the pain. One of Martha’s candies. Methadone. But she doesn’t. She needs to be sharp now. Sharp and alert.

She picks up the small ice pack, now room temperature, and looks at herself in the mirror above their dresser. The eyes that once lit up when Jason was around are sunken and dark, the bridge of her nose sharpened by the deep bruising, making her appear bird-like and strange. A wave of sadness overcomes her, and Bambi braces herself against the edge of the dresser, turning her face away from her reflection. Whoever she was before is gone. She can see that now. In her place is someone different, someone new who she doesn’t yet recognize.

Downstairs, the scent of bacon and grease is heavy in the air. Paprika and oregano cut through slightly, hitting the back of her palate. Bambi’s stomach lurches, and her mouth fills with saliva. She feels an instant urge to vomit but controls it as she makes her way into the smoke-filled kitchen.

Jason looks up at her as he pours a bowl of egg batter into a searing hot pan. “Morning, babe!”

She avoids his eyes and goes to the coffee machine. “It’s smoky in here,” she says.

“Yeah, sorry. I was going to open a window, but I couldn’t find the skylight control. Do you know where it is?”

Bambi fixes herself a cappuccino. Jason turns slightly from the stove next to her, lifting the pan off the burner and flipping the frittata over. “I said, do you know where it is? Did Martha take it?”

A note of hostility in him. Her shoulders stiffen. She looks at the ground. “I don’t think so.”

He smiles and flips the frittata again. “Well, she must have done something with it. It’s gone.”

Bambi stirs her coffee, the white foam circling like a tiny hurricane in her cup. “She didn’t take it.”

Jason nods. He sets the pan down. A long sigh barrels through his lips at her. “When are you planning on introducing me to your new helper?”

Bambi shrugs, a weak, suggestible movement that she instantly hates in herself. “I don’t know. I didn’t think you were interested in meeting her.”

Jason shuts off the burner and transfers the frittata onto a plate. He reaches for a knife and cuts it into two servings. “Why wouldn’t I be interested? This is my home.” Jason’s hand jets out and clamps around her wrist. “Bambs?”

Bambi looks at his hand on her wrist and up into his eyes.

“Jason, you’re hurting me.”

He shakes her, spilling hot coffee onto her skin. She yelps out and staggers away from him, but he keeps a firm grip, pushing her into the counter. “Bambs?”

“Christ! Jason! You’re never here. It wasn’t intentional.”

He leans toward her, pushing his full weight into her, his breath pungent from the liquor he must have drunk the night before. “I don’t like you keeping things from me.”

Bambi pushes back with her full strength, but it’s not enough. She can’t move all two hundred thirty pounds of Jason. He smiles at her as she struggles to move, pinned against the kitchen island and his body. “Jason, stop! Let me go!”

He pushes harder. Bambi feels something in her pelvis start to ache, the handle of a drawer digging deep into her womb. “You’re hurting me!”

“I’m hurting you? You’re hurting me, Bambs. Marriages are supposed to be built on trust and loyalty.”

His face is so near, she can spot every clogged pore, every ingrown hair on his unkempt beard. She hates him. It’s true. The words bubble up, and she cannot hold them back. In spite of herself, she shouts, “Were you thinking about trust and loyalty while you were fucking Lauren LaMonte?”

He slams her against the counter, harder this time. “You know that isn’t what happened.”

Her teeth grit with pain, and she steels herself, ignoring it. Nothing could be worse than what he’s already done to her, what he’s already taken. “Then what did happen, Jason?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I’m your wife!”

His hand clamps over her mouth. Bambi feels her cheek ache as his fingers push into her.

Behind her, the second knife rack. She angles for it, arm outstretched, and lunges for the nearest knife—a large butcher’s knife with a silver handle—and raises it up to his beard, trembling. Jason grabs her hand in his and pushes the knife away from him, up to her throat, until the cool blade is against her skin.

Bambi holds her breath. The scent of his armpit sweat mixed with pig fat is enough to make her sick. She wishes she could be sick, but nothing comes. The cold blade presses against her.

“See what you make me do?” Jason breathes.

The sound of a key in the lock. Jason releases her and steps back. The knife clatters to the floor. She darts to the side to keep it from cutting her bare feet.

“Hola! Good morning!”

She watches her husband’s face change, the actor’s smile growing over his expression like a mask.

Bambi steadies herself against the counter and turns as Lucita comes into the kitchen. She stops, her face blank, like she’s just seen a ghost. She pauses for a moment, taking them in like a painting before saying, “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Redfern. You want I start upstairs?”

He nods. “That would be excellent, yes, Lucita.”

Lucita smiles, unsure. “Okay, Mr. Redfern. I will go upstairs. Mrs. Bambi, you want a coffee or something?”

Bambi’s hands are shaking. She wants to run toward her. To grab her, to stop her, and tell her not to leave. She needs the hours to tick by faster, for Martha to arrive. For everything to be over. Instead, she swallows and says, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

Lucita takes off her shoes and puts on her blue house slippers. “You want I open some windows?”

Jason’s eyes narrow. “No. Upstairs, please, Lucita.”

She nods, and Bambi watches her disappear into the shadow-filled hall.

Bambi stands stoically against the sink, clutching the edges. She runs the water and dabs her face lightly. Behind her, she can feel Jason standing, watching her. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Bambi doesn’t turn. She can’t face him, can’t even muster one of her big, fake model smiles, the kind she reserves for commercial shoots and front-cover campaigns. She reaches for her cup of cold coffee. The bitterness washes down the bile collecting in her throat.

“Look at me,” Jason says, his voice stern once more. “I said I’m sorry.”

Bambi turns slightly. “I know,” she mutters.

Jason studies her. “You’re different since you hired her, you know.”

“What are you talking about? No, I’m not.”

Jason shakes his head, unconvinced. “I want you to get rid of Martha. She isn’t good for you.”

Her whole body is tight, like a wire is being yanked from deep inside her core right through her midsection. She sips her coffee, swallowing her own scream.

“If you need a PA, I’ll tell Agnes, and she’ll get you one.”

“Fine,” she says. “Whatever you want, Jason. Whatever you want.”

Upstairs, the box Martha left her says Results in less than 3 minutes. Bambi stares at the little white applicator a moment longer, then repackages it and sets it aside. Not now.

In the bedroom, she fills her suitcase with her least expensive clothes, some toiletries, sensible shoes, and her ID and passport. In a zip pouch, she stows a wad of cash—small bills and no credit cards. Everything else has to stay. The designer pieces and jewelry. The bags. The expensive makeup and perfume. You don’t have room, she reminds herself as she passes up her Louis Vuitton for two pairs of old running shoes that she wouldn’t be caught dead in normally. She thinks about taking the little bottle of Ambien and some of her other pills but leaves them all behind.

There’s just the one suitcase, and now it’s full. Bambi remembers something and finds the stack of magazines in the guest room with her featured on the cover. Martha said only the essentials, but now, as her life is fading all around her, she longs for just one reminder of who she once was before Jason Redfern. The model. The beauty. The little Swedish girl without her mother. She chooses one—the Marie Claire spring edition she always loved—and adds it carefully to her suitcase. Satisfied, she zips it up and slides it under the bed. Bambi gets up and catches herself in the mirror. Blackened eye, bruised cheek, a tender spot on her upper arm where Jason just grabbed her. The ache in her pelvis and a slight bulge in her abdomen that she never had before. She holds it, her palm against her skin under her robe.

In the bathroom, she takes out the test again and unwraps it. She pees on the stick and waits, a timer on her phone counting down. When the alarm dings—a vacant little trill—Bambi scoops up the test. Two red lines in the window.

So that’s what she meant by plans.

Everything makes sense now.

Martha’s hand on hers.

Her cloying stare.

The pained expression in her eyes that said, I know. I know.

She checks the box again, just to be sure, then dials Martha.

44

Martha

Jason cannot find out. Bambi is adamant about this. She calls me in a fit of panic, and I can tell she has been crying.

“I don’t know how this happened. I have an IUD.”

I listen, unsure of what to say except, “Do you want to keep it?”

Her breaths are heavy on the line. “I don’t know.” A pause. She is working up the nerve to say it. “We need to do this, Martha.”

I nod. “Yes. And we will. Everything according to plan.”

Ending the call, I stare at the colorful screen, the many little applications glowing back at me. Emmy comes to my side. “What is it?”

“We need to take a little trip. It’s time.”

Red lanterns glow against a pale blue sky, and golden dragons perch above the arched gateway. Pagoda-style buildings where vendors sell Asian rice hats, gold Buddhas, trinkets, and bamboo plants. I sense by the way Emmy points and gapes at the buildings and colors that she’s never been here before. She darts into several shops without me and buys a Coke, some egg rolls, and a solid jade bangle that she puts on her left wrist immediately.

“Jade is for protection from harm,” she says and holds out a second bracelet for me. “Here, put it on.”

“Thanks,” I say and slip it over my wrist, the green stone alive in the sunlight.

The Chinese spice shop has every spice, dried root, tea, and powdered substance you can imagine. Wall-to-wall jars and canisters with little colorful labels—all in Chinese—line floor-to-ceiling shelves. A young girl behind the counter looks up from a textbook when we come in, and the little bell on the door makes a ting-a-ling sound.

I pull a sticky note from my pocket and give it to Emmy. She unfolds it and goes to the girl, asking her to help us. The girl nods and leads Emmy and me to a far wall in the back of the store, three shelves up from the bottom.

“Here you go,” she says, not a trace of an accent.

“Thanks,” Emmy replies. She eyeballs the canister and hands it to me. “This is it?”

“Yes,” I say. “But we don’t need that much.”

At the counter, the girl gets a small plastic baggie and measures out two cups of the beige powder from the canister.

“Anything else?” the girl asks.

“That’s it,” I tell her.

She seals the bag, weighs it, and announces the price. Emmy pays with the cash I gave her.

When we’re outside, Emmy is quieter than usual.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.

“Nothing much. It’s just weird that a small thing like this can make someone so sick.”

“Why is it weird?”

“I don’t know. Because it’s harmless to you and me, but …” Her voice trails off into silence. “How bad do you think it will be?”

I shrug. “Bad enough, I guess.”

Emmy seems uncertain, displeased. “Bad enough to go to the hospital?”

“No, Em,” I tell her. “Someone has to help Bambi.”

“After this, we’ll call the police, right?”

I smile inside. “Of course we will.”

Emmy falls silent. My phone vibrates. A text from Nubia, asking to meet. I push her off. We have to focus on the task at hand now.

