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GRANT

I’ve worked with alcoholic stage moms that were easier to deal with than Perla Wultz. She was so insistent that everything be perfect and that everything was about her. We did a one-hour birthday shoot for Sophie that turned into a four-hour event.

—Lance Gretchen, photographer

I sat at our small dining room table, a plate of food in front of me, and tried not to stare at my wife. She sat on the other side of Sophie and cut into a piece of lamb, her expression serene, her face even more beautiful after the surgery on her nose. I used to gaze at her with reverence, but now I studied every movement in horror, wondering how much I actually knew about the woman I had married.

I thought of the annual memorial we did each December, when we drove over to East Los Angeles and brought roses to Lucy’s grave. We would each spend a stretch of time alone with Lucy, talking to her and sharing updates on our life and memories with her. At least, that was what I did. Now a new vision of Perla popped to mind—her standing in front of Lucy’s grave, her hands tight in the pockets of her cashmere coat, a thick scarf covering her neck scar, speaking to the dead girl she herself had killed.

My wife placed a piece of the fish in her mouth and chewed, her expression content.

I would bet the large diamond on her hand that she hadn’t spent any graveside-visitation time apologizing to Lucy. Not Perla, the woman who went on a two-week letter-writing spree to every upper-level employee of the Los Angeles County Post Office until she got Barry Goldstick, our carrier, fired because he’d leaned our packages against the gate instead of ringing the bell, waiting for us to open the gate, and then bringing them down the drive and to the front porch. When Perla succeeded in getting the man fired, she printed out the email from his manager, tracked down his home address, and hand-delivered it to him, a smile on her face.

No, Perla had not been sharing fond memories and updates with Lucy. Most likely, she had been taunting her. Crowing her victory.

I tried to swallow the piece of potato in my mouth but couldn’t. My stomach rolled and I half stood, clutching my stomach as nausea swelled.

“What is it?” Perla asked suspiciously.

“My stomach. I need to ...” I half crawled, half tripped over the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

I needed to leave her and take Sophie with me. But how? When?

I made it to the small bathroom off the kitchen and shut the door, isolating myself in the space. Placing my palms on the counter, I breathed in deeply, trying to calm the panic ripping through my gut.

Okay, I’d call an attorney tomorrow. Set a meeting, find out my options. Move heaven and earth to do whatever was needed to protect Sophie—protect us both.

My knees felt weak, and I moved over to the toilet, closing the lid and sitting down. It wouldn’t be easy. Perla was smart, and as Leewood had pointed out, no one would believe me if I suddenly accused her of a decades-old murder.

But Sophie’s birthday was in two days. Maybe after the party, I should just take her and disappear. Let Perla hunt for us while I figured out a course of action.

That plan sounded insane, and as someone who prided himself on organization and foresight ... the idea of going on the run, incognito, gave me a fresh round of hives.

I stood, my stomach heaving, and flung open the toilet’s lid, then bent forward and retched into the bowl.