“I know.”
She slips her hand into mine. “I’m worried.”
“About Jenna? Or about the police?”
“Both.”
“What if we go out of town?” I say.
“But I just said—”
“I mean take a vacation.”
She is quiet. In my mind, I run through all the reasons we cannot go. The kids would miss school. We don’t have extra money. She has several deals pending. I should not cancel on my clients again. The same reasons must be running through her mind.
“I’ll think about it,” she says. “Let’s see how things go.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
“The chicken pho was great,” I say.
“You’re silly.”
“Even if we don’t go on vacation now, we should when this is all over.”
“We will.”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” she says. “Now go to sleep.”
Fifty-four
THE NEW DETECTIVE is a woman. Her full name is Claire Wellington, a name that sounds like her family dates back to the Mayflower, but I bet it doesn’t. Not that it matters.
Claire is a severe-looking woman with short brown hair, pale skin, and brown lipstick. She wears no-nonsense pantsuits, all in dark colors, and never smiles. I know this because she is on TV all the time. Her idea of detective work is asking the public for help.
“I know someone in this community saw something, even if they don’t realize it. Maybe it was the night Naomi disappeared. Everyone was on guard that night, and everyone knew something was going to happen. Or maybe it was when Naomi George’s body was dumped behind the Lancaster Hotel. Please, think back to that night, think about what you were doing, who you were with, and what you saw. You may have seen something and not even realized it.”
A website has been set up for people to send in information. Or they can stay anonymous and call a special tip line for anything related to Lindsay and Naomi.
I do not like this development. All sorts of new information might be dredged up because of Claire’s public relations tour on TV. Josh is already reporting that the police have dozens of new leads.
“The police have also made use of an innovative computer program developed at UF Sarasota, where students have written an algorithm that can sort through the tips and match words used repeatedly. The tips are then ranked in order from the most useful to the least.”
This all happens within days of Claire’s arrival. It is bad enough that I have to see her on television. All. The. Time. Now I also have to listen about how innovative and effective she is. Even at home she is unavoidable. Millicent has been insisting that we don’t watch TV in the evenings, because Claire always pops up during the commercials. The local stations have started running public service announcements about the tip line.
Instead of TV, we play games together. Millicent digs up a deck of cards and a rack of plastic chips, and we teach the kids how to play poker, because this is preferable to watching Claire.
Rory already knows how to play. He has a poker app on his phone.
Jenna picks it up fast, because she picks up everything fast. She also has the best poker face. I think it’s even better than Millicent’s.
My poker face is terrible, and I lose every hand.
While we are playing, Rory mentions that there will be an assembly at school tomorrow. Millicent furrows her brow and then unfurrows it. She is trying to furrow less because of wrinkles.
“I didn’t get a notice about an assembly,” she says.
“That detective is coming to school,” Jenna says.
“The chick,” Rory says.
Millicent’s brow furrows again.
“Why is the female detective coming to your school?” I say.
Rory shrugs. “Probably to ask us if we saw anything. Same thing she’s been doing on TV. Daniel said she’s going to all the schools.”
Jenna nods as if she’d heard the same thing.
“She’s annoying,” Rory says. “But at least we get out of a class.”
Millicent gives him a look. He pretends not to see it and studies his cards.
“Well, I like her,” Jenna says.
“You like the detective?” I say.
She nods. “She seems tough. Like she’s really going to get him.”
“Oh, I’d agree with that,” Rory says. “It’s like she’s obsessed or something.”
It figures that the woman who might catch us also makes Jenna feel better. “Everyone has a lot of confidence in her,” I say.
“I hope I’ll get to talk to her,” Jenna says.
“I’m sure she is very busy.”
“Obviously. I’m just saying.”
* * *
• • •
JENNA AND RORY’S school does not hold assemblies in the gymnasium. It has a special hall, and it is named after the donor who paid for it. When I arrive, the hall is packed with kids, faculty, and parents. With as much as Claire has been in the news, she is almost a celebrity.
She is taller than expected, and even in a crowded room she is intimidating. Claire does not want to talk about herself, her past, or her experience. She begins by telling the kids that they are all safe.
“Whoever killed these women is not looking for you. He is looking for women who are older than all of you. Chances are you will never cross paths with the person who killed Naomi and Lindsay.”
Jenna is sitting with her friends just to the right of the stage. Even from the back, I can see her leaning forward, trying to hear and see everything.
Rory is the middle, sitting with his girlfriend, and he may or may not be paying attention. Hard to tell.
“However,” Claire says, “if you have crossed paths with this killer, you may not even know it. You may have seen something that you don’t even know is important. Anything that you think is unusual, or that stands out, could be important.”
She says the same things she said on TV but with smaller words and shorter sentences. She ends by saying she will be available afterward if anyone wants to talk. This is why I am here. First, to make sure Jenna has a chance to meet Claire. Second, to meet her for myself.