Overhead, red lanterns swing back and forth in the breeze. Across from us, a busy restaurant selling dim sum emanates the heavy scents of fried dough, seafood, and meat. A couple nearby with a toddler in tow take selfies beneath the red and gold pagoda entrance. Emmy watches them, her eyes sullen.

“When this is over, and you help Bambi, can my mom come back?”

“Totally,” I say. “It won’t be long now.”

We walk to the car, and I enjoy the sunlight on my skin, the breeze sending goose bumps over my arms, the anticipation of what’s to come. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It’s lovely being alive, isn’t it? Who would wish to spend all eternity outside oneself, nestled in oblivion, waiting?

The lie I told just now stirs in my middle, a thudding little sound, like the faint heartbeat Nicola must have felt when she was pregnant with Emmy—the same heartbeat Bambi will feel very soon.

45

Nicola

I’m stuck in a permanent loop. Time speeds up and slows down in strange intervals.

Walking, holding hands.

A sun-lit, pure blue.

The quiet of the morning.

Road clear.

The crow overhead—bare branches.

Emmy pulling.

Ben’s joke.

The slow steps toward death I cannot ever undo.

It is that day.

In the road now, tires squealing. Emmy screaming. Slam. Asphalt. Bones and ligaments. Blood.

I wait for the moment his shoe hits the ground. Black and too shiny, too large, like a cartoon. Something is wrong. Out of place. I look up, and I see him—the driver—but I cannot ever glimpse his face. Like a bad dream, his head is there but missing. No details, eyes, or expression. Just a blur.

Then the car door. Slam. Engine. Reverse. The white monster disappears behind us. Ben lies dying. I go to him and hold his hand. Blood curdles. He takes a final breath. There is nothing I can do. The sirens are miles away.

Pure darkness. The scene collapses. Do you see it now?

No. I don’t. I was distracted. I was looking for the driver.

Stop trying to see what you don’t need to see.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I’m falling again.

Walking. Holding hands. Sunlight. The purest day. Blue? The quietest of mornings. Clear road. Crow. Branches. Emmy leading me. Ben making her laugh. Slow steps and death. The thought transpires like it always does: I cannot stop this …

Tires. Scream. Asphalt. Bones. Blood.

There’s the shoe, so big and black that I think I see my own face in it. Glancing up, and he’s there.

“Stop!” I shout, and this breaks up the image like shattered glass. I know I’m not supposed to talk out of turn, but I can’t help it. His face is there, right there. If only I could see it. Particles blurring. Features shifting, like Play-Doh in Emmy’s tiny hands. It moves and swirls now, coming into focus.

I strain to see it, like a murky picture clearing before my eyes. Push through the fog. Get to the nub of things. Concentrate. Ignore your husband choking beside you in the road, his life expiring. See it. See him.

The face crystallizes, but not enough to be sure. A moment to register it before everything goes dark and the cycle starts again.

Are you getting it now? the darkness asks, its voice inside my ear.

“I don’t think so.”

You are not supposed to see the driver. He doesn’t matter. She does.

“She?”

Yes. She.

“I don’t understand.”

Then let’s go again.

The vision slows. Details emerge, as if the film reel of my life is playing at half speed. Sunshine. The cool, tepid air of winter in California, the crisp scent of distant fireplaces alight. We’re walking—the three of us—hand in hand toward Beverly Boulevard. Overhead, the trees are bare, their branches, like curled fingers, hold on to a smattering of brown leaves.

Ben is up ahead on his phone, head bowed in concentration as he follows the GPS to the swanky Beverly Hills breakfast spot just ten minutes from where we parked the car.

Behind him, Emmy holds his hand, a smile plastered on her face as she glances back at me, hair bouncing in long, silky black braids. They were beautiful in that moment, flowing and whipping around her as she trotted after Ben, a lift in her step. Everything was beautiful for just a moment.

Ben makes a joke that I can’t quite hear, and Emmy laughs. Ben turns, the curb just steps from us now, the empty road waiting.

Overhead, a dark shadow flutters, and I glance up. The dark wings of a crow catch my eyes, its flight path veering into the bare-branched trees. It lands, quivers, and gazes down at me, its eyes two empty pools wherein I swear I can see myself reflected.

The pull of Emmy’s hand in mine breaks the chain, and I see Ben stepping off the curb now, the road still clear. The crow releases a long, lilting caw in my direction, and then Emmy turns to glance at me over her shoulder. I hurry after them as a bright flash of white emerges from nowhere. Brakes squeal. Emmy screams long and loud as the front of the Rolls-Royce screeches toward her, the speed unfathomable, the hit slow yet unavoidable, the drag of uncanny inevitability. First, Ben, and then Emmy. I pull back, but it is too late.

Before I can stop, I’m in front of the front grill. It careens into my left leg and sends me up into the air, tumbling, tumbling. All sound stops, a silent pause as I land—asphalt, numbness, blood. Paralysis takes over; my left side disappears. I turn my head at the sound of Emmy’s scream, her sobs cutting through the silence. “Mom!” she screams. “I’m hit! I’m hit.”

My focus shifts past her to Ben, collapsing as blood sputters from his lips, his final breath unleashed.

Everything blackens. The loop reverses, and I’m still there on the ground, but my body is smaller, and the tears being cried are mine, not Emmy’s. A hand is above me, a short distance away, hitting, hitting. Every time I resist, every time I try to scream, to tell him to stop, I can’t do it. I have no voice. My mouth freezes open, and no sound escapes. Then my jaw unhinges, and the crow’s lilting cry escapes through my lips, thin and birdlike, without any words.

I’m counting sixty-seven loops now of this sequence. Like traipsing over the same muddy road, each time sinking further and further, I return to that day. The details become no less unbearable. The darkness pulls in at the corners, focusing my attention on the little things now, the things I might have missed before.

The shoelace of Emmy’s left sneaker, fraying at the edges.

Ben’s pants pocket, missing a button at the rear.

The small fragments of broken glass in the road that wink and glitter when I land, like shells on hot sand.

The roundness of the crow’s eye overhead, a perfect vacant little bead.

Loop sixty-eight, and I realize something. I don’t have to look at the crow. Looking at the crow is just a choice.

Loop sixty-nine. I feel it coming. The great black wings are overhead now. The long caw emerges, pulling me toward the inevitable ending.

“Don’t look up,” I hear my own voice say in the darkness. “Ignore it. It isn’t there.”

Not looking up at that crow feels unnatural, like resisting the urge to breathe. It’s wrong, but after a second, it feels like survival. If I look up, I drown. So, I focus my attention on the thing I want to save this time. Emmy.

She tugs my hand toward the curb, and the pressure of the great black wings above bears down on me, but I resist. Emmy turns around, her voice a soft echo forming new words that weren’t there before. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

I point toward the street and tighten my grip on her hand, stopping her. She resists because she doesn’t see it yet, but I know it is coming. The car swerves as I yank her back from the road to pull her toward me. Her left arm pulls on Ben’s, but it isn’t fast enough to stop him. He takes my place, the car hitting him head-on, landing in the middle of the road. I stand still, holding Emmy while she pants at my side. She breaks free and runs into the street. Ben sits up and turns, rubbing his head like nothing happened. My chest tightens, and I try to move, to go to him, but I can’t. The darkness holds me back. In a single instance, everything collapses, and I’m alone again.

“Ben? Emmy?”

They aren’t here, Nicola. You know that. It’s just you and us.

“Why did you show me that?”

You created the loop, Nicola. You have something you need to work out. So, how did you do?

“I didn’t work anything out. I’m still trapped in here with you!”

Yes, but it’s better this way, isn’t it? You get to think about things while Martha handles the other side.

“The other side?”

Yes, Nicola. The other side of your lives. You’ve made a mess of things there.

“None of this is my fault!”

Oh, Nicola. Weren’t you paying attention?

A small sob escapes me. “I want to go home.”

Yes. And this is your home, too. Haven’t we taught you anything?

“You think I could have saved Emmy and spared Ben’s life? Is that it? Because life doesn’t work that way. You can’t look back and see what could have been.”

That’s right. But consider this: the crow isn’t real. It was never even there.

“What are you talking about? Of course it was there.”

There was no crow. There was only you, Emmy, Ben, and us.

“But I saw it!”

You saw what you needed to see for it to make sense. She was talking to you, so you saw the crow.

“No! There was a bird. I watched it land.”

Try and remember, Nicola. Remember the day.

The truth is, I’ve forged a memory out of pieces and fragments of a broken recollection, out of things Emmy has told me, and out of the whispers I’ve gathered here in the darkness. But the crow, I am certain I saw it. It’s been locked in my mind, harnessed there and holding on, vivid, as if I were not even in my own body at the time.

Try and remember what really happened when you looked up.

“I can’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Think, Nicola. Try to remember.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Then let us help you.

The breeze of the day—that day—hits my skin. I open my eyes. I’m outside under the dappled light of the trees. The sun behaves as if it has risen only to shine on us. Everything in the road is clear. Ben walks up ahead, head bowed, the steady shuffle of his gait that indicates he is staring at his phone.

Missing button. Emmy’s frayed shoelace.

Emmy turns, her smile soft, but also sad this time, the slight glimpse of wanting in her eyes. Ben’s hands are quivering as he tries to work his phone through the shattered screen.

Emmy said the night before that we probably should get a divorce if we were going to argue like this. She was right.

I look at Ben, and I see it: the bills piling up at home, his shuffling, uncertain gait, him sitting in the kitchen working on one of his various creative projects, the house needing to be cleaned, the dishes needing to be done. I see myself coming home from work and doing all the laundry, the dishes, the cooking, the grocery shopping, and then starting again the next week, getting up, going to the office, holding meetings, running my team, keeping clients happy, keeping my boss happy, answering emails at all hours, being sleep-deprived and earning less than I should, never being allowed to finish my complete thought, always waiting for the underhanded compliment, the backbiting, the man who will take the promotion instead of me, the younger, prettier, less bedraggled version of me that will soon take my job.

It grows inside me like a full picture coming into focus. Why couldn’t I see it before? The colors, the depth of it grows darker at the center.

We were going to lose the house. At long last, that’s what everything had come to. And it was Ben’s fault.

Back to the night before, I see him sitting there, hatred for what he had done spewing from me, uncontrollable anger.

What did you do, Ben? Forge my signature or something?

He sighed, a long, frustrated release. I told you. I had no choice.

Bullshit! There is always a choice!

There is always a choice, isn’t there?

