The Pretty Ones (9 page)

“It's terrible. Just, really horribly, terribly awful, don't you think?” She opened her eyes, flicked her glance upward, then looked away almost immediately. “I hope they catch him,” she whispered.

“Catch whom?” Lamont asked.

Nell's heart caught in her throat.

Why would you have said that?

Because she was stupid, that's why. A stupid pig, like Porky.

Th-th-th-that's all, folks!

“I don't know.” Nell shook her head, scrambling for words. “I don't know who did it.”

Of course not.

“I have no idea.”

Why would I?

“I just . . . who would do such a thing, Ms. Lamont?”

Nobody I know.

“Who would hurt someone as sweet as Linnie?”

Lamont said nothing, her eyes not once leaving Nell's face. Her unwavering look made Nell nervous. It was dubious, unsure—made her feel like the dirty liar she was.

Another beat of silence passed.

Maybe
she
would call the cops. Maybe that's why she'd called Nell into her office—to interrogate her. Harriet Lamont was a go-getter. She wouldn't leave ruining Nell's life to a cheap girl like Mary Ann Thomas. No way. If anyone was going to end up on the news for having helped apprehend Linnie Carter's killer, it was Lamont.

The boss exhaled a stream of smoke. She leaned forward, her forearms sliding across the top of her lacquered desk. “The world is a crazy place, Nell. I gather you
do
recall being in here last week, yes?”

Nell swallowed the wad of nerves that had gathered at the back of her throat. She managed an unsure nod. Sure, she remembered, but what did her last visit have to do with anything? “I haven't been late,” she said. “Not since that morning. I've been diligent, Ms. Lamont. I've been catching an earlier train just to make sure, to not leave anything to chance. You've got to believe me, I—”

“I believe you.” Lamont held up a hand, as if hoping the simple gesture of showing Nell her palm would calm her twitchy employee down. “This isn't about being late. This is about what we discussed when you were sitting across from me the same way you are now.”

Nell pinched her eyebrows together. What
had
they discussed? Beyond being reprimanded for her tardiness and Lamont telling her to change her life, Nell hardly remembered a word of what had been said. Lately, the headaches had made it hard to remember much.

“You don't recall, then, that I asked you whether you had many friends?” Lamont asked.

The arteries of Nell's heart tightened—a vise squeezing it from the inside out.

“I asked you whether you have many friends, and you admitted to me that you don't, isn't that right?”

Nell glared at her hands. She wouldn't answer. Lamont would have to pry her mouth open to get her to respond.

“Nell, a few of your coworkers find the claim that you and Linnie Carter were close a little odd.”

Nell peered at the crystal lighter at the corner of Lamont's desk. If she lunged for it, Lamont wouldn't have time to react. If she smashed it against her supervisor's head, she'd embed a corner of that lighter into the soft tissue of Lamont's brain. Lamont would slump back in her fancy office chair. Blood would stream down her face and onto her expensive blouse. If Nell turned Lamont's chair away from the office door, the entire secretarial pool would evacuate the building without being the wiser. Or maybe she'd tell Mary Ann that the boss wanted to see her. That hussy would discover the crime and be scarred for life. Quite possibly, she'd never be able to sleep again. End up in an asylum. Tear that pretty blond hair out one strand at a time while rocking back and forth, back and forth, Harriet Lamont's dead, glazed-over eyes forever etched into her memory.

“Nell?”

Nell snapped out of her daze, looked up at Lamont's pensive expression.

“You told me yourself that you weren't close with anyone here, and yet here we are. Frankly, I find it disturbing that you'd use her misfortune to your advantage.”

No. She refused to acknowledge what Lamont was suggesting.

No, she wouldn't speak.

Not in a million years.

“Look . . .” Lamont exhaled a breath. Though, with Nell's eyes fixed on the knees of her slacks, she couldn't tell if her boss was sighing in dissatisfaction or exhaling another stream of smoke. “The last time you were in here, I said that I can tell you're different from the rest of the girls. You at least remember
that,
don't you?”

