My Darlings

My Darlings

Chapter 1

Melissa

Inever understood why people say things like, She died doing what she loved. I died doing what I loved, and it didn’t make my death any less tragic. I guess if it makes them feel better, they can go ahead and spout that contrived line from an uninspired obituary. However, despite the unfortunate situation of being dead, I’d much prefer they’d dig a bit deeper, try a bit harder. You do only die once, after all.

Such a shame. So young. But hey, she died doing what she loved!

Nope. Still awful, still terrible, still dead.

My Nikes pounded rhythmically on the leaf-covered path, each step creating a satisfying crunch. I didn’t listen to music when I ran in the woods on those early mornings. Instead, I preferred the measured sound of my even breaths and the steady increase of my heartbeat as my footfalls connected with the winding trail.

The forest was most alive on fall mornings. The crisp air bent the tree’s branches, making their leaves quiver and the speckled light dance on the trail. These sights, sounds, and smells, all so rich and overwhelming, faded the faster I ran, until it was just my body and me.

On these mornings, running in the woods, I experienced pure, unadulterated bliss. The stress of my business, the worries of never finding the right man to marry and dying alone, and my regrets of past decisions all melted away. Turns out one fear was worth fearing. The dying alone part. But I wasn’t alone, not in the literal sense. She was there.

Morning after morning, I woke up, put on my leggings and tank top, slipped into my running shoes, and lost myself in the forest.

I always knew the risks, all women runners do, especially here in DC. Years ago, the infamous Chandra Levy case consumed every media outlet. You couldn’t watch TV or read the newspaper without hearing about it. The rumors of her affair with a senator made the story so tantalizing, that the entire nation tuned in. Eventually, a man already serving time for attacking two female joggers in Rock Creek Park was convicted of Levy’s murder. Her remains decomposed for almost a year before they found her body on a trail not more than ten miles from the one that I was running on that morning. Even with the statistics and constant coverage of attacks on women doing exactly what I was doing every morning, I never felt afraid in those woods. I should have. Maybe I’d still be alive.

She seemed so normal, so safe, at first. Just a woman, around mid-forties, in need of help. That is until I drew close. Her eyes were the last thing I remembered. Irises as green as winding ivy surrounded by dark, full lashes. I looked into those eyes and thought They’re so beautiful. I’d never seen eyes that color before. But they weren’t human eyes. Human eyes have compassion. These eyes held no love, they had no soul.

When you’re dying, time doesn’t work the way it normally does. Those green eyes became a green sea with white-capped waves fierce enough to swallow a massive ship whole. As the angry water pulled me deeper and the green water turned black, I couldn’t help but wonder how many people those beautiful eyes had fooled. How many people those pupils had burrowed beneath—people who looked back without fear, too mesmerized by their beauty. They saw no storm and instead gazed into sea glass and emeralds.

The problem was, you had to look, really look.

The burning in my lungs cooled, and I became sure no one had looked hard enough.

For the ones who had—the others like me—it was too late.

She stole our voices, and we couldn’t warn anyone.

Chapter 2

Eloise

The news anchor laughs at something her co-anchor says. She then turns to the camera and covers her big white teeth with a red frown. A body found on a popular hiking trail in Great Falls Park has been identified as prominent local business owner, thirty-six-year-old Melissa Goodwin. Tom is reporting live from Great Falls, Virginia. Tom, what can you tell us? She shuffles her papers, revealing chipped nail polish on the middle finger of her left hand. One should be more prepared when they are reporting on such a paramount discovery.

The camera cuts to Tom. He grips his microphone; his thin lips plunge in an exaggerated frown. He’s trying his best to look solemn, but I don’t miss that twinkle in his eyes. It’s an excitement brought on by murder, as long as that murder isn’t yours or someone you love. He, like his viewers, yearns to know more. He’s placed himself strategically in front of the plethora of fussing police, the angle perfect so we gawkers can witness the activity behind him from the comfort—and perceived safety—of our living rooms. The bright yellow tape screams ‘a terrible crime has been committed’ with its bold black lettering announcing Police Line Do Not Cross.

Another woman killed. That makes six in the last twelve months; a serial killer is amongst us. How appalling, how alarming. I clutch my pearls and gasp at the TV while hiding my smirk.

Robert! I cry to my husband. He grunts his acknowledgement. Robert, do you hear this, love? Another woman murdered. And found so close. I tsk, tsk, tsk. My head shake, shake, shakes.

I am Eloise Williams. PTO president, stay-at-home mom, HOA treasurer, respected local philanthropist who sits on the boards of many distinguished charities, doting wife, and serial killer. And tonight, they have found another one of My Darlings.

I abhor that name, though—serial killer. I am an artist creating masterpieces. Pure, poetic magic. When My Darlings’ souls leave their bodies, their eyes ignite with fear, then glaze over with a milky film. A delicate puff of air escapes their lips. To observe this moment is to be connected to them in a way very few people have experienced. I become them while my veins pulsate from the power of it all.

