Emma Grace had been dead for more than fifteen years when I noticed her standing across from me. She was scrutinizing a glass sculpture on the opposite side of a display case during a silent auction. The shock held me as if I had just shaken hands with a live wire. It was impossible. And yet, there she was. Not missing. Not dead. And still as impossibly beautiful as I remembered.
You have to understand that Emma had as perfect a face as was ever carved on any cameo. Despite my shock, my eyes absorbed every detail of her features: high cheekbones, soft, pouting lips, and a delicate nose. For the longest moment, all I could do was study her like a connoisseur examines a fine painting. The years had been more than kind to her—they had been downright indulgent.
Her name escaped my lips: “Emma?”
Azure eyes shifted up, catching the light. But I saw no recognition in them. “Excuse me?” she said.
She sounded different. A lower pitch than I remembered. But hell, it had been fifteen years.
“Emma…Grace?” I said, dazed. I stepped around the display case, moving toward her.
She smiled, and it was as dazzling as it was familiar. “My name’s Margot,” she said, correcting me. She wore a shimmering silver evening gown that had three thin black velvet straps over each shoulder, with a plunging neckline that revealed ample breasts, and a split that went far up her right thigh. Her stiletto-heeled black-velvet shoes matched the straps on her gown and the small velvet clutch purse she carried. Around her neck was a sapphire-and-diamond necklace, which she wore with matching earrings and bracelet.
She had gained a few pounds over the years, but in all the right places.
As I looked into the face of the only woman I’d ever loved, endless questions competed with one another in my mind: Why was she pretending to be someone else? How can she still be alive? Why is she acting like she doesn’t know me? Was it possible for someone to look exactly like someone else? And if this wasn’t Emma, then who the hell was she?
But I uttered none of those questions. I simply said, “You look exactly like someone I used to…” It was such a clichéd pickup line, I stopped myself.
That seemed to intrigue her. “Someone you used to…?”
My emotions got the best of me. I choked out, “Someone I cared about very much.”
She studied my face for a moment, making some internal assessment. I was barely keeping my composure, and I think she sensed that. With a touch of compassion, she said, “I’m almost sorry I’m not her. Do we really look that much alike?”
I pulled my wallet from my jacket pocket and flipped it open. Margot raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Behind my driver’s license was a photo I had taken of Emma on her eighteenth birthday, the last day we’d spent together. Six months before she disappeared forever.
I retrieved the laminated photo and showed it to Emma’s double. In the picture, Emma was standing in a desert range, her hair glowing like spun gold in the sunlight. The woman stared at it for a long time, but I couldn’t get a read on her. Finally, she handed it back. “I’m rarely at a loss for words. But…I don’t know what to say.”
“That makes two of us,” I said, putting the photo back in my wallet.
We tried to make small talk, first discussing the virtues of the event, which raised funds for multiple sclerosis research, and then we agreed with amusement that the live folk music was utter shit. During this exchange, it took every ounce of self-restraint not to scream, “You are Emma Grace! You are the love of my life! Drop the goddamn façade!”
You see, I had spent years staring at Emma’s face, memorizing every feature, making it a part of me. And I could see no discernible difference now, other than the natural aging you’d expect from the passing of fifteen years. She even had the same faint beauty mark above her lip on the left side.
How was that even possible? I thought.
I said, “I need a drink.” It was the understatement of the millennia. “I’d love it if you’d join me.” I was never this bold, not with a woman of such devastating beauty. But the familiarity of her face emboldened me.
Margot offered another long look of assessment, appeared to come to some kind of conclusion, and said, “Yes. I could use a drink, too.”
Emma and I were neighbors growing up in Copper Creek, Arizona, a small desert town no one I’ve ever met has heard of. It was easy to understand. Abandoned copper mines, some lovely mountain views, and a struggling farming community were pretty much all there was to know.
My father owned a diesel mechanic shop, worked himself to the bone, and liked to complain about it. My mother was a quiet woman, a dedicated housewife, and the most astonishing cook I’ve ever known. Emma’s parents were overly strict, deeply religious, and extremely protective of her, particularly with regard to boys. Fortunately, I didn’t have to deal with her parents much, as they worked long hours at the biggest dairy farm in the area.
There were three reasons I was lucky enough to become close with Emma. First was proximity. As next-door neighbors, we played together our entire childhood—especially during the summertime, when it was easier to fight the perpetual boredom of Copper Creek together. Second, Emma’s parents were very selective of who spent time with their daughter, so I had little competition. Third, and most significant, my parents were heavily involved in our local Baptist church, which meant that I was involved by default. For this reason, Emma’s parents saw me as a God-fearing youth, and I got an automatic seal of approval.
I was overweight back then. My mother was from the South, and we ate a steady diet of biscuits and gravy, buttermilk pancakes, chicken and dumplings, and an endless supply of fried foods—all made by hand. Mom’s food was impossible to resist, as my body gave ample testament to.
My weight never seemed to bother Emma, though. As long as I could keep up with her, that is. She was just as rough-and-tumble as any of the boys in the neighborhood. Despite her beauty, what impressed me most about her then was that she could skip rocks on the river better than anyone I knew.
Neither of our parents allowed us to watch much TV, so we spent a lot of time riding around the neighborhood on our bikes, causing as much trouble as possible. That was hard to do in a neighborhood with little more than wild desert shrubbery and desolate roads that seemed to lead nowhere.