Nell nodded, not lifting her eyes.

“I told you that I could appreciate that. Now, why do you think that is?”

“I don't know,” Nell whispered, though what she meant to say was
I don't care
. She didn't need to explain herself. Harriet Lamont may have been her supervisor, but that didn't mean she had the right to butt into Nell's personal affairs. And Linnie was very much a personal affair.

“You didn't bother to consider it?” Lamont asked. “That perhaps my appreciation for your differences is due in part to my being one of the different ones as well?”

Nell peered at Lamont through strands of mousy brown hair.

“You don't get to where I am by being like everyone else, Nell, especially not if you're a woman. I know it's tough for you, but what you've done today isn't right.”

“I didn't do anything.” It slid out of her throat, slippery, unable to be contained. “Mary Ann Thomas
hates
me, Ms. Lamont. I don't know what she told you, but . . .” Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Nell looked down again.
Shut up,
she thought.
The more you talk the worse you'll make it.
She knew using Linnie's death was wrong, knew that turning a tragedy into a grab for attention was low. But it had simply happened; it had felt natural, as though Linnie's death had been orchestrated just for her. One second, she was standing on the outside of the group trying to hear the news, and the next she was weeping into her hands and professing her sorrow for a girl she hardly knew.

But what harm did it do? It was a little white lie. It seemed fair. Linnie Carter had hurt her—the least the unappreciative slut could do was pay her back with a bit of acclaim. So what if Linnie was dead?
Nell
was still alive.

And just who was Harriet Lamont to tell Nell what she could or couldn't do? As long as Nell did her work, Lamont didn't have a right to meddle in her affairs. Not like this, not when it came to her social life, not when it was Lamont herself who had given her the advice to make a change. Nell's gaze darted up to Lamont's face. Suddenly, Harriet Lamont's rouged cheeks and red lips looked cheap. Racy. Nell guessed that she was well into her early forties, but she looked like a two-bit tramp.

You're no different,
she thought to herself.
You're just like all the rest of them. If you were different once, you're just a sheep now.

“So, are you going to fire me?” The directness of Nell's inquiry seemed to throw Lamont for a curve. The boss fussed with her cigarette, tapped ashes into an ashtray that Nell didn't doubt was real crystal. Not like the dime-store ashtrays that dotted each desk beyond the boss's office door.

“What . . . fire you? No, I just . . .”

“I don't think I
hurt
anybody, did I?” she asked, emboldened by her own sense of entitlement. Linnie Carter had humiliated her, and why? Because Nell had spent her precious time and money on baking supplies and a white tablecloth and a little creamer pitcher with a toadstool on it. She'd done those things for
Linnie
, not for Barrett, not even for herself, really. And Linnie had thrown it back in her face. And why had Nell even tried? Because
Lamont
had advised her to change her life if she didn't like it. Nell had taken that advice to heart—she'd done something different, and now Lamont wanted to scold her for it? When
she
had been the one to suggest it in the first place?

No. This wasn't right.

Nell wouldn't allow it. She wouldn't be taken for a fool.

“Well, I suppose not, but—”

“Mary Ann hates me.” Nell cut Lamont off midsentence. “I try to fit in, but it's hard, and Mary Ann doesn't make it any easier. You know how it can be. You were different just like I am, right? If anyone finds out about the thing with Linnie . . .” Mary Ann may have told everyone already, but Nell didn't care. Her coworkers could speculate all they wanted, but unless Nell confessed to lying, they'd never know for sure. “I
need
this job, Ms. Lamont. I really do. I can't pay my rent without it, and—”

“All right,” Lamont said.

“—it's just a shabby old place, but it's four walls and a bed, and I really don't know where I'd go if I couldn't afford it.”

“
All right
.” Lamont raised a hand for a second time. “Enough, Nell. I'm not going to fire you.”