Cancer, fatal car accident, murder. People gorge themselves on the misery of others while assuring themselves these things happen to other people and that it’s nothing they need to fret over. But it can happen to them. Terrible, life-destroying things can happen to anyone. Every second of every day, we are potentially breathing our last breath. Would people live their lives differently if they were more conscious of this fact?

Bryony, my daughter, is tap, tap, scrolling on her phone. I refrain from huffing in annoyance. Robert’s gaze is on the TV, but he’s tuning it out, looking through it, thinking of his latest case most likely. My husband is a prestigious attorney. His field is corporate law, so of no use to me should I ever find myself in need of criminal defense. Not that I would. I’m very good at what I do. They’ll never catch me. Robert works for a large company. He does a lot of mergers, a lot of acquisitions, a lot of business things requiring him to be on the road, out of town and out of my hair. In addition to his constant absence, he earns a generous salary with annual bonuses. When I decided I was ready to marry, this was the most important quality I sought in a mate. I love money as much as I love My Darlings. With my looks, talent, and body, I could have had any man I wanted. Beautiful men require too much work. Their egos are too large, always in need of stroking and complimenting. What I required was someone average-looking but wealthy, interested but distant, someone like Robert. He is the perfect companion. While an ugly husband was perfectly fine with me, I realized after-the-fact that ugly children wouldn’t do. Thankfully, Bryony takes after me in looks. She is stunning, perfect. I’m obsessed with her. My gaze travels to her, and I study my perfect specimen. My doll. My pet. My favorite possession. She senses me looking, and her eyes leave her phone and look up. I smile my sweetest smile, the one I’ve ritualistically practiced every night in the mirror. I’m sure I’ve mastered it; Bryony and Robert could lick their lips and taste honey if they really concentrated.

You look lovely tonight, Bryony. Is that sweater new? That shade truly is your color.

Thanks, Mom. It’s the one you bought.

I don’t need her to tell me this. She never did thank me for it, though. Ah, yes. I must have forgotten. Did you see? I ask, ensuring I don’t sound too eager. The perfect fusion of concern and shock. They found another dead woman.

Mhm, she replies, eyes back on her phone, not even looking. I resist the urge to cluck my tongue. Melissa was some of my finest work and the two people who are supposed to be my biggest supporters sit there ignoring the big reveal. Well, I may have a headache the next time either of them requires my presence to celebrate a victory or accomplishment of theirs.

Eloise, Robert says. Would you mind grabbing me another beer?

I would mind. But instead, I say, Of course, dear. I take the empty beer from his outstretched hand and narrow my eyes at the wet circle imprinted on the side table next to his chair. When I come back with a fresh beer, I make it a point to wipe the wet mess with a paper towel, slide a coaster over the empty spot, and place the beer on top of it. It’s insufferable he insists on drinking his beer straight from the bottle but then to ruin my snakewood end table in the process? Really.

My house, like me, is beautiful. Enviable. I prefer it that way, for friends and strangers to covet my possessions and life. Most of the homes in Northern Virginia are cookie-cutter versions of their neighbors, McMansions, they call them. Highly unacceptable. I demand different, special. We purchased our land on the outskirts of DC—where my husband commutes to daily—and custom-built our home. My design aesthetic ranges from modern to classic, with a hint of southern charm derived from my Mississippi roots. A handcrafted, wrought-iron gate opens to a brick driveway lined with red maples. In the fall, when their leaves turn, a river of blood leads to my home.

Every room features carefully selected materials and details, from the imported, Italian white marble flooring in the two-story entryway to the contrasting African Blackwood floors throughout the rest of the home. I spent over a year visiting foreign lands and inspecting the finest furnishings and art available. I painstakingly curated each item and each architectural nuance. My home is so exquisite several local and national magazines have featured it.

The news anchors have moved on to other less appalling features: the weekend’s upcoming farmers’ market and craft fair, the weather report, and a local scam targeting the elderly. My moment has passed with little fanfare. I turn off the television and announce that I’m going to bed. Robert heaves himself from his chair, muttering something about work, and plods off to his study.

My tongue traces my teeth, counting—molars, canines, incisors—this keeps my inside thoughts from oozing through my lips.

Bryony—eyes and fingers still glued to her phone—stands and departs without so much as a goodnight.

I tidy the room, put everything back in proper order, and glide up the winding staircase to our bedroom. Even with no audience, I ensure every move I make is as elegant as a ballerina’s. Robert and I have separate walk-in closets, another feature I insisted on. I take two steps into mine and inhale the musky notes of vanilla, sandalwood, and mandarin orange, a bespoke detail courtesy of a master perfumer in Paris. Robert always insists on scrunching his nose and complaining of the smell being too strong. According to several studies, sociopaths have shown to have an impaired sense of smell. However, in this case, I’m sure it’s simply his lack of taste, and he’d be better off staying out of my things anyway.

