Page 79 of Dark Ugly Places

“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 …