Due to the long working days of my dad and Emma’s parents, my mom was the default babysitter during the summer and after school. Fortunately for us, she was terrified of tarantulas, scorpions, and snakes, all of which were plentiful in Copper Creek. So when we went outside we were usually unchaperoned. This gave us free rein to defy death daily: climbing the endless black hills, catching scorpions and snakes, and skipping a mountain’s worth of rocks across the sparkling waters of Copper Creek.
It wasn’t until I turned twelve years old that I started to see Emma differently. That was the summer her breasts arrived with the subtlety of Mount Vesuvius erupting.
I knew she was beautiful, as was made clear to me daily by the students at our school. But my hormones arrived a bit later than some, and it wasn’t until the summer before high school that my feelings for Emma changed dramatically.
If I’d known she would be taken from me five years later, I would have expressed my feelings sooner than I did.
We were surrounded by hundreds of people, but I couldn’t tell you what any of them looked like. For the next two hours Margot Walker was the only thing that existed in my world. We both drank a little too much, but that’s a risk you take with good company and a bar with free booze.
Margot was fascinated by the idea of having an identical twin—even asked to see Emma’s picture again—and I was more than happy to talk about one of my favorite subjects. As crazy as it sounds, a part of me hoped that if I provided more details about her life, it might somehow jog her memory. My mind concocted bizarre scenarios in which she had somehow been hit on the head and forgotten who she was.
On the other hand, if she was pretending not to be Emma, I thought perhaps I could get her to slip up. I’d like to say the wine had affected my judgment, but I think it was my desperation for answers that drove my thoughts and actions.
Every now and then an acquaintance of Margot’s would interrupt us at the bar, but she kept the conversations short and to the point. This appeared to be the status quo for Margot. I had the impression that business took precedence in her life.
She was a successful art dealer with her own gallery in Santa Monica, specializing in controversial works. I was both shocked and pleasantly surprised to discover she was single. When I told her as much, she said most men couldn’t handle the fact that they would always take a backseat to her career.
I thought that was refreshingly blunt.
Several rounds of hors d’oeuvres came and went, and there was an awkward moment when she realized she was ignoring her colleagues at the event. As usual, I had come stag, beholden to no one.
I had a slight moment of panic. Would she give me a friendly kiss on the cheek and say it was nice meeting me? Or, worse, a firm handshake? Would this be my last opportunity to talk to her? The thought terrified me.
This woman was far too savvy to fall for any charm-school bullshit, and I’d been around the block enough to know that desperation is the ultimate female repellent. My mind raced to find the best way to keep her interested.
Fortunately, I was no longer that awkward fat kid from Copper Creek. Once I hit my twenties and stopped eating at home, I lost the weight. I guess I settled into my features, too, because meeting ladies never became a problem after that.
Still, Margot was way out of my league; I would need a Hail Mary to keep her interested. During our time together it became clear that what intrigued her most was the topic of a doppelgänger.
So I played that card for all it was worth.
However, as the night wore on and I tried to dig more into Margot’s past, the sparkle in her eyes faded and her face became a mask of passivity. She not only managed to subtly evade my questions with general answers, she did it so well it seemed like second nature.
Suspicious, I thought.
We talked about our careers briefly; I got my start as a graphic designer and eventually started my own digital marketing agency. I had done well for myself, considering my humble beginnings.
And while I was no expert in art, as a designer I composed visuals and used the shared knowledge base of an artist. It gave me enough of a footing to carry on a halfway intelligent conversation on the subject. I bought original art on occasion, and as a burgeoning hobbyist I expressed interest in seeing the controversial works she’d mentioned. She appeared to take the bait.
As the clock approached midnight and the event neared its end, I had that terrible sense of panic again. I couldn’t let another Emma appear like a ghost, collect my heart, and vanish.
I grinned and spoke the words as soon as the idea hit me. “I’m always looking for a little controversy in my life. Maybe something from your gallery?”
My goal was to plant a seed upon which I could build. Buying art seemed like a sure thing.
She gazed at me again, assessing me for the third time that evening. The corners of her flawless lips curved upward. “What makes you think you can afford the work in my gallery?”
I wasn’t expecting that. And she had a point. I wasn’t hurting for money, but I wasn’t rich by any means. To save face, I might have to fork over a small fortune.
But, hell, it would be worth it.
“What makes you think I can’t?” I said playfully.
“Good answer,” she said and laughed. And it was the most beautiful sound I could imagine.
She polished off her martini and set her glass on the bar. “My gallery is a mix of cutting-edge contemporary. That’s what keeps the lights on. But I keep the most transgressive stuff at home—for my private clients.” She gave a wry grin. “The erotic. The deviant. And, some might even say, the insane.”
There was a long pause. She stared into my eyes and brushed her golden locks behind her ears. I met her gaze. Jesus, I thought. She’s flirting with me.
“Still interested?” she said.
“Now I have to see your work,” I replied, feeling flushed.
She leaned in and whispered, “I live ten minutes from here.”
Most would say that beauty is a blessing, but it was a curse for Emma. Being close to her gave me a unique perspective, as I came to learn that people refuse to sympathize or empathize with those blessed with good looks, as if they are somehow less deserving of human compassion.
You’re probably thinking, Must be real tough being beautiful. Cry me a fucking river. And I understand that perspective. But I saw firsthand how Emma’s physical attributes brought her misery and suffering throughout her childhood.
Contrary to what the media would have you believe, beauty doesn’t give you a free pass in life. Though most people would rather believe it did. It’s so much easier to make sweeping generalizations about people than to take the time to see each person as an individual.