Jenna’s friends are around, so she does not give me a hug. Together, we wait to speak to Claire. A jumbled line of people has formed in front of her, and when our turn comes I step up to Claire and introduce myself. She is tall enough that we stand eye to eye. On TV, her eyes look plain brown. Up close, I see flecks of gold.
“This is my daughter, Jenna,” I say.
Instead of asking Jenna how old she is or what grade she’s in, Claire asks her if she wants to be a detective.
“I would love it!” Jenna says.
“Then the first thing you need to know is that everything matters. Even the small things that seem like nothing.”
Jenna nods. Her eyes are so bright. “I can do that.”
“I’m sure you can.” Claire turns to me. “Your daughter is going to be a fine detective.”
“She already is, I think.”
We smile at each other.
She moves on to the next person, turning her back to us.
Jenna is bouncing up and down on her toes. “You think I can really be a detective?”
“You can be anything you want to be.”
She stops bouncing. “Dad, you sound like a commercial.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s true. And I think you’d be a great detective.”
She sighs and turns back to her friends, who are waving at her. She brushes me off when I try to give her a hug. “I gotta go.”
I watch her run over to her friends, who react to her news with more enthusiasm than I did.
Dad failure number 79,402, and she’s only thirteen.
I am grateful for
Claire, who is so careful about making the kids feel safe. She has made Jenna happier than I have seen her in a while.
That still does not make me like Claire. In fact, now that I’ve met her, I hate her.
Fifty-five
BEFORE I HAVE a chance to research our new detective, Jenna does. At dinner, we are treated to the life story of Claire Wellington, as per the Internet. Born in Chicago, college in New York, first job with the NYPD. She moved to the rural Midwest, where she became a detective and was part of a drug task force. Claire left the small towns for a bigger one, eventually getting promoted to homicide detective. She was part of a team that investigated a group of killings known as the River Park Murders. They arrested the killer within two months of starting their investigation.
Claire went on to become one of the most successful homicide detectives in her department. Her average clearance rate was 5 percent higher than everyone else’s.
She is as formidable as she looks.
The kids and I are not the only ones who meet Claire. Millicent does as well. Claire needed a place to rent, because staying in a hotel is too expensive for the police budget, so she called the real estate office looking for a rental. Small, simple, and furnished, with a monthly lease. Millicent does not handle rentals, but she was in the office when Claire stopped by.
Early Sunday morning, when we are alone in the kitchen and the kids are still asleep, I ask Millicent what she thinks of Claire Wellington.
“She’s very tall.”
“She’s smart,” I say.
“And we aren’t?”
We exchange a smile.
Millicent has just returned from a run. She stands at the sink, in her spandex, and I admire the view. She catches me and raises an eyebrow.
“Want to go back to bed?” I say.
“You want to show me how smart you are?”
“I do.”
“But I need a shower.”
“Want company?”
She does.
* * *
• • •
WE START IN the shower and move to the bed. Our sex is cozy and familiar, rather than passionate and furtive. Not a bad thing.
When Rory wakes up, we are still in bed. I know it’s Rory, because he cannot shut a door without slamming it and his footsteps are heavy when he goes down to the kitchen. Not long after, Jenna gets up and follows the same routine—bathroom and then kitchen—but everything is softer.
Millicent is curled up beside me. She is naked and warm.
“The coffee is still on,” she says. “They’ll wonder where we are.”
“Let them.” I have no intention of getting out of bed until I have to. I stretch out and close my eyes.
The TV turns on, the volume loud. The kids are probably glad we aren’t downstairs. Normally, we do not watch TV on Sunday mornings, so for them this is a treat. They flip between cartoons and a movie with explosions.
“I bet they’re eating cereal,” Millicent says.
“We have cereal?”
“Organic. No sugar.”
“We have milk?”
“Soy.”
I do not say “yuck” out loud, but I think it. “That’s not bad, then.”
“I guess not.”
She snuggles a little closer.
This is what life was like before Holly. Everything moved a bit slower, less frantically, without much excitement.
The days blended together, punctuated only by big events. Our first house was so tiny, but it felt huge, at least until we outgrew it—followed by Millicent’s first huge sale, Jenna’s first day of school, our bigger house and bigger mortgage. The paper cut on Rory’s hand.
When Jenna was four, she got sick with a cold that turned into bronchitis. She could sleep for only an hour or so before the coughing would wake her up. Millicent and I spent three nights sleeping in her room, me on the floor and Millicent in Jenna’s little bed. Between the two of us, we helped Jenna get more sleep than us.
I taught Rory how to ride a bike. He would never admit it, but he used training wheels for an extended period of time. Balance was not his thing. Still isn’t.
None of this was exciting, not at the time. They were routines and responsibilities, with an occasional smile or even a laugh. Moments of happiness followed by long stretches of blurry, repetitive days.