Flashes crowd my vision. I see Ben. Good Ben. Kind Ben. Smart but not intellectual Ben, who did pizza nights for Emmy and her friends and let them stay up late and watch scary movies. Ben who knew how to make a crazy amount of friendship bracelets, or do Emmy’s hair when it got frizzy, or expertly carve a pumpkin. Ben who everyone liked best and noticed first because of his smile. Ben who everyone found funnier and a lot more charismatic than I’d ever be. I see it all like a whirlwind, circling, circling around me.

That’s when I swear I hear it. The caw of the crow. I look up, and I see the smooth wings and shiny black body, the crow’s darkness so much like my own. I stop, transfixed there, and wonder for a split second. An atom-sized thought passes through me and into oblivion, too small to notice, too microscopic to be considered real, but there passing through me, nonetheless.

And it’s not mine at all. It’s hers. It arrives like a microscopic glitch in the movie reel. So faint, so fast, but there as clear as day.

I hear it now. At last. And the darkness is pleased with me. The truth unfolds like a blanket all around me.

Martha’s voice rings now in my ears, as it did that day.

What if Ben were gone, Nicola, just like your Daddy?

46

Martha

I’ll admit, things might have gotten out of hand.

But what you have to understand is this: the darkness isn’t a place for anyone to live. And I guess I don’t mind saying now that the cat is out of the bag … I’d had enough.

Enough of the waiting.

Enough of the scraps and fragments of life.

Enough biding my time while Nicola lived her life with Ben and Emmy.

And do you know what really irked me? It was the ingratitude Nicola had for her life. For her perfectly imperfect life. Her job, her house, and her doting husband, who—yes, okay—had a little problem with money.

She wasn’t exactly giving up, but she wasn’t thriving either.

The migraines. The pills. The suicidal thoughts. The depression. It was all so boring.

And maybe I’d grown a little tired of her martyrdom.

So, I thought to myself that I’d take something from her. Just a little something. Her sense of safety. Her entitlement to life. I thought I’d mix things up a bit, show her how grateful she should be for her family, her freedom, her life.

She would never thank me. I knew that. Of course. I didn’t do it for thanks.

I had no idea the car coming through that stop sign would be a Rolls-Royce or that the driver would reverse and run from the scene. That Ben would die so violently or that Emmy would get caught up in the clutches of that day.

That was the accident.

I’d only meant to stir things up a bit. Get Nicola to wake up.

And did you, Nicola? Did you?

No. If anything, you went deeper into sleeping through your life. Medicating your way through, claiming migraines and pain and grief and loneliness, blah, blah, blah. Isn’t it all so tedious?

So yeah. Things didn’t exactly pan out as I had hoped. And that’s on me.

Granted, I had Nicola’s best interest in mind. But truth be told, when I felt her slipping away again into despair and depression, it became clear that maybe Nicola didn’t even deserve the life I had given her.

She took everything for granted, including me.

I’ve been a bad Martha, you could say. But I don’t regret anything, including my penchant for doing away with unacceptable men.

Nicola’s father.

Ben.

And of course, there is one more.

Useless, half-formed, undeserving of life, the lot of them.

The best way to end a person is through their weaknesses so that death becomes the only inevitability. Weaken, weaken, then snap. Just when they are nicely bowed and ready.

The lullaby I used to sing to Nicola to put her to sleep after her father had been raging went something like that.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.

Mama’s gonna find you a mockingbird.

And if that mockingbird don’t sing,

She’ll snap its neck and drown it in the bathroom sink.

It was always my song. My words. My voice. I drove her to live, live, live, and she never appreciated it. My sacrifices. My love. My giving.

Back in the car, I can barely start the engine before Emmy is asking, “What’s happening? Can my mom come home tomorrow after this?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “Just like we planned.”

She smiles excitedly and buckles her seat belt. She turns to me, and suddenly I’m in her arms. “Thank you, Martha.”

I feel my body tense and shrug her off. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes,” she says. “I do. Before you got here, everything was a mess, and I knew my mom wasn’t happy. But now, it’s like there’s hope again.”

My spine tingles. Nicola can hear this. How can she hear it? Because Emmy has that ability to draw her forth, draw her out. That’s why it’s best to keep Emmy quiet.

“Okay, okay, enough with the sentimental bullshit.”

Emmy smiles, and I step on the gas. I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket and take a quick glance. Nubia again, wanting to know what’s going on. I throw the phone to Emmy. “Here. Tell her I can’t talk. That I’m sick or something.”

“You want me to lie?”

I catch Emmy’s eyes. “Yeah. Obviously. You really want Nubia caught up in all of this?”

Emmy shakes her head. “I guess you’re right.”

Outside, the wind blows in the trees, and the night sky clouds over with mist from the ocean. Nicola is thudding against my skull now. I feel her anger, her rage starting to burst forth, a volcano erupting. It seeps through, stronger than I would have imagined. I wasn’t counting on her finding out about Ben quite yet. I need her to be quiet and good for just a little longer.

We stop at Pick Up Stix, and Emmy runs in for an ironic bag of Chinese takeout. All the while I sit, listening to Nicola’s screams. I thump my head quietly against the headrest, then the window. Finally, I pinch at the back of my skull until the little sore begins to bleed, my own flesh—our flesh—in my fingertips.

“Enough,” I whisper to her. “It’s as good as done now.”

47

Bambi

The story is everywhere—on all the news channels, the headlines pinging through on her phone and laptop. The magazine stories coming through text messages from friends taking snapshots and sending them to her. The world knows. LaMonte is filing sexual assault charges, and Jason’s contract is effectively canceled. The studio is done with him, according to Agnes. Footage of her and Jason at the hotel alone, standing in the lobby arm in arm, before it happened, gets leaked. Suddenly, it seems so natural that he would be exposed.

Bambi switches off the TV. She can’t stand to see another headline about it.

She holds her stomach and sips the decaffeinated tea, her legs curled up in the oversized white chair in their living room. She pulls the throw blanket around her shoulders and shudders in the cold house.

This is good, she tells herself. She can leave now, no questions asked. She isn’t sure about the other part, but Martha told her it was necessary.

This time it had been Lauren LaMonte, but who had it been before? In her mind, Bambi traces back over Jason’s series of co-stars. Blondes, a brunette here and there, one redhead with short bangs whose name she confuses with another celebrity. Bambi never kept track of them. Now she wishes she had. One by one, their faces spring up in her mind’s eye. So many kisses and after-parties. Small waists and high heels. Bodies so fatless and perfect they scarcely looked real, and to her, that was saying something. They were abnormally thin and small in real life. Not at all the way they were on the screen.

Most celebrities are like this. Small, frail, and too real when you see them up close. Like with Jason, the magic gets lost when they’re before you, shaking your hand or looking aloofly off to the side to wave to someone else more important than you. A fake smile for you, but for Jason? They’d clutch his arm, entwine themselves around him in an antagonizing embrace that she could scarcely stand.

And then there were the interviews. The way they’d stand or sit next to one another in the press junkets. The flirtatious eyes and pretend sister-brother comment she’d hear them throw around. “So-and-so is like a sister to me,” was Jason’s favorite line. Bambi cringes, thinking now of how she sat, watching him on stage presenting an award with one of them—a tall blonde with a round face, all legs and breasts—and the way he held her lightly by the waist as he said his line, “And the Oscar goes to …”

Not wanting to appear small-minded or as an outsider, Bambi played along. The role of the good celebrity’s wife. Isn’t that what was done? But lately, Bambi had been made to feel a fool. A silly fool that all the world was laughing at behind the scenes. And meanwhile, Jason betrayed her on set after set after set. His people—ferocious and hungry for his fees—lapped up the scandals for him and stomached dirty abuses to keep their money coming in. He was their cash cow, after all.

How didn’t she see it? Or was it that she chose not to?

She sits up when she hears Jason’s keys in the lock and flicks on the TV—another station—a silly movie. Footsteps. He comes into the TV room, shoes still on, and plunks down on the sofa nearby, feet on the table. His eyes are wild, hair greasy but slicked back. He runs his hands over the stubble forming around his chin. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

Does he know? Bambi wonders. Agnes has always been good at keeping things from him. But then he grabs the remote and changes the channel to the news without a word. CCTV footage. LaMonte’s spokesperson talking next to footage of her on set from an earlier film.

“Sources claim that LaMonte is filing rape charges, and LionDale Pictures has dropped Jason Redfern’s contract, effectively putting the duo’s latest release—The Hurting Game—on the shelf.”

Jason turns up the volume. His phone rings.

“Agnes. It’s a fucking shit show. Where is Allison? We need her getting interviews. Now.”

“Sweetie, just calm down. We’ll get Allison on it, okay?”

He flicks the phone on speaker and eyes Bambi as he paces the living room, talking.

“Of course I didn’t see the cameras. How could I? How the fuck was I to know I was being set up? Can’t we make this go away?”

A pause. “Did you do it, Jase?”

“Of course I didn’t do it. I never touched her, Agnes.”

Bambi is sure she can hear Agnes breathing in a cigarette. “Did you rape her?”

“Absolutely not.”

Eyes flash to her, and Bambi feels sick. She stays put, watching him, the whites of his eyes growing larger.

“Well, she doesn’t see it that way, honey,” Agnes intones.

“Co-stars get close. It happens. But I never hurt her. Not that way.”

“I get it,” Agnes says. “But the public won’t. As far as they are concerned, this isn’t about infidelity. It’s about rape, and they think you did it. They believe her.”

“Jesus Christ. We fucked, okay? But that isn’t rape, Agnes. You know this. How do you have on-set chemistry without chemistry?”

Agnes is silent. “Jason, they are claiming you assaulted her. Do you understand? That this happened repeatedly on set. Other women want to come forward.”

“What women?”

Agnes sighs. “I don’t know. Other women. Women who claim you did the same to them.”

“Bullshit!” Jason shouts, his voice breaking. “There were no others.”

Agnes sighs, the change in her palpable. “Cut the shit, okay? We both knew this was going to come out sooner or later.”

“So that’s it, huh? Just like that?”

“Well, no, that isn’t it. But it doesn’t look good for me to be representing you anymore,” says Agnes.

Jason sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Agnes. Please. Don’t do this. I need you.”

“Graham will stay on, but I’m done, Jason. Understand? I’m dropping you.”

“Fuck! Agnes!”

Agnes coughs, a final little sputter. “Goodbye, Jason.”

He hurls the phone across the room, his body panting as if he might cry, but he doesn’t. Bambi curls up and sinks deeper into the chair. He turns to her. “I want an interview. Tomorrow. Call Allison and tell her to make it happen.”