This was never clearer to me than on one balmy summer night in our freshman year of high school. Emma and I were sitting on her porch, watching one of the gorgeous sunsets Arizona is known for. She had been despondent all day, and none of my usual jokes or witty repartee would lift her spirits.
Tears welled in her eyes. She told me she hated her face.
“Why?” I said.
“It’s the only thing I’m ever judged on,” she said. “No one sees past it. No one wants to look past it. No one but you.”
I put my arm around her and she wept softly into my shoulder for a long time. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t true, but that would have been a lie. In my experience, most of the girls in town saw her as competition, and the boys just objectified her. I think she wanted to be seen as a whole human being for a change—more than just the sum total of her looks.
Most people never saw it, but Emma had insecurities like everyone. Though hers were even more pronounced than most. Yet if she dared mention a bout of sadness or depression, it was generally dismissed out of hand because of her beauty, as if being attractive automatically made everything okay. Emma wasn’t allowed to have a bad day without being made to feel guilty. I saw this over and over again.
You would think a girl as beautiful as Emma would have been the most popular girl in school. And I suppose if she had been a different person inside, this would have been the case. But Emma’s fatal flaw was that she seemed incapable of leveraging her beauty to her advantage. Instead, she let it push others away.
I later discovered that this stemmed from deep self-loathing, something I was all too familiar with due to my own issues with weight. But I didn’t know how deep her pain went or what monstrous things she had suffered until it was too late.
We were outcasts for opposite reasons. And I suppose that was what bonded us more than anything. It later grew into an unlikely romance that we kept a secret from everyone in town. Things were tough enough for both of us in school; we didn’t need to offer up any more fodder. We were already called “Beauty and the Beast” due to our lifelong friendship.
I was fortunate with regard to my height, as I was the tallest kid in my class. So while being overweight kept me from being popular, my intimidating size also kept me from getting my ass kicked. Mostly, people just ignored me.
Sometimes, that was worse.
My romance with Emma began during the summer break between our freshman and sophomore years of high school, an unexpected kiss as we walked alongside Copper Creek. We had stopped to stare out at the glistening water, enjoying the serenity of the scene, as we had countless times before.
“It’s so beautiful here,” she said.
To this day, I’ll never know what possessed me to reply, “Not as beautiful as you.” The words slipped out before I realized what I was saying.
Emma had never shown the slightest bit of romantic interest in me up to that point, while I had been in love with her for that entire year. I was prepared for her to laugh, or maybe give me a punch in the arm, as was often the case when I said something stupid.
But she didn’t.
Maybe it was the sincerity in my expression. Because the way she looked at me, it was as if she were seeing me for the first time.
She reached up and took my face in her hands, pulling me down toward her. I can still remember the electricity I felt in my skin as we kissed for the first time, the palpitation of my heart, the welcoming softness of her lips, and the strawberry-flavored taste of her favorite lip balm.
We kissed for what seemed like a beautiful eternity. Neither one of us had any experience, so exploring each other was exciting, arousing—and a bit scary. Emma and I never had intercourse; my religious upbringing was still too ingrained at that point, and frankly I was terrified of getting her pregnant. I had no access to condoms and our town was far too small for anyone to buy any without everyone knowing about it within forty-eight hours.
I had a wooden clubhouse in my backyard that I had built with my dad. Emma and I affectionately referred to it as the “love shack” (though never within earshot of anyone else). We spent many an afternoon kissing each other there until our faces went numb.
By our senior year I was so in love with Emma it made my heart hurt just to look at her at times. Even at that age I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
And yet this also terrified me. Emma wanted to leave Copper Creek. But I had no exit strategy. Emma’s dream was to move to a big city, change her name, and start over. She talked about moving to Hollywood, because she naïvely thought it might be the one place where she would fit in, where she wouldn’t stand out in the crowd.
Of course I went along with her fantasy. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she would stand out anywhere she went. Hell, she made most Hollywood actresses look like dog meat by comparison.
But whenever she talked about leaving, it scared me to death because I knew that beyond the tiny borders of Copper Creek, there were countless suitors-in-waiting with far more to offer her than I ever could. I was just a lovesick fat kid with a low grade point average and lower-paying career options to look forward to. Don’t get me wrong; I was always smarter than people gave me credit for. I just didn’t apply myself much back then. It was a town that bred complacency.
And I was smart enough to know that once Emma got a taste of life outside our tiny world, I’d lose whatever advantages I’d had up to that point. The closer we got to high school graduation, the more I dreaded it.
And my worst fears were realized on the day after Emma’s eighteenth birthday.
Something felt wrong the moment I entered Margot’s home.
I couldn’t name anything specific. It was a gut instinct, like the little voice that tells you not to go down the dark alley or stick your hand into places you can’t see.
I ignored it. I was desperate to know Margot Walker.
I had followed her home from the charity event into a fashionable neighborhood of Santa Monica. We had left separately at her request; I suppose to maintain some sort of propriety. My visit was under the guise of an interest in art, but there was no mistaking the signals she’d given me.
Margot could have had almost any man she set eyes on. But for some reason, that night she chose me. I had pondered it during the drive over. Perhaps she was simply a free spirit with no hang-ups about one-night stands. Maybe having sex with a man in love with her doppelgänger was some sort of twisted turn-on. Or perhaps she didn’t date much because men were too intimidated by her beauty to ask her out.
Of course, I’d like to say I had charmed her with my authentic and vulnerable approach. But that seemed the least likely of the possibilities. Once we got past her elaborate security system and entered the two-story house, she offered me some wine. I waited in the living room while she left to pour two glasses.
