Pretty Girls by Karin Slaughter

herself for not following every single stupid piece of advice that had ever come out of the woman’s mouth.
    Too late for that now.
    Rain started to spit onto the windshield. Lydia turned on the wipers. The rubber part of the blades skittered across the glass. Rick had told her last week to come by the station and get the wiper blades changed. He’d said the weather was looking bad, and Lydia had laughed because no one could predict the weather.
    Metal scraped glass as the shredded rubber flopped in the wind.
    Dee groaned. “Why didn’t you get Rick to change those?”
    “He said he was too busy.”
    Dee gave her a sideways glance.
    Lydia turned up the radio, which is how she used to fix strange car noises before she dated a mechanic. She shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable. The seatbelt insistently pushed against her gut. The plump rolls of fat reminded her of a popped can of biscuits. This morning, Rick had gently suggested that she might want to go to a meeting. Lydia had agreed this was a good idea, but she’d ended up going to Waffle House instead.
    She’d told herself that she wasn’t ready to share what she was feeling because she hadn’t had time to process Paul Scott’s death. And then she reminded herself that one of her more unsung talents was that she was really, really good at denial. Maintaining a three-hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit took a certain level of self-delusion. Then there was the short-sighted conviction that she was never to blame for the consequences of her own actions.
    The addict’s credo: It’s always somebody else’s fault.
    For a while, Paul Scott had been that fault for Lydia. Her touchstone. Her mantra. “If only Paul hadn’t …” prefixed every excuse.
    And then Dee had come along and Lydia had righted her life and she’d met Rick and Paul Scott had gotten shoved into the back of her mind the same way she had pushed back all the awful things that had happened during what she thought of as The Bad Years. Like the many times she’d found herself in county lock-up. Or the time she’d woken up with two skeevy guys in a Motel 8 and convinced herself that trading sex for drugs wasn’t the same as doing it for money.
    At the Waffle House this morning, she’d almost ignored Rick’s call on her cell phone.
    He had asked, “You feel like using?”
    “No,” she’d told him, because by then, the desire had been stifled by a tall stack of waffles. “I feel like I want to dig up Paul’s body and kill him all over again.”
    The last time Lydia had seen Paul Scott, she was practically crawling out of her skin from withdrawal. They were in his stupid Miata that he cleaned every weekend with cloth diapers and a toothbrush. It was dark outside, almost midnight. Hall and Oates were playing on the radio. “Private Eyes.” Paul was singing along. His voice was terrible, but then any noise had felt like an ice pick in her ear. He seemed to sense her discomfort. He smiled at Lydia. He leaned over and turned down the radio. And then he put his hand on her knee.
    “Mom?”
    Lydia looked over at her daughter. She feigned a double-take. “I’m sorry. Are you Dee? I didn’t recognize you without a phone in front of your face.”
    Dee rolled her eyes. “You’re not coming to my game because we suck, right, not because you’re still mad about the permission slip?”
    Lydia felt awful that her daughter could even think such a thing. “Honey, it’s all about your poor performance. You’re just too painful to watch.”
    “Okay, as long as you’re sure.”
    “Positive. You are terrible.”
    “Question answered,” Dee said. “But since we’re being brutally honest, I have something else to tell you.”
    Lydia couldn’t handle one more piece of bad news. She stared at the road thinking, pregnant, failing biology, gambling debts, meth habit, genital warts .
    Dee said, “I don’t want to be a doctor anymore.”
    Lydia felt her heart seize. Doctors had money. They had