“What? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His fist slams down on the table. “Get Allison and get me an interview, Bambi. Something big. CNN. Fox. ABC. I don’t give a shit. Just get me an interview so that I can put this whole thing to bed.”

“Jason, why don’t you sleep on it?”

He sits on the edge of the couch and drops the phone onto the coffee table before leaning in. “I swear to God. I am going to go to the press tomorrow. And I can either do it with your help or without your help. Get Allison to call everyone she knows. I’m doing a live interview tomorrow.”

He picks up the centerpiece off their coffee table and throws it across the room, where it shatters against the far wall, breaking a picture of the two of them. Bambi takes in a sharp breath and pulls the blanket around her tighter. Eyes closed, he leans back. Then in one quick movement, he leaps up and goes into the kitchen. Bottle opening. Glass. Pour. He returns with a drink.

Jason knocks back the glass and gets up. He pours a second. In moments, he returns, his eyes calmer but dark. She watches him silently as he paces the room, aware that all the moments when he would drink, the late nights with the crystal glasses, the bourbon, whiskey, the expensive bottles of Scotch sent from abroad, were a kind of admission. A quiet indulgence for when he had been unfaithful to her, the tonic to numb away his guilt, sip by sip.

She thinks back in time to try and remember when it began, but she can’t quite place it. She just knows that the drinking grew with his career—the stories, the rumors, the whispers.

“Did you love any of them?” Bambi finds herself asking.

Jason looks at her, eyes vacant. “What, Bambs?”

“I said, did you love any of them? The actresses?”

He leans back, eye closed, and finishes his drink. “I love you. That’s all. Isn’t that enough?” A line delivered, just like in one of his films. She almost wants to yell, “Cut! That’s a wrap.” Because it is. It is over. There is literally nothing else to say. Her cheek pulses and aches. He stares at her, but stares past her, like she isn’t even there. In the mirror across the room, he searches for his reflection, and Bambi cringes as he admires himself.

He loves himself, even now.

But does he love her?

Perhaps love to Jason isn’t real, just something he pretends. The real thing inside him was never akin to love but something like possession. Bambi holds the tiny bulge of her abdomen. If he knew …

She doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, but Jason would never stop otherwise.

He would never let her go.

48

Martha

Back at home, Emmy shrugs off her hoodie and shuffles into the living room, the plastic bag of greasy fare swinging from one hand. She settles in, and Scotch leaps into her lap, baring his teeth at me as I sit down. Emmy shushes him, and with a click of the remote, the TV is on—some entertainment show with a flashy announcer who has what Emmy tells me are called veneers now. Her too-white teeth and royal blue top look luminous against the earthy tones of the set around her. I sit beside Emmy and turn up the volume as the host switches gears to cover the latest in Hollywood.

“And now, turning our attention to the Redfern LaMonte saga. ET caught up with Jason Redfern’s co-star Lauren LaMonte’s spokesperson, who says LaMonte is distraught over what happened and has filed charges against her long-time co-star and Hollywood’s most prized leading man.”

A red-haired woman pops into frame, a microphone in her hand, eyes pinched like she should be wearing sunglasses, even though the shot is at night. “We know what happened,” she says, her voice gruff with overuse. “Miss LaMonte is telling the truth, and all I have to say is Jason Redfern needs to be exposed. She isn’t the first to suffer these abuses, and unless something is done, she won’t be the last.”

“What about her film with Jason, The Hurting Game, recently shot in LA? Has production ceased? Will it still be released?”

Emmy sits forward, the greasy Chinese takeout container balanced above Scotch’s head. Her hands absently lift the pair of chopsticks and noodles to her mouth. She chews stoically, watching.

“I have no comment on their recent film or what the plans are for that.” She pauses to clear her throat. “Miss LaMonte wants everyone to respect her privacy. This is not an easy time for her. Thank you.”

“Was LaMonte romantically involved with Redfern prior to the alleged rape?”

“I have no further comments at this time.” With a wave of her hand, she gestures for the camera to move and heads off. The shot whips around to the journalist, another woman, with olive skin and dark, frizzy hair.

Emmy mutes the television as it goes to a commercial.

“Wow, he’s a total piece of shit.”

“He’s worse than that,” I tell her.

Emmy uses chopsticks professionally, spooning little kernels of rice and sweet-and-sour pork toward her mouth. I’m watching her when the phone at my side rings. She glances at me and then back at the TV.

“Is it them?”

I glance at the number. ID blocked. Just like Bambi’s. Green button. Slide to answer. “Hello?”

“Did you get it?” Bambi’s voice sounds oddly calm for this time of night.

I sit forward, letting the takeout container slip from my lap. Rice kernels fall onto the couch and the floor. I brush them off and stand up. “Yeah. I got it. Why?”

Heavy breaths and the sound of Bambi somewhere small and enclosed make me realize she’s hiding from him. My skin prickles with chill bumps.

“Tomorrow.”

I swallow the last of the greasy fried rice. “Are you sure?”

“It has to be.” She pauses, her breaths mounting. “They’ve canceled everything. His agent dropped him. He’s unstable, Martha. You don’t understand. I can’t … I just can’t anymore.”

My mind races. We’ve been over this, but it bears repeating. Everything must happen in a very specific sequence. “I’m coming over.”

“No!” Her voice rises, then immediately quiets. “I’ll meet you.”

“Where?”

“Your house?”

I step into the kitchen, aware Emmy is listening. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Fine. The café on Third, then. The little French one.”

“It will be shut. It’s almost 9 p.m.”

I hear Bambi thinking, a low noise in the background, like the TV is on. I realize she is hiding from him in one of the spare rooms.

“Where then?”

The spot. Our spot. It’s perfect, in an ironic kind of way.

“Go to the corner of Beverly and Oakhurst.”

A breathy pause. “Okay. Fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hang up and spot Emmy behind me, staring. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I need to go out for a bit.”

“You’re meeting her at the spot. Why?” She shifts her weight and crosses her arms.

“Because Bambi needs me.”

She goes to the kitchen barstool and grabs her hoodie, Scotch trotting after her curiously. “I’m coming with you.”

An exasperated sigh releases from my lips. “No, Emmy.”

She grabs her black hoodie and throws it on, a defiance as she dresses. “You can’t make me stay here.”

I pull up a car’s length behind the stop sign and turn off the engine. Emmy rolls down her window so that the night air whips in and, with it, the smell of exhaust and fast food from across the street.

Emmy exhales and puts her seat back, her hoodie up. I can just see the side of her face.

In the backseat, the bottle of Macallan sits upright in a paper bag, buckled into the seat like a child. I reach back and unhook it.

“I don’t understand why it has to be now,” Emmy whispers.

I stare straight ahead, watching the cars swipe back and forth across the intersection, each one a blur of light and color.

“Ever hear the expression ‘It’s now or never’?”

She gives me a look. “Yeah? So?”

“Well, it’s now or never.”

Emmy smirks. “You know you’re technically endangering a minor right now, right?”

“Very funny. The only person who should be scared of me is Jason Redfern.”

Emmy kicks her feet onto the dashboard, her striped socks faded gray where they should be white. “I didn’t think it mattered to me so much,” she mumbles. “But when I think about it, I feel better.”

“Think about what?”

“You know. Making him pay.”

A smile creeps across my mouth. Several minutes pass, and we sit in silence, waiting. Soon, from across the street, a white Porsche turns toward us. “Showtime.”

Bottle in hand, I get out and head across the dark street to where Bambi is parked, Emmy following me. Bambi rolls her window down halfway, her eyes flick to Emmy, to me, and back again.

“This is Emmy, my sister’s kid,” I tell her preemptively. “She wanted to come along.”

Bambi gives a tired half smile. “Hi. Listen, I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Did anyone follow you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Here.” I thrust the bottle in the paper bag to her through the window. She takes it, surprised.

“This is it?”

I nod. “I marked the side with a tiny blue dot so that you’d know, in case he has another bottle at home.”

“He does,” Bambi says, her voice distant and unsure.

“Empty it. Throw it out. Whatever you have to do. Just make his drink with this. And only this.”

Bambi nods obediently. Her eyes drift toward her abdomen and the invisible life inside her. “What if it doesn’t work?”

I turn to Emmy, who’s listening to every word.

“It will. After the interview, you make him the drink. Your bags will be in the car.”

“Your car.”

I nod assuredly. “Yes, my car. I’m changing the plates, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So, you will take my car and head to this address.” I pull out the piece of paper from my pocket with the name and address written in Sharpie. It wasn’t hard to find in Nicola’s phone, along with all her personal info, even her bank accounts. Those will come in handy.

Bambi unfolds the paper, exposing the oversized handwriting. “Where is this?”

“Nubia Ramos. She’s a friend nearby. Remember, get out of the city as fast as you can. You can’t stay in LA.”

Bambi nods. “Right.”

“Give him the drink. Get in the car and get out of there. Understand?”

“Yes. I get it.”

She swallows, her throat thin like a bird’s neck. “What if it’s too much?”

“Jason will be fine,” I tell her, trying to make my voice sound certain. “The house is full of EpiPens. This is just a distraction. Something to buy you time.”

She eyes me, frantic, unsure.

“You wanted a way out, Bambi. This is it.”

“I know, I know,” she says. Bambi starts winding up her window when Emmy reaches out and leans in.

“Don’t let him open the bottle himself,” she says, and I smile inside because she’s thinking ahead.

Bambi’s head arches back in surprise. “What? Why not?” She looks at the bottle.

“It’s already been opened. He’ll notice.”

Smart kid. “She’s right,” I add. “If he suspects anything …”

“I get it,” Bambi says. “You don’t have to explain.”

Hands up, I step back from her car. She winds up the window, and the engine purrs.

“See you tomorrow,” I call through the glass, but Bambi doesn’t hear me. She’s already pulling out and reversing up the street so she can cross the busy intersection and head back into the hills.

49

Nicola

The realization washes over me: She did this. All of it. It was Martha all along.

My father.

Ben.

Jason Redfern.

Her!

Why didn’t I see it? Where had it been all along? Perhaps I just didn’t want to see it. The truth is ugly that way. So, we shove it down deep, in places where no one can see what we know, what we hide.

Did I give her permission that day, or did she just take it?

Did I ever give Martha permission for anything, or like the darkness itself, has she always been swallowing me up whole?

I can’t tell anymore.

The loop has paused, the truth wrung out like blood from an open wound. Coursing, spilling, seeping, it rushes forth. Undeniable.