The interior of the home was gorgeous, with a flair for the dramatic. There were stark black and white contrasts throughout, with white-stained hardwood flooring and a central black area rug. A white tile fireplace stood beside a white leather contemporary sofa, paired with chrome-and-black-leather chairs and a mirror-top coffee table. There were two large bay windows next to wide double doors on the lower level of the house, and five smaller but equally impressive windows along the upper level. Long, flowing draperies gave the room an even more elegant appearance.
At first glance it was the kind of home you would expect to see in an interior design magazine. But upon closer inspection there were some dark artistic themes at play.
On the coffee table was a bronze sculpture of a beautiful nude woman stretched out on the back of an enormous Minotaur, a creature with the head of a bull and the body of a man. It was down on all fours. In what appeared like a tender moment, the woman’s arms were wrapped around the bull’s neck gracefully, as if she was giving it a loving embrace. But as I stepped around the table to get a better look, I noticed that the beast’s extremely long penis snaked up from underneath and penetrated her from behind.
Interesting, I thought.
Staring down at me from above the fireplace was a large, unsettling oil painting. It was a young woman’s face that was somehow both striking and off-putting at the same time.
“A classic jolie laide,” came a voice from the shadows, startling me. Margot had entered the room as silently as a shark swimming in the depths. She offered me a glass of red wine and looked up at the painting looming over us. “It means ‘beautiful ugly,’ a woman who is both attractive and unattractive. Leave it to the French to devise a concept of beauty so abstract.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “She looks…different, depending on the angle.”
Margot took a sip of her wine and nodded. “It’s a masterful work by an artist named Makalo. I discovered him eight years ago. He’s a phenomenon now.”
We discussed the painting a bit more, and then she invited me upstairs to see her private gallery. As I followed her up the steel-and-wood spiral staircase, I couldn’t help but admire the view of her backside, which she seemed more than happy to share. She glanced back at me once with a sexy grin.
The gallery was much larger than I expected, and there were so many pieces of art I hardly knew where begin. Dozens of framed paintings and photographs adorned the walls, accented with tasteful, directed lighting. Small sculptures, distributed throughout, broke the room into a variety of natural lateral paths.
As I scanned the array of art, I was stunned at the many facets of ugliness. There was a hyperrealistic-looking pig with profanities spray-painted across its skin; an aborted fetus sculpted from blood-red glass; a series of monstrous tinfoil figures in a wild orgy; and the largest piece of all was a particularly brutal crucifixion of Jesus created from cans of Coca-Cola.
Margot stood close, and the touch of her skin sent a jolt of electricity through me. “An appreciation of ugliness is necessary,” she said. “The beautiful and the ugly are not opposites, but aspects of the same thing.”
I nodded, taking that in. Then I said, “What is ugly to some may be beautiful to another.”
She brightened at that, revealing her perfect teeth. “Exactly. History shows us that aesthetic values constantly change. Today’s monstrosity is tomorrow’s masterpiece. Look at the Eiffel Tower. It was denounced as ugly and hateful when it was first built—now it’s one of the world’s most loved monuments.”
I took a long drink and continued to browse her unusual collection. “Anything in particular attract your eye?” she said.
Without any forethought, I turned to her and said, “I think we both know the answer to that.”
She looked up at me and I saw a great hunger in her eyes. Though I towered over her, I felt powerless under her gaze. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I did at that moment. But when I leaned in she immediately dropped down to unzip my pants. A moment later and she took my erection into her mouth, her eyes never leaving mine, ablaze with lust. It was a sexual fantasy come true, and yet I couldn’t shake a growing sense of dread.
Emma disappeared on a Thursday.
The day before was her eighteenth birthday, which we celebrated at our favorite pizza joint. She didn’t want any fanfare, just a low-key celebration with me. If I had known it would be the last time I’d see her, I would have done a million things differently.
The picture I keep in my wallet was from that day. I took it later that afternoon while we walked along one of our favorite desert trails. We kissed, held hands, and talked about anything but the future.
I suppose it was because neither of us wanted to face the reality that our relationship was finite. High school had ended. I was flipping burgers at a fast-food joint, and she was working part-time at a secondhand clothing store. Career options were bleak in Copper Creek. I had saved two summers to buy a decent computer and was already starting to play around with graphic design, but I never considered that as a potential future career at the time.
Emma’s father, Frank, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis several years prior and had recently lost the use of his legs. Emma had to spend a great deal of her free time taking care of him at home while her mother worked.
When we got home that evening, we sat for a long time in the ’67 Chevrolet van my father had handed down to me. We kissed for a while, and to my eternal regret, I didn’t make love to Emma on our last night together. The van had plenty of room and she seemed willing, most likely because she knew it would be our last time together.
I had sensed her pulling away emotionally for weeks, and I was afraid that if we slept together, it would somehow give her the reason she needed to end it. I didn’t want to risk losing the love of my life over a quickie in a van. My only goal in life at that point was to marry Emma and spend the rest of my life with her.
After I walked her to the front door of her house, she kissed me again. I was shocked because this was something we never did on her porch. Her parents would have raised hell. She saw the look on my face and offered that devastating grin of hers. “I’m eighteen now,” she said. “I’m free.”
She had a point. I smiled back and kissed her for the last time. “See ya tomorrow,” I said.
She gave me an intense stare. “I can never thank you enough. You know that?”
I laughed. “For cheap pizza?”
She smiled, but there was sadness peeking out at the edges. “For seeing me as more than a pretty girl.”
And then she turned away and went inside her home.
The next day I found the letter.