Now, I want it all back. Maybe I have had too much excitement, or this is too exciting, but either way it is not what I want.
“Hey,” Millicent says. She sits up in bed, covered by the sheet. Her red hair is tangled. “You hear that?”
Downstairs, the breaking-news music blares out of the TV. It cuts off when one of the kids changes the channel to a cartoon.
I roll my eyes. “News breaks every five minutes.” I pull Millicent back down on the bed, into my arms, with no intention of moving unless the police break down our door. “Probably some celebrity got arrested.”
“Or died.”
“Or a politician got caught cheating,” I say.
“That’s not even newsworthy.”
I laugh and bury myself deeper under the covers.
My hope is that they have arrested someone for the murders. It would not be Naomi and Lindsay’s killer, but it would be someone who has done other bad things. Someone who deserves to be locked up before he hurts someone. I imagine him as a disheveled, slovenly man who has crazy eyes.
“Okay, that’s it,” Millicent says. “I’m getting up.” She throws off the covers all at once, like the old Band-Aid trick. It works. The bed isn’t cozy without her.
She throws on a robe and heads downstairs. I jump in the shower first.
The kids are on the couch, watching a teenage show about aliens. Their empty cereal bowls are on the coffee table, and I am surprised Millicent has let them stay there. I find her in the kitchen, standing next to the coffee maker. Her cup is tipped over, and the coffee is running off the side of the counter, onto the floor. She isn’t even looking at it. Her eyes are focused on the little TV set she keeps in the kitchen.
Josh is on the screen. He is standing in front of a woodsy area so thick with bushes I cannot see the building behind him, just the steeple high above the trees. I do not know the place or where it’s located. The wooden sign in front of the church is weather-beaten and faded. Josh’s mouth is moving, but no sound comes out. The volume is too low.
I do not need it anyway. The news is plastered across the bottom of the screen, in red.
HOUSE OF GOD OR HOUSE OF HORRORS?
UNDERGROUND DUNGEON FOUND IN ABANDONED CHURCH
Fifty-six
FOR A SECOND, I believed Millicent was upset because the news was horrific, because it was shocking, because it had nothing to do with us. Or I like to think I believed that.
Within another second, I knew it was her. The church was where she’d brought Lindsay and Naomi.
“A church?”
We are back upstairs, in our bedroom, but the mood could not be more different. There is nothing sexy about a dungeon in a church.
Our family does not go to church, and never has. Millicent was raised agnostic; I was raised Catholic and lapsed early. Church is where we attend weddings, funerals, and bake sales. And even I think this location is one of the most disturbing choices Millicent could have made. The only place worse would have been a preschool.
Millicent is no longer shocked by the discovery, nor is she scared. She has turned defensive. “I needed a place. Somewhere they wouldn’t even search.”
“Keep your voice down.” The kids are downstairs watching TV, but I am still afraid they will hear.
“No one found it, did they? Not when they were still alive.”
“No. No one found the church until Claire came to town.” According to Josh, they found the church because of a tip. Someone had seen a car i
n what used to be the parking lot but was now full of weeds.
Millicent stood in front of me, hands on hips. She is still wearing her robe.
Behind her, the TV is on in our bedroom. The press has not been let into the church, nor have any pictures been released, so Josh is repeating what his unnamed sources have said.
“A vile scene . . . chains attached to the walls . . . iron cuffs drenched in blood . . . even a veteran police officer was brought to tears . . . like something out of a movie.”
Millicent flipped her hand, brushing the words away. “It is not drenched with blood. That room isn’t a vault. It’s a basement. And the church has to be a hundred years old. Who knows what’s taken place in there?”
“But you cleaned it?”
Her eyes narrow. “Are you really asking me that?”
I throw up my hands as an answer.
Millicent walks up to me, her face closer to mine than when we were still in bed, but there is nothing cozy or warm about her. “Don’t you dare second-guess me. Not now.”
“I’m not—”
“You are. Stop.”
Her robe swishes as she turns around and disappears into the bathroom.
I can understand her anger. She is angry the church was discovered and angry I am questioning her. But I would not have left that basement with a speck of blood in it. The whole thing would have been doused in ammonia or bleach or whatever gets rid of blood and fluids and DNA of any kind. Maybe I would have left behind a lit cigarette inside and let it burn, making it look like an accident.
I never got the chance to do any of that, because I did not know about the church. I could never bring myself to ask.
* * *
• • •
MILLICENT DECIDES WE should all go to the movies this afternoon. Given the circumstances, the suggestion is absurd, but I tell myself it has to be better than watching the news all day. Yes, it’s a good idea to get out of the house. Out of my head. Away from Josh. I repeat this as I get dressed, trying to shove aside that church and its basement. It almost works.
“I’m not feeling very well.” For emphasis, I hold my stomach.
My Lovely Wife Page 24