Martha was there. The crow wasn’t a crow at all. It was her. Her voice. Her question. Her suggestion, taking root and making the unthinkable happen.

Had I not listened to her, I could have stopped it. I could have pulled my family back from that car. I could have saved us all.

I can see it now. The darkness, even in all its confusion, has illuminated the truth for me. Bambi and I are not so different after all. Victims of a twisted, wrong kind of love. Victims of cruelty. Victims now of Martha’s own agenda. That’s why there is no getting even. There is only more and more pain if I don’t get out.

“Ben!” I cry out his name, an animal-like wail. “Can you hear me? Ben, I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t your fault, Nicola. And besides, all is not lost yet.

“You knew?”

I feel him now, his voice a breath on my ear. Of course I knew. I’ve been waiting for you to see it, too.

“How could she do this?”

How? You know how. She wanted what she never had, what you long for now. The light is hers, and she’s not going to give it up.

“I need to save Emmy! I have to get out! I have to stop her!”

There’s only one way to do that.

“Tell me, for God’s sake!” My voice turns sharp and cracks, and suddenly I am speechless.

You know, Nicola. You have always known.

Before I can form a thought and hold onto it, set it free, I tumble back into the darkness—the black casket of my mind—and all the lights go out.

50

Bambi

Her hands grip the wheel, sweat beneath her palms. The street pulsates with energy, the feeling of too many cars, people on the sidewalk. The house is surrounded. Thankfully, someone called security, and two guards stand at the gates, keeping back as many paparazzi as possible from swarming the front gate. Bambi pulls up, eager to escape as the flashes angle toward her, the quick click, click, click of their cameras. A scream bubbles up in her throat, and her head spins as she pulls into the garage, the roof of the car barely missing the door. She shuts it as quickly as possible behind her. A security guard approaches the garage and knocks as she gets out of her car.

“Mrs. Redfern? Are you all right?”

She nods, then realizes he cannot see her. “Yes,” she calls hesitantly. “I’m fine.”

“We’ll have this shut down as soon as possible. Please set the house alarm when you get inside.”

“Yes,” she calls through the door. “I will.”

Bambi stumbles into the house and kicks off her shoes at the door. Her legs quiver as she wanders from room to room, pacing, checking. She sets the alarm, then stashes the bottle of Macallan in the kitchen. A quick scan reveals three other bottles. She grabs them and stashes them far back in Lucita’s cleaning supply closet, somewhere Jason would never think to look. She can’t risk taking them to the trash outside and being seen. Or being photographed with them. To think of it!

Her mind races. Where are the EpiPens? There was always one in Jason’s travel bag and one under their bathroom sink upstairs, where he keeps his shaving cream and new razors. One downstairs in the office desk drawer. And one in the kitchen. She checks the junk drawer and finds it, remembering the moment he made her stash it in there last Christmas for safekeeping, just in case.

Perfect. Easy access. Martha’s words ring in her head: Jason will be fine. This is just a distraction.

Bambi takes out two glasses from the cabinet. She checks the ice machine one last time. A quick part of the curtains reveals two more paparazzi across the street, sitting on the hoods of their cars. One of them is smoking. He looks up at her when the curtain moves, and Bambi flaps it closed and collapses into the breakfast nook. From the living room, the TV news turns on, full volume.

“Fucking A!” Jason shouts from the living room, and something crashes against the far wall. The interview will happen soon, but not soon enough. The press are all over them now, bloodhounds circling in for a kill.

When Lucita comes downstairs, Bambi takes her arm and guides her to the back door, looking out to the guesthouse and the pool. She holds her hand and says the words Martha told her to say, but in a softer voice so it won’t frighten her.

“Lucita, you need to leave. I’m afraid we have to let you go. Starting today.”

At first, her brown eyes flash angry, then a wave of sadness breaks on their surface. Tears form, baubles in their corners. “Por favor, Miss Bambi, why? Is everything okay?”

Bambi shakes her head, unable to speak. She cannot believe it has come to this.

There is a rare moment of eye contact between them. She squeezes Lucita’s hand and leans closer. “Please,” she says quietly so that Jason will not hear. “Things are not good. You did nothing wrong, but please, you have to go now. Do you understand?”

Lucita looks into her eyes, and a flicker of recognition forms. Her lip quivers, a surge of maternal protection showing. “Let me help you. Please, Miss Bambi.”

She shakes her head no, not wanting to meet her eyes.

From the kitchen cabinet under the sink, Bambi reaches in and pulls out an envelope full of cash—three months of pay—she’d stowed at the very back.

“Take this,” she says and hands the envelope to Lucita. “Go out the back. A car is waiting for you.”

Lucita nods once.

Bambi grasps her hand one last time, then throws her arms around her. When she pulls away, she holds her firmly by the shoulders. “Do not come back here.”

Lucita leaves quietly through the back and out the poolside gate, down the alley where no one will see her. Bambi watches her go, and her gut pangs. She feels her shoulders drop a little. It’s going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.

When the phone finally rings, the house falls silent. Jason mutes the TV and shouts once through to Bambi. She goes into the living room, where he points to the oversized armchair, instructing her to sit. He clicks on the speakerphone, and a timid voice says, “Jason, I’ve got Cecilia Green here with Hollywood Tonight.”

“Thank you. Jason, how are you?”

Jason eyes Bambi as he answers. “That’s a stupid question. Have anything better?”

A guttural little laugh on the line. “How about this: why did you allegedly rape your co-star, Lauren LaMonte?”

“I’ve already said this, and I will say it until I’m blue in the face: I did not rape anyone,” Jason says, his voice rising. He stares past Bambi to the cabinet of keepsakes and his own reflection in the glass. His jaw flexes, and his eyes narrow, like he’s studying his appearance. “The sex was consensual. Lauren and I became very close, but I regret the affair and the pain it has caused my wife.”

“Sources say that your wife is pregnant,” the reporter says. “How is this affecting her?”

Jason turns, his eyes aflame. Indignation stirring, he reaches for Bambi, but she flinches and gets up, pulling away. Jason swallows, at a loss for words.

“Jason? Are you there?”

“Our family is our business,” he says finally, though it is too late.

“Did you know your wife was pregnant?”

“I—I’ve said all I’m going to say about that,” Jason stammers. “The fact is, I’ve been put in an unfair and compromising situation by Miss LaMonte. And I want to talk about that.”

“Oh, really?” says the reporter. “Other sources say that this isn’t the first time these accusations have arisen from your on-set co-stars and that other women are prepared to come forward. What do you say to that?”

“This industry is a festering cesspool of incestuous cunts and fleabags,” he spits angrily into the phone, ire in his every word. “I’m telling you that I didn’t hurt anyone. Every single time was consensual,” he shouts.

“So, there have been other encounters? You’ll admit to that?”

“Are you fucking listening to a word I am saying? Everything I’ve ever done has been consensual and above board. That’s it. There’s nothing else to it. Everything else is pure lies.”

Bambi’s phone vibrates in her hand. She backs out of the room, Jason too involved to notice. Bambi scrambles to the foyer and instructs the security guards to open the front gate just enough for Martha to get through. Peeking through the front door, she watches Martha’s arrival in her Beetle and, to her horror, spots the little girl in the front seat.

Bambi opens the garage, paparazzi circling the partially open gate, the security guards pushing them back. Several of them call out her name. The air is full of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke, the faint odor of some paparazzo’s cheap cologne. Flashes and camera clicks abound as she closes the garage behind them.

51

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.

52

Bambi

Bambi steadies her hand as she measures out the Macallan, aware of Martha’s instructions. She makes a double, then fills the tumbler a third time. Ice cubes clink against the crystal glass as she drops them in, splashing the liquor over the sides. She leans over it and inhales, inspecting the fragrance for any trace. The strong fumes of the whiskey are overpowering, but then again, Bambi never did have a nose for such things. She swirls the cubes around in the glass, dissolving some of the frozen water. She sniffs again just to be safe. Nothing.

Her heart racing, she flits to the kitchen drawer, checking the EpiPen is there one last time. She pulls it out, its weight comforting in her grasp, and sets it at the side of the stove as Jason comes in.

“What are you doing?”

She turns, attempting not to look startled. “Preparing a drink,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “I figured you could use one.” Then, handing him the Macallan, she adds, “What did Graham say?”

“He says I’m fucked, that’s what Graham says.” He brings the glass to his lips and inhales. His eyebrow lifts, curious. “Is this the Macallan?”

Bambi nods. “Yes. Why?”

He sniffs it again. Bambi’s heart stops. Please, God—don’t sense anything. She smiles one of her smiles and goes to get the bottle from the liquor cabinet. “It’s a fresh bottle,” she says. “I just bought it.”

He glances at the bottle and then sets his glass down. “Well, my career could be over,” he says. “That little bitch has really fucked me over.”

Bambi looks down at her glass, full of sparkling water. The tiny bubbles pop and fizz, the effervescence providing a small, tactile comfort.

“And you,” he says, turning to her. “You made me look like a fucking moron. When were you going to tell me?”

“I just found out,” she says lightly. “I don’t know how the press found out.”

Jason eyes her. “Maybe your little friend Martha thought she’d make a quick buck or two by selling the information. Ever think of that?”

She stops. “Martha wouldn’t do that.”

“Huh,” Jason grunts. “Are you sure?”

Her throat tightens. “It doesn’t matter. It’s out now anyway. And besides, isn’t a baby what you wanted?”

Jason scrapes his hands through his unusually greasy hair, even for him. She can practically smell his unwashed body and the sweat from his row with the reporter from several feet away. Once upon a time, this scent enticed her. Now it sickens her to the core.

“Not anymore,” he says finally. “Not after all of this. How can I think of anything else except what is happening to me?” He sighs, eyeballing the drink, but not sipping. “I’m sick of this fucking town.”

“I thought you loved it here,” she says and takes a sip.

“No. I love New York. I’ve always hated LA. Full of sycophants and assholes.”

Bambi cringes openly, recognizing a line from one of his films. She nudges the glass toward him, heart racing. “Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

He takes the glass and brings it up to his lips, then stops. “Since when do you like me to drink?” he asks. “Since when, in fact, have you ever pushed a drink at me?”

Jason sniffs again and goes to the sink to dump out the contents.

Silently, he goes to the cabinet and takes out the bottle of Macallan that Bambi had shown him. He gets a fresh glass from the cupboard and pours the amber liquid almost to the rim, no ice. “Jase?” she says, her voice panicked.

“The ice smells funny. Besides, I like it neat tonight,” he says.