It was written on her pink stationery and taped to the driver’s-side window of my van. I tore it to shreds after reading it, but I can still remember its contents. Something like that you never forget.
It described in horrifying detail the despicable things Emma’s father had subjected her to for most of her life. Sexual acts so vile that I will not go into detail here. It explained so many things about my Emma, including her propensity for self-loathing.
The worst part of it all was that she believed she was somehow at fault, that maybe if she had been born less attractive, the heinous acts of her sick father wouldn’t have happened.
She’d disappeared in the middle of the night. And the only clue she’d left was that she was going to Los Angeles. In the letter, she wrote that she couldn’t bear the thought of being her father’s caretaker after everything he’d put her through. She had purposely kept her plans a secret from me because she knew I would have done anything to keep her in Copper Creek.
And, of course, she was right.
She also confessed that she had been saving money for years, in anticipation of her eighteenth birthday. She didn’t mention the amount, but I knew how much money she made, so it couldn’t have been much. As much as the details of her abuse tore my heart out, I think what hurt most was discovering how much she had kept from me: the abuse, the money, and her plan to leave Copper Creek forever.
To leave me forever.
She apologized, of course—over and over again. The letter closed with a promise to always love me. But that was cold comfort.
Over the next few weeks, sorrow turned to hate. Hate turned to rage. It was directed squarely at her father, Frank. He was the one who had damaged my Emma. He was the one who had forced her to run away from me.
As a legal adult, no one could force Emma to come back, although her mother eventually filed a missing-person report. The local police questioned me, but I told them nothing. Of course, Emma’s disappearance was the talk of the town and the subject of ludicrous speculation from small minds. I heard most of it only thirdhand, as most people were intimidated by my size and didn’t dare rile me.
That was a good thing. I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d overheard anyone saying awful things about Emma.
A month later, her mother flew out to Los Angeles for a couple weeks to stay with her sister, who had lived there most of her life. Her mom suspected that Emma might reach out to her, since her aunt was the only person she knew in the entire city.
I wanted to leave with Emma’s mother and help her scour every inch of L.A. But instead I offered to help out with Frank while she was gone. It’s the least I can do, I told her. She was grateful.
As I said, Frank had MS and needed someone to help him get around. I worked as his live-in caretaker for a full week, studying his routines, learning his patterns, and watching for weaknesses. I had to give the performance of a lifetime, acting as if I didn’t know what a monster he was and what he had done to Emma.
I even had to spoon-feed the son of a bitch.
I dropped the charade at one a.m. on a Saturday night.
Frank liked to drink, but his wife made sure he didn’t overdo it. I gave him all he wanted. Once he’d passed out, I carried him upstairs to his room and tossed his useless body onto the bed. I lit one of his cigarettes and set his sheets ablaze with it.
I made sure his wheelchair was downstairs.
For several minutes I waited down in the living room—where I had been sleeping on their couch—until I was sure there was no chance Frank would survive.
When the upstairs became a raging inferno, I remember being disappointed not to hear any screams. I ran to my home and called the fire department.
I told myself I did it for Emma. But the truth is, I did it for me.
The blaze was deemed an accident and the fire department was able to ascertain the cause. The empty bottle of whiskey and cigarettes I planted had worked perfectly. I saw Emma’s mother only one more time, at Frank’s funeral. She gave me an awkward hug, mumbled something about not blaming me, and then left me standing there speechless with my parents.
I later learned that Emma had never contacted her aunt.
Everywhere I went in town, eyes were on me. I was no longer able to fade into the woodwork, as I’d done my whole life, despite my size. After the scandal with Emma, followed by her father’s death, I was the next best thing to a celebrity. But people looked at me with pity rather than scorn.
Within six months I had moved to Los Angeles with the goal of finding Emma. I lived in a cheap apartment in East Hollywood with two shitty roommates who fancied themselves actors. And I worked at a fast-food chain until I was able to land a job in the mailroom at a large telecommunications firm. I worked my way up to the in-house marketing department, where I was able to build on the graphic design skills I had.
The only time I ever went back to Copper Creek was for Christmas and an occasional visit for my parents’ wedding anniversary.
I spent every spare moment trying to find Emma those first two years in L.A. I even maxed out my first credit card hiring a private investigator. But she had vanished without a trace. Naïvely, Emma hoped she could run away from her past in the city of dreams—but I was pretty sure she had run into its dark underbelly.
In those moments between dusk and nightfall on Hollywood Boulevard, when neon glows a bit brighter and the throngs of tourists begin to fade, you can see the remnants of these shattered dreams. It’s in the faces of young, homeless figures huddled against the buildings. An endless parade of kids will always come to Tinseltown because they believe it can offer them a second chance. They see it on TV. It’s familiar. They think they can make it.
Many of them turn to survival sex—trading their bodies for food or a place to sleep, or self-medicate to cope with the harsh realities lurking behind the curtain of this unforgiving town.
I looked for Emma’s face in those huddled masses for a long time.
I never stopped grieving for her.
I woke up in Margot’s bed at 3:07 a.m. and she wasn’t there.
It was difficult to concentrate. Red-wine headaches are the worst.
I was naked and bruised all over. My body ached. I had done things with Margot I never would have imagined. Things I’m not proud of, and would never do again. She was twisted. A sexual deviant. I think she enjoyed her power over men. Most likely abused it. It was clear to me that this was a regular thing with her, and our depraved evening had convinced me of one thing: She wasn’t my Emma.
