* * *
• • •
WHEN KEKONA’S LESSON is over, I finally get to check the news. She is right about this former victim. Bianca and Naomi do look alike; both had dark hair and that wholesome girl-next-door look. Bianca had also been scalded, though not with water.
Oil.
This similarity makes the media go back and look at Lindsay again, and now they have come up with an earlier victim who also had straight blond hair.
I think it is all a stretch. The media just needs something to talk about, and, without any real information, they have made connections that do not exist. If Millicent wanted to re-create a crime, the details wouldn’t be similar. They would be exact.
This news upsets me a little. On the way to work, I mailed the letter to Josh. It was early enough that the post office parking lot was empty, so no one saw the surgical gloves on my hands as I slipped the letter into the slot. But if I had seen the news, I would have changed the letter. I would have told Josh the media is wrong, and, as usual, they’re just making things up. The old victims are not being re-created, so stop talking about all the various ways they were tortured.
My daughter does not need to hear it.
But I did not see the news, did not hear about Bianca, and now it is too late.
In the clubhouse, Josh is on multiple screens, looking exhausted but wired. He is still standing across from the Lancaster Hotel. The daylight makes the building almost look gaudy.
“While we know Naomi George was the woman found in a Dumpster behind this hotel, none of the other reports out there have been confirmed. However, our sources are telling us that Naomi had only been dead for one day before she was found . . .”
The GPS data for Millicent does not show anything unusual on that day. She didn’t even go to Joe’s Deli—only the school when she dropped off the kids, the office, several houses for sale, the grocery store, and a gas station. No indication of where Naomi had been held. Not unless it was inside one of the open houses. That seems unlikely, given that people go in and out of them all day long.
Not that it mattered at this point, because Naomi has been found. And tomorrow, Josh will get my letter.
He won’t wait to get it on the air. Last time, I had expected the police to spend more time examining it, but the news about it came out almost right away. This one should be the same. It looks exactly the same, smells the same, and even the paper comes from the same ream. There will be no doubt it came from the same person as the others. If I were a gambling man, I would bet the letter will be all over the news before I even get home from work.
But I am not a gambler. In thirty-nine years, I have turned into a planner. Maybe even a pretty good one.
Forty-nine
HARD TO TELL if I won or lost my imaginary bet. It is a matter of degrees, or in this case a matter of hours.
My thought was that Josh would go live with the letter just before the evening news, so it would be on every channel by the time people sat down for dinner. Instead, it comes hours earlier, while Jenna and I are at Dr. Beige’s office. He thinks she needs therapy more often. I think she needs a new doctor. Since Jenna started seeing him, she has gone from cutting off her hair to making herself sick to hitting someone with a rock.
Millicent and I divide up the appointments now. We both cannot take off from work three times a week, which is what Dr. Beige recommends after the Krav Maga incident. Today is my turn in the waiting room, where my options are therapeutic comic books, educational magazines, or TV. No one else is around, except a stern-looking receptionist who wears a jet-black wig and ignores everyone. I turn on a game show and play along in my head.
The story breaks about ten minutes into Jenna’s appointment. Josh appears on the screen, and after a brief introduction, he starts reading Owen’s letter out loud.
The receptionist looks up.
As Josh reads the words I wrote, a chill runs up my back. When he gets to the end, to Owen’s final goodbye, I have to stop myself from smiling. Owen really sounds like a cocky bastard in that letter.
Goodbye.
Finally.
Josh rereads the letter two more times before Jenna comes out of Dr. Beige’s office. She looks bored.
The doctor is behind her. He looks pleased.
“Switch,” she says. It is my turn to go into the office, so Dr. Beige can feed me a bowl of his oatmeal-colored nonsense.
Today, I refuse. “I apologize, but we just don’t have the time. Would you be available for a call later?”
The good doctor does not look pleased with me.
I do not care.
“That would be fine,” he says. “If I’m unable to take the call, just leave a—”
“Sounds great. Thank you so much.”
I offer my hand, and it takes him a second to shake it. “Well, then. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
As soon as we walk into the parking lot, Jenna looks at me sideways.
“You’re being weird,” she says.
“I thought I was always weird.”
“Weirder than usual.”
“That’s pretty weird.”
“Dad.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me.
“Want a hot dog?”
Jenna looks at me like I’d suggested we have a drink. “A hot dog?”
“Yeah. You know, a little tube of meat or whatever, in a bun with mustard and—”
“Mom doesn’t allow hot dogs.”
“I’ll tell her to join us.”
I think Jenna’s head explodes a little at this thought, but she gets into the car without another word.