He knocks it back, downing it all in several jerks and swallows. He steps back and leans against the counter, his eyes dark. He glares at her, hatred in his expression, then refills the glass.

Bambi counts the shots. Double what Martha had instructed. “Slow down,” she tells him, her heart racing.

“I thought this was what you wanted,” he says. “You want me to drink, so I’m drinking. Maybe shut up and let me enjoy it for once.”

Perhaps she should stop him. Perhaps she should run to him and knock the glass from his hands. But she can’t move. Her feet are glued to the floor, her body paralyzed, watching as he holds it to his lips and downs the tawny-colored liquid, draining the glass dry.

“Fuck, that’s good.” He blinks rapidly and lets out a tiny cough. A red pattern forms at the base of his throat. Bambi watches the color climb, his skin changing.

He coughs again, trying to clear his airways. A hand to his throat, he rasps, “I don’t remember it being so strong,” he says and laughs bitterly.

Another cough, this time more desperate. He paces and pounds his chest, as if something is lodged in his esophagus.

Bambi shivers, the crystal glass in her hand, frozen in place. Jason paces back and forth, coughing forcefully, his airways constricting. He pounds his chest, heaves in oxygen, then at once, looks up at her, his eyes fearsome with rage. “What did you do?”

She staggers back, aware that the shellfish powder is taking hold as his hands clutch at his throat. From the other side of the kitchen, she can see his lips swelling, face reddening, the red rash climbing up his skin, ballooning the taut flesh beneath it. He staggers toward her. His eyes bulge, the whites the same eggshell color of their walls—the same dulled hue.

“You fucking bitch,” he shouts, his voice hoarse and retching. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

She runs from him to grab the EpiPen, but he stops before her, yanking open drawer after drawer, hands fumbling. The clang of silverware hitting marble, the burst of metal as it collides with their stone flooring. Bambi watches in horror as he searches through the drawers until he sees the bright yellow box of the EpiPen on the counter.

He grabs for it, tears open the packet with his teeth, then dislodges the cap and jams the tip into his thigh. His breath steadies, and for a moment, he regains himself. Jason stills, but the redness on his neck climbs higher toward his chin, his cheeks.

“I always thought it would be handy to have an extra one lying around. Just in case.” He wheezes. His eyes water with pure ire. “Just didn’t think you’d make me use it so soon.”

He gets up and lunges for Bambi, unsteady on his feet, powered by the jolt of adrenaline inside him. Bambi darts into the foyer, her eye on the garage door down the lit hallway. Jason catches her hair in his fist and yanks her to the ground. Her hand clips the edge of a crystal vase, and she pulls it down with her, smashing it to the ground. Tiny fragments of crystal scatter over the floor, flying wildly in every direction as she falls. They press into her flesh, one piercing her right knee when she lands, Jason above her, his hands around her neck, squeezing.

53

Martha

Bambi is turning the same blue color as the refrigerator’s inside light. A cool, pale hue washes over her while her hands claw wildly at the floor. Jason is above her, one knee bent ironically like a knight, the other aloft, the EpiPen jutting out of his thigh. Four steps, five, six behind him, maybe, his back arched and muscular in the sallow kitchen light. I stand watching, hidden from view, an incredible calm coming over me.

Counting now.

One.

Two.

Three.

Hold, steady, little bird.

Jason’s eyes bulge. There it is. The faint recognition forming. He releases Bambi and stumbles back, coughing, choking, clutching his chest.

With one hand, he yanks the EpiPen from his leg. Bambi stands, arms out wide, gasping for air. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s … It’s not working.”

Jason runs from the room, staggers really, and heads to the office next. Bambi follows. I listen to the footsteps, the sounds of the drawer opening, the pen being uncapped, the groan from his lips as he drives another needle into his thigh.

A little smile creeps over my mouth.

Perfect. Beautiful.

Coughs and wheezes. It won’t be long now.

“Breathe, breathe!” Bambi cries out. I hear her run upstairs and down again, yet another couple of pens in her grasp from his travel bag and the upstairs bathroom. These are the last two.

“Just do it!” he shouts, his voice weaker. “It’s not working!”

There’s a slight crash, then the sound of the remaining two pens uncapping. He must have grabbed them from her because I hear his voice cry out, like an animal in distress. Four needles of epinephrine. Not one of them working. What a shame.

“I’ll call 911!” Bambi shouts.

She runs back to the kitchen, where I’m there, waiting with her phone in hand. “No, you won’t,” I say, pocketing it.

“I have to!” she shouts at me. “The pens aren’t working!”

I can’t help the smile. All those days searching, carefully. I had to be sure there wouldn’t be any I’d missed. It had taken so long, and I’d been so diligent. I cannot let her spoil it now.

“He’ll go into shock,” she says, her voice low. “He could die.”

Before I can answer her, Jason plummets into the room, his face bloated, red, his hands clutched and clawing at his throat and chest. Desperate. Pathetic. Limp.

He catches sight of me. “You! You fucking did this.”

Amazing the beast can still speak!

He runs toward us with surprising speed and plucks a kitchen knife from its holder.

“You fucking bitch,” he cries, throat of glass and dirt. He lunges at us with the knife, as Bambi scoots her way toward me, nearer to the stove. Instinctively, I back into it, then find something heavy with my hand—the Maglite flashlight. I grab its handle, my arm braced. Bambi clutches my arm, one hand outstretched. “Jason, stop! Put the knife down! We’ll call for help!”

Jason leans forward onto the counter, knife in his hand. He points the tip at me, a jabbing accusation on his lips. “I always knew you’d be a problem,” he half-whispers, his throat nearly closing.

“Stop, Jason,” Bambi shouts. “We need to call 911!”

His lips part into a sneering, soul-crushing smile. “Yes, you will.”

He palms the knife handle and raises it aloft as he jets toward us, and guttural sounds rage from his lips. He grabs Bambi and yanks her to him. The knife slices through her left arm, sudden and fast, and she lets out a sharp, tiny cry, glancing down with shock at her blood spilling to the floor. The three of us struggle, Jason’s hand at Bambi’s throat again, his other stabbing the empty air toward me, blood droplets on the floor, our feet, slipping.

Jason squeezes, and Bambi falls to the floor, clutching her neck and gasping for air. He turns to me, his knife raised, eyes dark and menacing. I back into the fridge, the raised handle hitting my spine, and stagger away from him.

He sneers, just once, but that’s when I know. He lunges toward me and swings, and I leap back just in time. I raise the Magnum light and take careful aim. One swing, hard, and the head of the Magnum collides with his temple. His eyes roll back, his arms fall slack, and in moments, he’s lying at our feet, stunned and choking.

Bambi scrambles toward me.

“Oh my God,” she yells, eyes wide with horror. She runs to the kitchen wall and grabs the landline. “Oh my God, oh my God! We have to call for help.”

Instinctively, I slap the phone from her hands. It clatters noisily to the floor. “Don’t be ridiculous.” With one foot, I step on the phone and hear the plastic contort and snap.

“It’s self-defense,” she mumbles stupidly. “We won’t get in trouble.”

“Like hell we won’t.”

I stare into her large and defenseless eyes. She really is beautiful, even looking as she does with her face so distorted with fear. Part of me aches to have this all over with, the two of us someplace else, sand between our toes maybe, a sunset on the horizon, gossiping and laughing over cocktails, the way best friends would do …

It could be like that, just Bambi and me. I know it could.

Bambi kneels to Jason and strokes his hair from his eyes. Her face breaks into sobs, and her hand rises to her mouth, watching him, shaking as he chokes, the final toxins taking hold. “I can’t believe this. How could this happen?”

“It’s going to be okay,” I say sweetly to her.

She shakes her head. “No. No! It wasn’t supposed to be this way! The pens—not one of them worked. I don’t understand …” She stops and turns to me then, her eyes fierce. “You did this, didn’t you?”

My chest swells, a warm bubble of pride in my center. She’ll never know, of course, how carefully I found his pens, how, one by one, I made sure they were just the right temperature. And oh, how I’d studied the instructions to be sure: “EpiPens should be stored in dry conditions at 68° to 77°F to be effective.” And to be ineffective? Just do the exact opposite of what it says on the little yellow box. A nice pot of boiling water. Cooked for a few minutes each.

“Bambi, I did this for you, remember? So that you could be free?”

“Free? He’s dead now! I never wanted to hurt him, Martha! This is so fucked!” she screams. “How could you do this?”

“It’s going to be okay. You just have to trust me.”

“Trust you?”

“Yes!” I shout, louder than I intended. “Haven’t I been a good friend to you?”

“Friend?” Bambi stops. She glares at me. “You were never my friend, Martha. You’re no one—just someone I hired. And now you’ve ruined my life. Ruined it!”

I can hear Nicola now, her voice echoing in my skull. See? I told you.

“Liar!” My fist slams onto the ground, a tiny waft of anger emerging that I’d intended to save for later. But there it is, the pinprick of disaster on her flesh. She senses me now, and there’s no turning back.

There’s a clean rush of energy into my core, the thrill of something about to unfold, a river of vengeance swimming in my cells. Maybe he didn’t do it. Maybe he did. Maybe Bambi knew. Maybe she didn’t. What do I care? Either way, now they both deserve exactly what they are getting.

My vengeance is against a life unlived. All those moments waiting, hoping, asking, pleading …

I always wanted the light, even as Nicola wanted the dark. She longed for it to come forth, and I helped her. And isn’t that the way it always is with us humans—longing for our innermost demons to be exorcised, our pains and our wrongs to be avenged?

At last, vengeance is in my grasp. It comes easily and effortlessly as I stand watching Jason take his final rasping breath.

54

Bambi

Jason took no time to die. Bambi’s body began to shake, and she scooted back from the red river now coursing from her until she was back up against the far wall of the kitchen. She had been sitting, shaking there for what seemed like an eternity, Martha crouching nearby, just watching.

Now Bambi pushes up on her forearms. Hands shaking. “You knew all along. Didn’t you?”

Martha picks up the knife Jason had been holding and wipes it on the side of her trousers. She looks at her, unfeeling. “I saved your life. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Warm tears pool and brim from Bambi’s eyes. “Not like this,” her voice shakes. “Not what you just did.”

Martha shakes her head and sighs like a disappointed teacher. “You asked for my help, and I delivered. Seems to me you should be grateful.”

Bambi sniffs and releases another few tears down the front of her blouse. “You weren’t supposed to kill him!” she rages, her voice bouncing off the walls, an echo within an echo. “It wasn’t supposed to end this way!”