The master suite was as dramatic as the rest of Margot’s home was, decorated in varying tones of black and gray. As you looked past the foot of the king-size bed, there was a partial stone wall with a fireplace and television built into it. Seating areas were located in front of several of the windows.
It was still dark outside. The only illumination came through an arched doorway at the other end of the large master suite: the entrance to the bathroom. I waited patiently for Margot to finish so I could relieve myself. But ten minutes later, my bladder refused to wait any longer. I searched for my underwear, slipped them on, and stepped down onto the cold stone floor.
The bathroom had a door for the toilet area, but the sink was accessible through the archway. As I stepped through it, the first thing I noticed was Margot’s nude, perfectly shaped figure from behind. The backs of her legs were still pink with a crisscross of welts from where she’d had me whip her.
When I say perfectly shaped figure, that’s exactly what I mean, emphasis on the word shaped. She had the kind of designer body you see often if you live in L.A. for any length of time, sculpted through plastic surgery. It was striking, and it conformed to what the media promotes as “perfect.” And yet there was something preposterous about it, as if it had been forced to comply with the anatomical proportions of a cartoon character: breasts that defied gravity, a tummy unrealistically taut for her age, and a butt that looked as if it had been carved from granite.
Margot didn’t notice me right away. The steam from the sink had fogged up the mirror and her hands obscured her face as she bent over to wash it. As I looked closer, I saw that one of her hands was somehow underneath her skin. She was cleaning underneath what appeared to be a pliable mask of some kind, as if it were made of artificial flesh.
I gasped, suddenly terrified. She heard me and spun around angrily. “What are you doing?” she screamed.
My intrusion had distracted her. She hadn’t properly reattached her face. The left side folded over like the peeled-back skin of an overripe piece of fruit. Underneath, I could see a layer of tight, shiny skin that resembled the grafts on burn victims.
“Oh, God…” was all I could manage.
“Get out!” she yelled, storming toward me. “Get the fuck out!”
She ran at me, shoving me backward, not an easy thing to do given my size, which was still considerable despite my having lost weight in the years since leaving Copper Creek.
Something in me snapped.
This woman had stolen my Emma’s face. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “Who the hell are you…What are you?”
The violent shaking loosened her face even more, and I watched in revulsion as her features collapsed inward. The façade of Emma’s face completely detached, sliding down to reveal the true horror underneath.
Margot Walker was a mockery of Emma and a violation of her memory. And the more I learned about her deceit, the more my anger toward her grew. Margot Walker wasn’t even her real name. She’d been born Sue Mueller.
The handcuffs she’d used on me earlier in the evening had come in handy. It was the only way I was able to restrain her. We sat facing each other in two chairs I’d positioned together in the master suite.
I had a hard time looking at her. Without the mask, she was a monster without expression; a blank countenance incapable of exhibiting any emotion. There was no nose, only a nasal cavity, and there were narrow slits where her ears should have been. Her mouth had no lips, so her teeth were exposed like a skull’s.
From the forehead to the chin and all the way across was an extensive web of alternating ridges and polished scars. It looked as if her features had been whittled down to better accept the shape of Emma’s face, like they do to teeth before capping them with those perfect porcelain veneers.
At first she refused to tell me anything. But when I took photos of her with my phone and swore to expose her secret, she began to talk. I would have done much worse to her if she hadn’t. And I think she sensed that.
According to her, she was born with an unlucky roll of the genetic dice. Not grotesque necessarily, but no one had ever accused her of being attractive, either. Her father had done quite well for himself as the CEO of a high-end furniture chain, and when he and his wife died in a tragic car accident, Sue became the sole heir to a significant fortune.
She had only wanted two things in life: to collect art and to be beautiful. Suddenly, she could afford both. But she wanted more than a nose job or lip fillers—she wanted a total transformation. She wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than being a raving beauty.
Her quest brought her to Dr. Seth Holland, the revolutionary plastic surgeon and founder of the Fresh Start Institute.
Even I had heard of Dr. Holland, the most overexposed celebrity doctor in history. He’d first made headlines around the world for his groundbreaking work in biosurgery, restoring the faces of accident victims or those born with deformities.
He was later accused of selling out when he launched the Fresh Start Institute, where consumers could create their own designer faces and bodies. He was the first to commercialize tissue engineering, or what the medical community called “regenerative medicine.”
Most important, he was the son of a bitch who had transplanted Emma’s face onto Sue Mueller.
When the full implications of this hit me, it took every ounce of self-restraint not to end her miserable life right there. But I wasn’t done with her yet. I needed to know what happened to Emma.
The featureless woman was terrified to tell me any more for fear of what I would do to her. When shouting lost its effect, I lost control and backhanded her. She toppled backward onto the stone floor.
“Tell me what happened to Emma, Goddamn it!” I yelled. “Or I swear to God I’ll make your face look even worse than it does now.”
She was crying, but her face was disturbingly immobile. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said, choking up. “I just…wanted to be beautiful.”
I yanked her up from the floor and shoved her back on the chair. “Tell me!”
It took some time for her to regain her composure and talk coherently. But I got her to confess that she and Emma were part of a group that the media dubbed “first-generation” Fresh Start clients. This referred to anyone who had had procedures done at the institute during their first couple years of operation. Eventually, a significant percentage of that group developed serious side effects and filed a class-action lawsuit against Dr. Holland, which at the time nearly destroyed his empire. Sue had chosen not to take part in the lawsuit, though she wasn’t sure about Emma.
What Holland and his scientific team couldn’t have foreseen was the emergence of a particularly destructive yet slowly gestating virus borne from the merging of flesh and bioartificial materials grown in a lab.