I step out of my nude Jimmy Choo kitten heels before unzipping my A-line, short-sleeved, belted, black Prada dress and placing it in the concealed hamper. Melanie, our house manager, will empty the hamper on Wednesday for laundering. I slide open a drawer and select a pajama set. Once dressed, I release the pin holding my hair in its chignon and let my long, silky, black waves cascade down my back. Not a single gray in sight. Lorna, my hair stylist, always compliments me on this fact when she sees me every Tuesday for my weekly appointment. I step up to my vanity and walk through my nightly skincare routine. Wash, skin serum, moisturizer, eye cream, lash serum, lip mask. I’m a big proponent of leveraging science where nature has disappointed. A good skincare regimen makes a world of difference in the amount of Botox units one needs every six weeks. With my skin glowing and the light reflecting in my lips, I begin: smile, frown, smile but sympathetic, laugh, smile again. With a curt nod, I internally compliment myself on how well I’ve done.

After fluffing the down-filled pillow on my bed and sitting with my back supported, I grab my readers and book from the nightstand. I read a single chapter, then slide between Egyptian Giza sheets. Their soft, luxurious embrace doesn’t distract me from the itch, the one which accompanies the announcement a Darling has been found.

The excitement is over.

It’s time to find the next

Chapter 3

Beatrix

I’m not sure whether it’s Melissa being the same age as me or because of the striking similarities we share, but the news of her murder has stitched a constant sense of unease to my ribcage. I didn’t know her, never met her once, yet as I flip through the articles on my phone, zooming in on each image of this smiling stranger, I realize I’ve never felt so connected to someone I’ve never met.

After finding her social media pages, I spent hours scrolling through pictures and posts. She no longer feels like a stranger, more like a sister or an old roommate. With each new piece of information I devour, grief blooms in my heart. Our hair is—or in her case was—the same chestnut brown, both cut in the same style and length, layers to frame our face, falling just below our shoulders. Our eyes are the same pale shade of blue, closer to gray, really. There were differences, of course; her nose was slightly larger, a bit pointier, her face a little rounder. But the longer I looked, the more similarities I found, and the more I missed her—this woman I’d never met.

A cool shudder vibrates through me. I exit out of the article and trade my phone for the glass of wine on my nightstand. A smooth merlot. It’s risky, I know, to sit with my legs crisscrossed while drinking red wine over our white comforter. But David, my husband, is sleeping at the hospital tonight after a long surgery, and I’m too, something—nervous, uneasy—to be downstairs by myself.

My fingers tap on my bottom lip. Despite the empty wine bottles sitting on my nightstand, the last one just opened an hour ago; I’m wide awake. If I close my eyes, it’s Melissa’s face I’ll see, and she’ll haunt my dreams. I could call Poppy, Suzanne, or even Eloise. Hearing another voice would bring comfort, I’m sure of it. I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve been pulling away from them, all my friends, lately. Spending more time at home alone, drinking. I still show up to the brunches, dinner parties, and events. But that’s simply to keep up appearances. My secrets have grown like ivy, imprisoning me. I’ve no one to blame but myself, which makes it all the more lonesome.

Chapter 4

Eloise

Beatrix leans forward with her gray eyes wide, making her look more insect-like than usual. Did you hear? They found another woman. A full circle of white shows around her irises. It’s unbecoming.

I do sit up straighter, though. Finally, this conversation has taken a more intriguing turn. We are on Tuscarora Mill’s back patio. A brunch meeting to discuss our upcoming Gatsby-themed dinner event. Revamps and Champs, is the name the ladies have chosen for this brunch. Not the actual event. We are gathered at the event—if one could call a brunch an event—to plan the event. They name everything, usually with rhymes. I suppose that’s what you do when you have nothing but time on your hands and your husband’s money in your designer purse. In reality, Revamps and Champs is a get-together to plan the Night of the Restoration. Working name, of course, it doesn’t rhyme, so we can’t have that. And if these ladies were being honest with themselves—which they never are—Revamps and Champs is just an excuse to day-drink. Because drinking is okay if it’s champagne and orange juice and in the name of charity. It’s sophisticated, even.

I’m enjoying my virgin juice. Alcohol causes bloating, and while I’ll enjoy a glass of wine on occasion, I prefer to abstain in the early afternoon of a weekday. I also prefer a sharp mind, especially when Beatrix, Suzanne, and Poppy are in attendance. My best friends and all that. If only I could flick my wrist to demonstrate how I truly feel. They are neither friends nor the best of anything. I smile and nod and frown and shake my head in all the right places. No sense in alerting them to the fact that I’m in my head thinking, scheming, only partially paying attention to their yapping and droning on about whatever it is they are droning on about.