* * *
• • •
TOP DOG SERVES thirty-five varieties of hot dogs, including tofu. This is what Millicent orders. And she does not say a word when Rory orders two all-beef chili dogs. It feels like a celebration, because it is. Owen is gone for good. The news is all over the TV screens mounted above our heads. Today, everything has gone according to plan and everyone seems to feel it.
“Can home go back to normal now?” Rory asks.
Millicent smiles. “Define ‘normal.’”
“Not on blackout. Back in civilization.”
“You want to watch the news?” I say.
“I don’t want to be banned from watching the news.”
Jenna rolls her eyes. “You just want to impress Faith.”
And just like that, I know Rory’s blond friend is named Faith.
“Who’s Faith?” Millicent says.
“No one,” Rory says.
Jenna giggles. Rory pinches her, and she squeaks.
“Stop it,” she says.
“Shut up.”
“You shut up.”
“Wait, are you talking about Faith Hammond?” Millicent says.
Rory does not answer, which means yes. It also means Millicent knows Faith’s parents, likely because she sold the Hammonds their house.
“Why didn’t they catch him?” Jenna says. She is staring up at the TV.
Maybe we are not quite back to normal.
“They caught him before,” Rory says. “And he got out.”
“So they can’t catch him?”
“They will. People like him don’t stay free forever,” I say.
Rory opens his mouth to say something, and Millicent shuts him up with a look.
Everything I think of to say sounds stupid in my head, so I keep my mouth shut. Not even Rory speaks. No one does until Jenna says something.
“I don’t feel so good.” She rubs her stomach. Jenna had the barbecue- and-onion dog, which was almost as large as my chili cheese dog. I do not think it’s the stress that has upset her stomach today.
Millicent gives me the look.
I nod. Yes, this is my fault for suggest
ing the hot dogs.
Millicent grabs her bag and motions for us to go. She has been a good sport about the hot-dog thing, considering we did not discuss it beforehand, and I take her hand in mine. We follow the kids out to the parking lot.
“And how’s your stomach?” she says.
“Perfect. Yours?”
“Never better.”
I lean over and try to kiss her. She turns away.
“Your breath is disgusting.”
“And yours smells like tofu.”
She laughs and I laugh, and my stomach does not feel nearly as good as I claimed. As soon as we get home, both Jenna and I are sick. She goes upstairs to the bathroom, but I can’t make it. I end up using the one in the hall.
Millicent runs between the two, bringing us ginger ale and cold compresses.
“Sick as dogs!” Rory yells. He laughs, and inside I am laughing with him.
Tonight, everything is funny, even while I am sick on the bathroom floor. Tonight, it feels like I have exhaled.
I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath.
Fifty
THAT HOT DOG kept me up at night, so I sleep in a little the next morning. By the time I get out of the house, it’s too late to stop at the EZ-Go. Instead, I go to a coffee shop just outside the Hidden Oaks gate. It’s the kind with five-dollar coffee and a male barista who has an obnoxious beard and stares at the TV. He shakes his head at it as he pours me a plain cup of coffee.
“I gotta stop watching the news,” he says.
I nod, understanding this more than he knows. “It’ll only depress you.”
“Word.”
I did not know people still said “Word” in a real way, but this big bearded fellow says it like he means it.
I leave without asking about the news. They are still talking about whether or not Owen is really gone, but there is no real news. No updates. Just new ways of repeating the old.
And already, Owen is starting to fade. He is still the lead story but no longer dominates the entire broadcast.
Just as I thought.
And now, my thoughts revolve around my family, my kids. About Rory’s girlfriend, whom I still haven’t met. I did figure out the Hammonds live on the next block. It would take Rory all of sixty seconds to get from our house to theirs if he cut through the middle of the block. I should have known this already, should have known Rory was sneaking out, but I was too busy doing it myself. Now I am making up for lost time.
Jenna has a new fascination with makeup. This has just started in the past week, perhaps because she is no longer trying to hide from Owen. I caught her putting lip gloss on before we left for school one morning, and Millicent said it looked like someone had been in our bathroom.
And she still has that knife under her mattress. I am starting to wonder if she forgot it was there.
These are all things I would miss if I were still distracted by Owen, by Naomi and Annabelle and Petra. I cannot remember the last time I charged the disposable phone.
And Millicent. We have talked about having a real date night. It has not happened yet, but when it does, we will not talk about Holly or Owen or anything of the sort. In the meantime, she has started an anti–hot dog crusade on the Internet.
I took the tracker off her car. Now, I want to look at my wife, not the blue dot representing my wife.
Even work has been booming, I have two new clients, because my schedule is no longer as erratic. Most of my day is at the club, and so when I’m not teaching, I have time to network.
Andy. I haven’t spoken to him since he moved out of Hidden Oaks. He left right after Trista died; he put the house up for sale, and I haven’t seen him since. He no longer comes to the clubhouse. It doesn’t seem right that I have let him disappear out of my life. In part, that’s been because of my own schedule. But it is also because of Trista.