Many first-generation clients became infected with the virus, which ravaged the tissues of the victims’ faces. Progression could be stopped with drugs, but there was no permanent cure, only management of the virus. A tragic consequence was that the virus also made the infected person medically unsuitable for a replacement transplant.
Sue was one of the infected.
In response to this tragedy, Holland’s team developed fully functional bio-masks for the victims using second-generation technology. The masks could be worn over the damaged tissue but not permanently attached. This is why Sue had to clean beneath it daily.
Not every victim survived the virus, and many who did took their own lives.
Fortunately for me, the virus wasn’t contagious.
Still, the burning question remained: How did Emma become involved?
On this, Sue could only speculate. It was common knowledge that Holland had recruiters on the payroll that scouted beautiful people. The institute was known to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the use of their likenesses. It wasn’t hard to imagine Emma, desperate for money, seeing a way to become wealthy overnight.
The pieces were starting to come together, but I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.
I stared at the pathetic thing before me. “Why did you act like you didn’t know her? Why bring me here? What’s your game?”
Her eyes were cast downward. Perhaps ashamed, though it was impossible to tell with her face. “It was the way you looked at me. I’ve wanted someone to look at me like that my entire life.”
I was shaking at this point. “You stole Emma’s face…you even stole how I looked at her. Everything you are is based on a fucking lie!”
It was all too much. A combination of lack of sleep, overdrinking, and emotional turmoil sent me racing for the toilet to vomit. And in that brief moment of distraction, Sue made her move.
As soon as I heard her knock over the chair I gave chase, but she was too far ahead to catch.
She didn’t make it down the stairs.
Hands still cuffed behind her back, she lost her balance and fell. I watched as she tumbled to her death on the spiral staircase, twisting her neck into a hideous and unnatural angle. She was lying on the floor chest down, but her featureless face stared up at me with a skull-like grin.
I stood there for several moments, stunned. I wish I could say I had some sympathy for her. I didn’t. She may not have been directly involved in Emma’s disappearance, but she was a part of it.
I suppose I could have called the police and explained that “Margot” had been drinking and simply lost her footing. The surplus of sex paraphernalia in her closet would certainly explain the welts and bruises.
But no matter how I spun it in my mind that night, I came up looking like her murderer.
Any early birds in the neighborhood would start heading for work soon, and I couldn’t be seen leaving the house. So I got dressed and wiped down any areas I remembered touching. I found dishwashing gloves under the kitchen sink (most likely the housekeeper’s) and wore them throughout the cleanup process.
I knew my DNA was all over the sheets, so I stripped the bed and replaced them with fresh ones. I tightly folded up the dirty ones and rolled them up in my jacket.
The most difficult part of the cleanup was reattaching Emma’s face to Sue Mueller’s head. It had a tacky surface on the inside, and it took me several tries to align it correctly. However, it formed a perfect seal once affixed properly. As horrible as it sounds, I was tempted to take Emma’s face with me. At least I would have a part of her forever.
Logic prevailed and I didn’t.
Last, I removed the handcuffs Sue was wearing, dumped red wine on the stairs, and left an empty glass near her body. I knew if there were a toxicology test, it would show that she had a considerable amount of alcohol in her system. My hope was that it would appear she tripped down the stairs while drinking. It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means, but it was the best I could do under duress.
I had parked down the street. This was bad and good. On the one hand, the farther I had to walk, the greater my chances of being spotted. On the other hand, my car was never in the driveway, so most likely it wouldn’t be remembered by any neighbors.
I left the house via one of the side doors, went through the backyard, and slipped into the alley behind. As far as I could tell, no one saw me get into my car and drive away.
It was time for a face-to-face with Dr. Seth Holland.
It is frighteningly easy these days to find personal information on the Internet. A quick search and his info popped up on umpteen “peoplefinder” websites. For a small fee they gave up his name, date of birth, marital status, gender, and phone number.
Most people don’t know these websites even exist, much less take on the arduous task of removing their information from each and every one. Fortunately for me, Holland was one of those people. Not surprisingly, he lived in an oceanfront property in the affluent city of Malibu.
I checked the schedule of appearances on his website to make sure he wasn’t on the road when I visited his home. I took a week off from work to stake out his property and get a sense of his schedule.
I first checked to make sure he didn’t have dogs; it was a relief to learn that he didn’t. That could have gotten messy. And I like dogs. Holland was divorced and both of his adult kids had flown the coop, so he was living alone, as far as I could tell. The biggest hurdle I faced was the security gate. So I parked a few miles away and hid in the thick shrubbery that bordered his home.
He pulled up to the security gate at 10:37 p.m. on a Wednesday evening. I rushed his car from the bushes and smashed in the passenger-side window with a hammer (I wasn’t taking any chances on a locked door).
Holland was understandably terrified, suddenly faced with a large man wearing a ski mask and holding an eight-inch hunting knife to his throat. He didn’t try to resist. I climbed in next to him and he drove us through the private gate and onto the massive property.
Holland was a doughy man with coiffed hair and a fake tan. He offered me money, but I made it clear that I wasn’t there to rob him. I wanted information and he was going to give it to me, or we were going to have a serious problem.
I tied his hands behind his back with a necktie I’d brought with me. I figured the soft material would be less likely to leave marks on his wrists. We sat in two chairs I’d set up in his posh living room, much like when I interrogated Sue Mueller. It seemed ironic that the backdrop was a breathtaking view of his massive backyard, and the Pacific Ocean beyond, which could be seen through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He lived on a private beach, so I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed.
