Page 97 of Dark Ugly Places

“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.”