“Oh, shut up!” Martha yells. “Always your way, your way. Life isn’t all about what you want, you know? You people sicken me, you know that?” Bambi leans back, suddenly alight at Martha’s words.

“You people?”

“Yes. You people,” she spits. “You entitled, self-righteous people. Entitled to your pain, your misery. You have everything—a whole life—and instead of appreciating it, you’d rather wallow in self-pity and depression. It’s sickening. You have everything, and yet you choose not to live,” Martha yells. “Just look at you! You despise your life and everyone in it. You even despise yourself!”

“You killed him,” Bambi says, her voice calm and collected. “You think you won’t pay for that?”

“That’s an interesting concept. But tell me, did you pay for what you did, Bambi?”

“What are you talking about?”

Martha nears her, the knife braced at her side, her other arm waving, gesturing wildly. “What am I talking about? I’m talking about how you stood by while your husband cheated and raped and killed, and you never once stood up for anything, did you? You knew he was a rotten excuse for a human being, and yet you let him just carry right on, turning a blind eye to protect your perfect semblance of a life, didn’t you?”

Bambi’s face twitches, eyes narrow. “Jason wasn’t exactly faithful, but he wasn’t a killer …”

“Oh no?”

“You guys?”

Martha turns, and Bambi follows her gaze to the child standing in the entrance, fear painted on her expression. Her eyes clock the blood and the floor, and her breathing quickens. “What is going on?”

“Perfect timing,” Martha says. “Emmy, can you come here a second?” Martha leads with the knife, and Emmy obeys, coming over around the kitchen island. When her eyes spot Jason on the floor, she gasps and covers her mouth with both hands.

Martha pats her head and soothes her. “Don’t look at him,” she says and strokes her head in her hands, then turns so that Emmy’s scar is visible.

“Does this scar mean anything to you?”

Emmy’s eyes are terrified. She quivers as tears roll down her face.

“Well!” Martha shouts. “Does it?”

Bambi swallows, collecting herself. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Martha.”

She shoves Emmy away from her and points the knife at Bambi. “Funny, isn’t it? How can someone block out murder so easily?” She guffaws. The guffaws louden and turn to cackling as she doubles over herself in hysterics. “Actually, forget that. I happen to know exactly how that happens. Turns out, you just have to be a really cold-hearted bitch. Guess I would know!”

Bambi’s eyes enflame. “Fuck you, Martha. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Martha, let’s just stop, okay?” Emmy pleads, her voice strained and small.

Martha shakes her head, ignoring her. “No. Not you. You’re just perfect, aren’t you? Too good for everyone, including me.”

Bambi freezes as Martha wags the knife blade in Jason’s general direction. “I’m talking about Jason over there.”

Emmy glances between them, breathing rapidly. “Martha, we need to call the police,” she says softly. “This is enough.”

The blade of the knife redirects to Emmy. “See, that’s what I thought you would say, little one. Which is why we need to end this game of ours once and for all.”

“There’s no game,” Bambi says calmly. “Jason was an asshole and a piece of shit, but he wasn’t a killer.”

Martha’s eyes roll back in her head. “Like hell he wasn’t. He took out Emmy’s dad in broad daylight. Stop sign? No problem. He just sped right through, accelerating all the way, like the entitled piece of shit that he was. And do you know the ultimate clincher that even I wasn’t prepared for? He didn’t stop! He just left the scene. Left him to die. I mean, even I couldn’t have predicted that!”

“Is that why you wanted to help me?” Bambi says. “Is that why you came here? So that you could kill him?”

“Well, you’re not as dumb as you look,” Martha intones. “Isn’t she doing well, Emmy?”

Emmy swallows, knuckles white as she clutches the counter. “Martha, you have to stop. It’s enough. It’s done now. You did it, okay? We’re even.”

Her head whips around, hair wild, her eyes eerily empty. Bambi sees it, but it’s just that moment too late. “Not yet.” Everything slows down as Martha turns and smiles. “To think we could have been friends forever,” she whispers and lunges at her, the knife entering her sternum.

A trickle of blood forms at Bambi’s lips, and she can taste the deep metallic liquid next to her teeth. Martha pulls back, a slow, careful extraction from her midsection. Bambi clutches herself, aware that the blade just missed her belly. She falls to her knees and tightens a fist into her body to try to staunch the wound. She looks up, just in time to see Martha raise the knife, but Emmy barrels into her, taking her to the ground.

Bambi sinks lower to the floor as Emmy and Martha thrash and roll, the crimson color everywhere. A stern wave of nausea overcomes her, and Bambi gags, feeling herself coming undone. She pants and tries to keep her eyes open as Emmy grabs for the knife, and Martha snatches it and presses the blade to Emmy’s throat. Bambi inches toward her, hand outstretched, blood dripping from her fingertips.

55

Nicola

A thudding arrives from a long way off, a perfect faint rhythm. It grows nearer, like a little drum whose beat I recognize. It’s as familiar as a voice. The tump tump tump is in my ears. The sound is so unique, I feel it pulling at me, deep in the core of my body. It’s my sound. Her sound.

My abdomen bristles with life.

Emmy.

My child.

My baby.

The tump tump tump of her inside me pushes through the darkness, a sweeping mass of endless night, until I’m right behind Martha, breathing down the base of her neck. I’m right where she doesn’t want me again, and I know that I need to rejoin the light.

In the darkness, I try to run, my body heavy and slow, like pulling myself through tar. The emptiness does not move. There is only a void here and the thudding of Emmy’s life on the outside hanging in the balance.

I hear my name—not my birth name, but the one Emmy uses for me. “MOOOOOMMMMMM!!!”

It’s then that I know what must be. A tiny pinprick of light opens, and I run toward it, full speed, legs like deadweight in the endless dark. Voices encircle me—the cackling of my mother’s laugh, the terrorizing voice of my father when his sickness and rage consumed us, my own screams as a child, the sound of hands swatting flesh, dishes breaking, doors slamming, a car engine revving. The angry sounds chase me toward the light, which is growing now and expanding, becoming a vapor of escape, just out of reach. I pull myself toward it, the sensation of living coming into my fingers and toes. I can feel where Martha is now, and the light spreads open, yawning like a campfire burning hotter, brighter, higher. I see her now, knife in hand. And everything is red, red, red, all around, the stench of bodies and fear surrounding her.

The guilt encircles me and pulls me back. She is me. I am her. Toward the light, I sprint, tirelessly, guided by the heartbeat and the sound of Emmy’s quick breaths. My body plummets toward her, and I scream helplessly in the darkness for this to be the end.

As I approach the light, I can feel her, ready to take from me what can never be replaced. I throw myself into her reeking flesh, becoming her—becoming me once more. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. I know what I must do.

My hand releases the knife. I pull Emmy up to me and hold her in my arms, feeling her tired, shivering body. She is so much smaller than I remember. For a moment, she resists, then releases into my embrace.

“Mom?” she cries. “Is it you?”

“It’s me, sweetheart,” I tell her.

She throws her arms around me and buries her face in my shoulder. “I missed you so much.” She pulls back. “Martha … she … she …”

I glance around at Bambi and Jason and understand. “Shhh, baby, it’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m here now.”

Emmy releases a tiny sob. “Please don’t leave me again. You promise?”

I stroke her hair back, careful not to touch her scar, and kiss her forehead. She still smells the same to me—the baby in the crib, soft, new, perfect. “I have to take care of this,” I tell her, my eyes fogging. “I have to make this stop.”

Her lip quivers, and I sense that she knows. “I have to stop her,” I say to Emmy. “And there’s only one way I can do that. Do you understand?”

Emmy shakes her head. “No. You can’t. I won’t let you!”

“Listen to me, I have to,” I tell her and take her by the shoulders. “If Martha comes back, she will destroy everything. She will never stop.”

“Isn’t there medication, something you can take?”

I smile sadly at her innocence. I’ve tried all the medications in the world, and it didn’t matter. Martha found a way. She will always find a way. I somehow always knew it would come to this. “I can’t take that risk, Emmy. She’s hurt so many people already, and if she returns, I won’t be able to stop her again.”

Emmy bawls, her eyes swollen and red.

I hold her and rock her in my lap. Her little sweaty fingers press against my back. She cries quietly. “I will always choose you,” I tell her. “Forever and always.”

Here in the light, things are different now. I can look at my life without the deluge of anger rising. I can feel the truth and not want to run in the other direction. It’s all within me. The darkness and the light. The ugliness and the beauty. And it’s all okay. I’m okay. We are okay. Or at least we will be.

Emmy pulls back from me and points to Bambi wilting in the corner. “She’s hurt,” she says simply, and I nod. When I see Bambi lying there, I’m reminded that she’s not the accomplice I once imagined, just a sad and hurting woman who needs help. I have been her, and, in many ways, I still am her.

“We have to act quickly, Em. I need you to drive Bambi to the hospital. You are going to tell them that I did this, understand? I did all of it. You never mention Martha to anyone.”

Emmy nods. She takes out the keys from Bambi’s pocket. They jingle as her hand shakes. “What about him?”

“He’s gone,” I tell her. “You tell them it was me and say nothing else. I will take care of the rest.”

Emmy hugs me, hard this time. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Bambi needs you,” I whisper. “Her baby needs you, too.” I kiss her head and breathe her in one last time. “I love you, baby girl,” I coo to her and resist the urge to hold on to her and never let go.

We help Bambi up and into the foyer. At the door, Emmy and Bambi put on long coats to cover their clothes, caps, and sunglasses. Outside, I watch as Emmy helps Bambi into the Beetle. Emmy turns just once before I nod and open the gates. She mouths, “I love you,” then turns, shades down, and drives through as the lights flash and cameras encircle them.

Inside, door shut, I wander up to the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Up here, it smells of lavender and cleaning solution—sterile but not unpleasant. I run the tap and place the knife down at the edge of the sink, the blade glinting at me in the light, taunting. Bambi’s bathroom has perfect lighting, so I take myself in one last time. My thin nose, the hollows of my cheeks, now fuller since Martha has been eating. My eyes, determined.

I rinse the knife in the cool water until the traces of blood run off and swirl round and round, round, and round.

I’ve been through a lot, this poor body, this wretched time-worn mind. But I don’t hate myself. I don’t hate what I have become. My reflection stares back at me. Mother, Wife. Woman. I have loved and suffered greatly, and now it’s time for one last act.

Behind my ears, I can hear Martha screaming.

“Quiet, Martha,” I tell her. “You always knew it would come to this.”

Perhaps that is why she lived the way she did. Reckless and wild, as if nothing would ever stop her. Perhaps that is why she was fiery venom and revenge all rolled into one. Perhaps that is why I needed her.