Holland was far more terrified than Sue had been. I suppose an armed man in a ski mask invading your home will do that. I had brought several pictures of Emma with me and I spread them out on the coffee table next to us.
“Tell me about her,” I said. “And believe me…I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Holland leaned forward, studying the photos. “Well…these are old pictures. But yes, of course I remember her. Emma Grace, the most symmetrical natural beauty I’ve ever seen. A classic golden ratio.”
He meant the math term that describes a ratio, often found in art, architecture, and even nature. I learned it during my design training; it’s supposed to mathematically explain why some shapes are more pleasing to the eye than others.
Holland continued. “She was one of the first donors we scouted.”
“What do you mean by ‘donor’?” I said, fighting to stay in control.
He swallowed nervously. “Paid donors, of course. We gave enormous payouts for exclusive rights to people’s likenesses. Our clientele pays a fortune for that kind of natural beauty.”
“Why did you need her face?” I demanded. “I thought you just printed them out on those high-tech 3-D printers.”
“Not back then,” he said. “Our beautification processes were still somewhat crude. First-generation facial transplants required us to surgically remove the donor’s face. You can understand why we paid a premium.”
I slammed my fist down onto the table. “But why?” I demanded. “Why would anyone give up their face?”
“She…She meant a lot to you…” he said. “I can see that. I’m sorry.” I suppose he hoped to calm me down, but I only grew more enraged.
I grabbed him by his shiny designer shirt and pulled him toward me. “Why did she do it?”
“I…I can’t say…Everyone has different reasons,” he said. “I do remember that she had an unusual request. She wanted a replacement face that was quite average, chose one from our frozen cadavers, if I remember correctly. We used to store hundreds of them. Now we just grow what we need.”
I released him and he slumped back in the chair with a relieved sigh.
“What happened to Emma?” I said, unsure if I was prepared for the answer.
He shrugged. “I don’t remember much. It was a lifetime ago. You know how many people I’ve worked on over the years?”
“I don’t give a shit about other people, Holland. You better damn well try to remember.”
He took a long moment before he spoke. I suspect he was trying to jog his memory, think of a way out of the situation, or prepare himself for my reaction.
Finally, he said, “If I recall, she seemed happy with the results. She wanted an average face, so I assume she wanted anonymity. Many of our clients change their names and start their lives over. That’s why we call it Fresh Start. I believe she changed her name, too, but I don’t recall what it was. I only remember her as Emma.”
I stared him down.
“Listen, you have to believe me. She seemed happy. We paid her an enormous sum and she lived comfortably for several years. Unfortunately, she contracted the virus that affected so many of that first group.”
He closed his eyes wearily and shook his head. “We tried. I swear to you. We did everything we could. But we couldn’t save her.”
I felt tears spilling from my eyes.
It took about an hour to kill him. First, I forced him to drink an entire bottle of wine at knifepoint. Then I made him change into swimming trunks. After that it was fairly easy to drown him in the large hot tub outside, especially with his hands tied behind his back.
The first time I killed someone, I carried an enormous amount of shame. Thoughts of Emma’s father haunted me for years. I tried to assuage my guilt by contributing to multiple sclerosis events like the one where I met Sue Mueller.
But after watching her and Holland die, I no longer felt guilty.
I felt empty.
I was a nervous wreck for weeks.
I expected the police to show up at any moment and arrest me. I spent countless hours trying to come up with a convincing narrative if they ever discovered I’d spent the night with Margot Walker.
Holland’s death was also on my mind, but I was less worried about that. I’d done a good job making sure I didn’t leave any forensic evidence behind.
Both deaths made the news, of course. And while Margot’s beauty made for good press, the exposure on Holland was off the charts. Fortunately, he was known to be a heavy drinker, so an accidental drowning in the hot tub didn’t raise a red flag. The newspapers said no foul play was suspected.
Police were still investigating Margot Walker’s death the last time I checked. Her transplantee status was never revealed to the media, though. And the police never contacted me, either. I think that leaving separately from her at the charity event is what saved me from notice or suspicion. I was one of hundreds of people in attendance that night.
I still see Emma in my dreams. Her perfect face is, of course, indelibly burned into my psyche. I think she believed that her beauty was somehow responsible for what her father did to her. And I find some solace in that—at least for a short time—she may have known some peace. She found a way to excise the beauty that tormented her and experienced what life was like without her looks defining her.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I’m writing all of this down because what I’m about to do carries great risk. There is a strong possibility of me getting caught this time around. If that happens, I won’t go alive. And I want the world to know why I’ve done the things I’ve done.
Two weeks ago as I left a coffee shop, I noticed a city bus as it pulled up to a stoplight. There was an advertisement plastered across its side for a new cable TV drama.
It starred Emma Grace.
Of course, it wasn’t my Emma Grace. The actress’s name was different, as were her hair and eye color. After a quick Internet search, I learned that she’d had a few guest-starring roles in the past, but this new show was her first starring role. Apparently, she was a real up-and-comer.
Dr. Holland neglected to mention that he had obviously taken DNA or stem cells from those first-generation donors and most likely frozen them for later use. Now, with today’s more sophisticated technology, the institute was able to grow the materials in a lab and print faces on demand, like production molds on an assembly line.
I’ll deal with every one of those fucks at the Fresh Start Institute soon enough. But my first priority is the actress who stole Emma’s face. Getting to a celebrity will be a challenge, but not insurmountable. After all, I’ve done it before.
I can’t help but wonder how many more Emmas are out there. It’s a disturbing thought that often keeps me up at night.