Page 102 of Dark Ugly Places

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?”