I lean toward the sink and close my eyes, then open them and steady myself, knife poised at my jugular. I don’t want to make a mess. Their carpet is so white up here.

“Too bad,” I say out loud and smile. But I don’t really believe what I’m about to do is bad. Besides birthing Emmy, this release will be the single greatest of my life.

A breath. A single moment of focus. There is courage in meeting death. I think this and smile as I fall into oblivion.

Epilogue

I wear scarves now almost daily because Emmy insists on it. People sometimes stare, she tells me. Today, I’m wearing a red-and-white scarf that reminds me of everything that brought us to this day. It peeks out of the black dress that Emmy and I picked out from Nordstrom just enough to hide my scar. I don’t mind the scar, but I know it bothers Emmy, the last reminder of what happened that night.

“Is it going to be weird?” Emmy asks me.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we have to pay our respects to him and everything …”

“It would be weirder if we didn’t go.”

Emmy nods, seeming to understand. She walks close by as we head up the steps to the church. The doors open. Bambi Redfern is standing with her baby bump visible, greeting the few guests as they file in, heads bowed respectfully, despite what the tabloids have said.

Of course, we pinned it all on him. We would have been stupid not to.

It was Emmy who found me, pulled the knife from my grasp, and called 911. I don’t remember much of anything after staring at myself in the Redferns’ mirror. Not Emmy’s tears or the ambulance and the flashing lights. I was in the hospital for just a few short days. The darkness of the coma was different. It was quieter— much quieter—and in the moments before I came to, it was Emmy’s voice I heard first, muffled and sad. She was talking to someone nearby, but when I finally opened my eyes, I saw that the room was empty.

Later on, Nubia came to the hospital to visit. She brought a bright-yellow collection of daisies and a box of Russell Stover chocolates.

“Ay, Dios mío,” she said when she saw me, her face concerned but also disappointed. When we embraced, I felt the softness of her hair brush my cheek and remembered how much I adored her.

“You didn’t have to come.”

Nubia tsk-tsked and pulled a chair to sit beside me. She opened the box of chocolates and fed one into my mouth. “Don’t tell the nurses,” she whispered conspiratorially, then ate one herself.

We were silent for a moment before Nubia leaned toward me and took my hand. “You could have called me, but you didn’t.” Her voice sounds genuinely hurt.

“I know, but it’s not what you think,” I tried to explain. But how could I have told her that everything that happened was because of a terrible illness, one that kept showing up in our family? First, my father. Then me.

“Let Emmy and Scotch come stay with me for a couple of days, just while you get back on your feet, okay?”

I paused for just a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Nubia seemed pleased, and I could tell when I told Emmy later that she was, too. A flash of relief registered across her eyes, and I pictured her thinking that she’d be safe with Nubia. No more sick Mom. No more crazy Martha. At least for a little while.

Now Emmy and Scotch are back with me, and we’ve fallen into our regular routine. But today, things feel off somehow, as though we’ve regressed just a little. Even the weather, with its patchy gray skies, seems to know how we feel.

We meet Bambi at the steps of the church for the memorial service.

“You made it,” she says, and her eyes warm. We have an understanding, the three of us, and everything is different now. I take her hand and squeeze it for a quick moment, her flesh warm in my fingers. I can tell she wants to say something, that maybe some part of her still feels the connection she and Martha had, the connection I can’t remember.

“What about the reception?” Bambi asks, looking between us. “Are you coming?”

I look to Emmy, who seems nonplussed by the thought. “We can if you’d like us to …”

“I would,” she says simply. We head inside the cold church, the darkness encircling. The ceremony is quick and efficient, with no paparazzi in sight. They’ve managed to keep them out, behind the gated walls of the grounds. Bambi does not speak. She sits next to Lucita, who is crying quietly in the front pew. But Bambi, I notice, is stoic.

Afterwards, we wait outside the church underneath a leafless tree.

Bambi comes out to meet us and releases a long sigh. “It’s done now.”

I nod, unsure what to say. I know Bambi doesn’t blame me for his death, that she knows now about Martha and the rest of it.

“Are you going to be okay?” she says, looking Emmy and me over. “I mean, she isn’t coming back, is she?” There’s something hopeful in her voice that makes me sad. Sad because I know, despite what happened, Bambi cared for Martha. And who knows? Perhaps Martha even cared for her, too.

Emmy looks at me, her face screwed up with concern. She’s watchful these days, staying close by my side, just in case. Even Scotch sniffs me from time to time, as if to be sure it’s really me. But I don’t know how to make them understand that Martha is gone. The darkness is empty. Something happened when I was in the coma. I can’t explain how, but I know she isn’t with me anymore. I have the light. At least for now. And now is good enough for me.

“We’ll be fine,” I tell her. Overhead, a crow lands in the tree and makes a dull screeching sound. I look up, but no one else seems to hear it.

“How’s the baby?” Emmy asks, interrupting the sound.

“Due in the summer,” Bambi answers. She takes Emmy’s hand. “What you did that day …” she starts. “It was very brave.”

“I had no choice,” she answers, her voice firm. Her eyes harden a little, remembering that moment.

Only afterwards did I realize how much Emmy played a role in saving both of our lives. She called 911, of course, stayed next to me with a tourniquet held at my neck the whole time, then told the paramedics exactly what she saw Jason do and what we had to do in self-defense.

Sometimes I think I can see it—the aftermath of what I did to try and save her—taking its toll. It must have looked quite bad, me with the knife, the blood in the sink. I wish she hadn’t seen it—any of it. Trauma in our family comes out in peculiar ways.

Later, I find Emmy sitting on a swing set in the churchyard, her head hanging low, whispers emanating from her lips.

I hesitate for a moment, a knot in my stomach, then walk up behind her and place a hand on her shoulder. “Ready to go home?”

Emmy nods, and I shift around to see her face. Her eyes are swollen, cheeks puffy from crying.

She wraps her arms around me, pulling herself off the swing. “I know it’s hard,” I say. “But it’s all over now, okay? Things are going to be different from here on out.”

Emmy nods and wipes her eyes. “I know.”

I adjust the scarf around my neck, aware by the sensation of the cool breeze on my scar that it’s showing again. We both have one now—an unsightly scar we can’t keep hidden.

“Hey, who were you talking to just now?”

“You heard?”

I laugh a little. “Well, yeah. You were whispering.”

She sniffs and wipes her eyes. “It’s nothing, just something I have stuck in my head.”

“Oh? What’s that?” A breeze picks up and blows my scarf away from my throat again, exposing the bright red indentation of my scar to the air.

“It’s like a rhyme, but not the usual kind.”

Emmy begins humming the wordless tune. A few notes, and her voice dissipates on the wind.

“It’s like the nursery rhyme, but the words are all wrong.”

I kneel in the sand next to her, aware my scarf is trailing from my throat. I don’t try to grab it. “What do you mean?”

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” she sings. “Mama’s gonna find you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing, she’ll snap its neck and drown it in the bathroom sink.” Emmy gazes up at me, squinting in the failing light, her face alarmed. “What does it mean?” she asks faintly.

I swallow. The wind blows, revealing the pointed line of her own scar. It looks better, more healed, and yet it’s still as visible as my own.

I stand and step back as a chill runs over me and raises the hair on my arms.

I know this song. I just never thought I’d hear Emmy’s voice singing it. They aren’t her words. They never belonged to her. I know the answer, but I have to ask anyway because I can scarcely believe that the sickness didn’t die with my father and didn’t die with me. It’s been passed down again and again, a rampant, viral thing. Don’t ask me how. Ours is a particular brand of illness, one that encircles, lives within you, and even has a name.

“Emmy? Who is it that you hear?”

Emmy shakes her head and swallows. Even her name is a curse now.

“Her.”

Thank You—Plus a Special Bonus Gift

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About the Author

Ashley Mansour writes dark, addictive psychological suspense with domestic tension, emotional depth, and a cinematic edge. Her novels explore obsession, betrayal, power, and the unsettling truths that live beneath polished lives and intimate relationships. She is the author of the international bestseller Blood, Ink & Fire and the upcoming suspense novel Dark Ugly Places. Drawing on a background in publishing, film, and television development, Ashley brings a sharp visual sensibility and page-turning intensity to her fiction. She writes about rebellious women seeking vengeance, morally gray relationships, and unspeakable scandals. When she is not writing, Ashley works with aspiring authors to help them shape and strengthen their manuscripts. She lives in Irvine, California, with her husband, daughter, and Bernedoodle, Bernie.

Other Books by Ashley Mansour

Fiction

Blood, Ink & Fire

Nonfiction for Authors

The Writer’s Success Code

The Author’s Success Code

Coming Soon

The Girl That Jack Killed

Acknowledgments

Creating a book like this would not be possible without the support of my amazing team at Brands Through Books. Thank you to my editors of this book, Susan Barnes and Eve Keith, who helped me bring the story of Nicola and her family into greater focus. Thank you to my team member and lead coach, Jess Reino, for your invaluable feedback and encouragement that helped me shape the story into a more potent, powerful suspense novel.

To Sandy Harding: thank you for your expertise in zeroing in on the essence of the story and clarifying the emotional motivations of my characters even further. And to my fellow author, Valerie Tejeda, for your encouragement to continue down my chosen publishing path with confidence and conviction. The stars have aligned!

Thank you to my publishing team at Brands Through Books, Rikki and Tory, for keeping me on track and ensuring the smoothest path to launch. You are amazing! And to my expert book designers, Anton and Olivia. Roderick, thank you for bringing the dynamic cover to life. Without you, the book would never look as polished, professional, and as absolutely gorgeous as it does. I am forever grateful for your incredible talents. And thank you to Janine, whose diligence and support have helped me launch new websites, funnels, and initiatives to reach and grow my base of readers.

To my writing and publishing clients: thank you for entrusting me with your books, messages, and stories. It is a great gift to be your mentor and to support you in accomplishing your life-long goals of becoming authors.

I owe the biggest debt of gratitude to my family for supporting my writing and publishing endeavors, particularly my loving husband, who always finds a way to care for our family, allowing me the time, space, and mental freedom to write uninterrupted each day. It’s a great gift to have the support of a spouse, and I know that without that, these books would never see the light of day.

To my mom, who always steps in to help and makes it possible for me to dedicate time to my growing business and career. Your support means the world to me.

To my beautiful daughter, Bella. You have opened my eyes and taught me so much already. This book and every book I will ever write is for you, my love. May they become a legacy that builds and grows with time.