I call him to see how he is. Andy does not answer and does not call back. I make a half-hearted attempt to search for him online, to try and figure out where he is living now, but I give up after a few minutes.
I still have that bottle of eye drops, though I have seen no evidence that Rory, or anyone, is using drugs of any kind. It doesn’t make sense why they are in the house, much less in the pantry. Eye drops don’t need to be hidden.
* * *
• • •
KEKONA HAS GONE back to Hawaii for a month, so my first client is Mrs. Leland. She does not like to talk about crime or Owen or anything of the sort. Mrs. Leland is a serious player, who only talks about tennis.
After her lesson is over, I have a minute between clients, just long enough to see a text from Millicent.
?
I do not know what it means or what she is asking, so I text back:
What?
Midway through my lesson with a retiree named Arthur, Millicent sends me a link to a news story. The headline does not make sense.
OWEN IS DEAD
I read the story once, then again, and the third time it becomes more unbelievable than the first.
Fifteen years ago, Owen Oliver Riley was charged with murder and let go on a technicality. He vanished without a trace until recently, when the body of a young woman was found and someone claiming to be Riley sent a letter to a local reporter, taking responsibility for the murder and promising to kill another woman, even naming the day she would disappear. When a second woman’s body was found, it seemed he had made good on his promise. The next letter claimed that he was done and would now leave for good. But was he ever here at all?
“No,” says Jennifer Riley. Owen’s sister contacted the local police last week and subsequently issued a statement.
In a twist so shocking it hardly seems real, she claims that fifteen years ago, after Owen Riley was released, both she and her brother moved to Europe. Neither returned to the United States, not even for a visit, her statement says, and they changed their first names and lived in anonymity.
Five years ago, her brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, she told police, and after several rounds of radiation, he finally succumbed to his illness and passed away. His body was cremated, her statement says.
Owen Riley’s obituary did not appear in any U.S. newspaper. It was announced only in a U.K. paper under his pseudonym, Jennifer Riley claims. She provided a copy of it to police, along with a death certificate. Authorities are currently working to verify the information.
Until recently, Jennifer Riley told police, she had no idea her brother had “returned” to the area where they grew up. She went on to say, “I wanted nothing to do with this. After leaving the area so many years ago, I wanted nothing to do with it. However, an old friend of mine reached out and convinced me to say something, because the police were convinced it was Owen.
“I will state this as clearly as possible: The recent murders of two young women are tragic and heartbreaking. However, I need to make it clear that my brother had nothing to do with them.”
Fifty-one
MY PHONE IS lying on the cement court, the screen shattered. I do not remember dropping it. Or maybe I threw it.
A hand is on my arm. Arthur, my client, is staring at me. His eyes are hidden under thick grey brows, and they are crinkled up. Worried. “Are you okay?” he says.
No. Okay is not what I am. “I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s a family—”
“Of course. Go.”
I pick up my phone and bag and leave the court. On the way to the parking lot, I hear people say hello but do not see their faces. All I can see is that headline:
OWEN IS DEAD
In the car, with the engine running, it occurs to me I have no idea where Millicent is. Not without that tracker on her car.
Through the broken screen, I send her a text.
Date night
Her reply:
Date lunch. Now.
I am already pulling out of the parking lot.
The kids are at school, so we meet at home. Her car is out front, and she is inside, pacing the length of the family room. Today her shoes are navy blue, and they do not make a sound when she walks. Her hair is shorter, cut above her shoulders, because she didn’t want Jenna to be the only girl in the family with short hair.
When I walk in, she stops pacing and we look at each other. Nothing to say.
Other than we screwed up.
She smiles a little. Not a happy smile. “Didn’t see this coming.”
“We couldn’t have.”
I reach out to her, and she comes to me, into my arms. My heart is beating faster than normal, and she leans her head against it.
“They’ll start looking for the real killer,” I say.
“Yes.” She leans her head back and looks up at me.
“We could just leave.”
“Leave?”
“Move away. We don’t have to live here. We don’t even have to live in this state. I can teach tennis anywhere. You can sell real estate anywhere.” The idea has just come to me, as I am standing here with Millicent. “Pick a place.”
“You aren’t serious.”
“Why not?”
She moves away from me and starts to pace again. I can see her building lists in her mind, trying to figure out everything that needs to be done. “It’s the middle of the school year.”
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to pick.”
“We can figure it out together.”
She goes silent.
I repeat the obvious. “They’re going to look for the real killer.”
This was never a problem before. No bodies had been found, not until Lindsay. Up until then, no one even knew there was a killer. They weren’t looking for anyone.
Now they are. And they know it was someone pretending to be Owen.
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