“And you won't tell? Please, Ms. Lamont, don't tell the girls. If they find out I made it up, I'll never live it down. You
know
how they can be. It won't happen again. Honest, it won't. I won't ever mention Linnie's name again, if that's what you want. I won't ever even look at Mary Ann Thomas if—”

“Okay, you can go,” Lamont said, waving Nell off, having had her fill for one afternoon. Nell gathered herself up out of the chair, but of course, Lamont couldn't allow her to go without a final thought. “Nell, if any of the girls
do
give you trouble, you can come tell me. You know that, right?”

Nell frowned at that. If the girls did give her trouble—at least, beyond the trouble they usually gave—what would she tell Lamont for? So her boss could give her another dose of shiny, sure-to-backfire advice? Nell responded with an unsure smile. “Thanks, Ms. Lamont, but I'll be okay.” And then stepped out of the boss's office.

She scrutinized each desk, wondering which of the girls Mary Ann had told. Her eyes darted from coworker to coworker, faster now, frantic to pick out any girl who may have known her secret. It was only then that she noticed the difference: the girls weren't looking at her anymore. As a matter of fact, they were avoiding looking in her direction altogether. They were all pretending to be working or busying themselves with gathering up their things. Oh sure, it
looked
like they were all getting ready to clock out, but she knew the truth. They were ignoring her on purpose. Nell had stepped out of an office full of sympathetic girls and stepped back into one where those girls didn't know the meaning of compassion. Even eye contact was deemed too awkward.

Nell Sullivan was invisible again.

She marched back to her desk, kept her head down as she walked. Sliding into her chair, she focused on the transcription she'd been working on before Lamont had interrupted her. It had been due over an hour ago, but Nell had been too distracted to get it typed out in time. She had to finish it before she left for the day—couldn't leave anything to chance, any reason for Lamont to change her mind and tell her to get lost for good. But the throb behind her eyes was rearing its ugly head again. Squeezing her eyes shut, she began to poke at the keys of her Selectric, hysteria bubbling deep inside her gut.

I
do
exist,
she thought.
It's Linnie who's dead, not me.

Maybe the girls were pretending Nell was a ghost because they knew . . . knew about Barrett, about what he'd done.

No. Impossible. How could they know?

Nobody knew because nobody could prove that Nell and Linnie
hadn't
been friends. Mary Ann Thomas could tell the entire office that Nell was lying, but how could she confirm that claim? Save for the fact that Nell and Linnie hadn't ever talked at the office—and so what?—Mary Ann had nothing to back herself up. Nell and Linnie didn't talk because they had that kind of friendship. They could communicate without talking, could read each other's minds like a pair of twins. They spent hours upon hours on the phone after work, so they kept to themselves while they were
at
work. Besides, Linnie's other friends wouldn't have understood.

Nell's heart twitched.

Her
other
friends.

What if Linnie had told one of the girls about how weird Nell had been last Friday?

Oh no.

Maybe she had said something about the cake, about the invitation to Nell's apartment.

Oh God!

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Her fingers stopped dead on the keys of her IBM.

She looked at the paper that she was working on, struck by five words that appeared on a line all their own.

NELL SULLIVAN IS A LIAR
.

She hadn't typed that . . . had she?

NELL SULLIVAN IS A LIAR.

No. It hadn't been her. It couldn't have been.

Someone had been messing around her desk while she had been in Lamont's office. Probably Mary Ann or one of her lackeys.

That was it. It
had
to be.

Unable to stand it, she grabbed her purse and adjusted her sweater. If Lamont wanted to fire her for leaving without finishing her work first, then so be it. Nell couldn't bear to spend another second in that building. Not without strangling every single girl around her. Because
someone
had typed out that sentence on Nell's typewriter.
Someone
knew that she had lied.
Someone
knew what Barrett had done.

“Nell?”

She reeled around to look at Savannah Wheeler. For a second, she wanted to reach out and catch Mary Ann Thomas's pretty henchfriend by her throat.