The lattice of the metal chair is carving its pattern into my thighs, and I shift in my seat. Fidgeting isn’t something I’m prone to, but I prefer my porcelain skin to remain unmarred, and some sacrifices just need to be made.

Horrific, just horrific, Suzanne says. I like horrific. It snaps me from my thoughts. She places her right hand across her heart as if she is feigning the horror she’s reacting to. A diamond tennis bracelet dangles around her wrist, catching the sun.

Oh, Suz. Poppy gasps. It’s gorge! She grabs Suzanne’s wrist and twists it, inspecting the diamonds.

Isn’t it? Tobin bought it for me. She smiles and smooths her hair with her free hand as if even the slightest strand would be out of place. When you’ve let yourself go as she has, it’s natural for one to attempt to maintain control over the things still within your control. In Suzanne’s case, that includes her hair and makeup, but sadly, not much else. Desperate really. Pathetic mostly. I do, however, silently curse myself for changing my hair appointment to Friday when I knew we’d be meeting today.

What’s the occasion? I ask, smiling over my champagne flute of OJ.

She flashes me a look and juts her chin slightly. No special occasion. He came home with it last night. A ‘just because’ gift, he said. Turning her attention back to the group, she beams, holding out her wrist and twisting it to bring out the diamond’s sparkle.

Beatrix chokes on her mimosa.

Something wrong, Beatrix? Suzanne turns pointedly, not dropping her hand.

No. Beatrix chortles. You know what they say about random gifts, though. It’s almost a song, these words dancing from her lips.

Suzanne drops her hand to her lap, her eyes narrowing. I do not. Why don’t you enlighten us?

That it’s the first sign of a cheater. Beatrix grins at Suzanne, but it doesn’t meet her eyes. I could teach her a thing or two. She continues, I’m sure that’s not the case with Tobin.

Suzanne’s glare melts into a too-sweet smile. Tobin would never cheat. I’m not worried about that. She flicks her other unadorned wrist to demonstrate how unconcerned she is. The one with the bracelet is now hidden away below the table.

Of course, he wouldn’t, I say, patting her arm. What a ridiculous thing to suggest, Beatrix. Really.

Beatrix’s grin doesn’t leave her face, clearly unfazed by my judgment. Suzanne seems to have disappeared into her head, searching for clues she may have missed, no doubt.

I slice through the silence to bring the ladies back to the more important topic. Did anyone know her? I ask.

Who? Poppy asks.

I stomp down the flash of annoyance that sparks in my chest. The woman they found. The dead one.

Poppy rolls her eyes. Oh, duh, silly me. I didn’t. She lowers her voice and leans in as if she’s about to deliver a secret. I can’t help myself and lean in to scoop it up. Did y’all notice how much she looked like Beatrix?

She did not, Beatrix snaps, loud enough to catch the attention of the other diners. Why would you say that Poppy?

Sorry, Poppy says, patting her mouth with her napkin to hide her flushed face. She looks from Suzanne to me. You two see it though, don’t you? The hair, the eyes…

Now that you mention it— Suzanne says. I can’t tell if she actually agrees with Poppy, or if this is her revenge for the cheating comment.

Beatrix’s hands are clenched in fists on the table, and she looks like she may jump it and wrap them around Poppy’s neck. Her reaction fascinates me. Enough. Shut up, both of you.

Now, ladies, this conversation is clearly upsetting Beatrix, I interject. Why don’t we move on?

There’s an awkward silence, and everyone except me avoids glancing in Beatrix’s direction. She almost looks on the verge of tears. How strange.

Well, I, for one, will not be doing any running or anything else alone, Suzanne says, pursing her pink lips.

Beatrix stifles a laugh behind her champagne glass, apparently fully over her earlier outburst. We all know Suzanne hasn’t run a day in her life. Her loose blouses do nothing to hide the extra forty pounds she’s carrying around. She tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder and looks away from the group. I suck in a breath of anticipation, wondering if anyone will point this out and make her blue irises swim beneath tears.

Me either, Poppy exclaims. I deflate internally.

I’m most worried about my Bryony, I say. Teenagers can be so brazen, never taking these things seriously.

Three heads bob up and down in unison.

The server approaches and asks if he can bring us anything else. Both Poppy and Suzanne ask for mimosa refills. Poppy is on number two, Suzanne three, and Beatrix is working through her fourth. They will all get in their luxury SUVs and drive home, potentially killing themselves and any number of innocent drivers or pedestrians on the roads. And yet, I’m the evil one. If I could roll my eyes without raising eyebrows, I would.

We finish our meals—the ladies finish their drinks—and we make our way to the parking lot. Beatrix has already sped off, and as I walk away, I hear Suzanne say to Poppy, You don’t think it’s true, do you?

I pause and pretend to be