We are interrupted by the TV. A breaking-news announcement interrupts a daytime talk show.
The local news logo appears. It is followed by that young, earnest reporter following Lindsay’s story. His name is Josh, and I have been watching him every day since Lindsay’s body was found. Today, he looks a little tired, but his eyes are wild.
The police department has finally revealed how Lindsay was killed.
“We’re here tonight with Dr. Johannes Rollins, the former medical examiner of DeKalb County, Georgia,” Josh says. “Thanks for joining us, Dr. Rollins.”
“Of course.” Dr. Rollins looks older than everyone I know put together and reminds me of Santa Claus, except the clothes are wrong. He is wearing a plaid button-up with a plain blue tie.
“Dr. Rollins, you’ve seen today’s police statement. Given your expertise, what can you tell us about it?”
“She was strangled.”
“Yes, yes. It says that right here. Asphyxia due to ligature strangulation.”
Dr. Rollins nods. “That’s what I said. She was strangled.”
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“She lost consciousness in seconds and died in minutes.”
Josh waits to see if Dr. Rollins has anything else to say. He does not. “Okay then. Thank you very much, Dr. Rollins. We really appreciate your time.” The camera zooms in on Josh, and he takes a breath. His official report is always followed by an unofficial report, because Josh is ambitious and seems to have sources everywhere.
“That isn’t all we have. As always, News 9 has more information than anyone else, and you won’t find it in the police statement or on any other station. My sources tell me that the marks on Lindsay’s neck indicate she was probably strangled with a chain. The killer stood behind her and held the chain against her windpipe until she was dead.”
“Cool,” Rory says.
I feel too sick to admonish him, because I am imagining his mother, my wife, as the murderer Josh is describing.
It’s all very clear in my mind, in part because I know, or knew, both women. I can see the look of horror on Lindsay’s face. I can also see Millicent’s face, although the expression keeps changing. She is horrified, she is relieved, she is orgasmic. She is smiling.
Rory starts setting up his video game.
“You okay?” he says.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t answer. Bloody Hell VII is booting up.
I leave, because I have to get to a tennis lesson. I have canceled far too many recently.
Down the road, at the club, a middle-aged woman is waiting for me. She has straight dark hair, a deep tan, and an accent. Kekona is Hawaiian. When she gets frustrated, she curses in pidgin.
Kekona is a retired widow, which means she has a lot of time to pay attention to what everyone else is doing. And she gossips about it. Because of Kekona, I know who is sleeping with whom, which couples are breaking up, who is pregnant, and which kids are getting into trouble. Sometimes, it is more than I want to know. Sometimes, I just want to teach tennis.
Today, I learn one of Rory’s teachers may be having an affair with a student’s father. It is disturbing, but at least she isn’t having an affair with the student. She also has news about the McAllister divorce, which has been going on for more than a year now, along with a new rumor about a possible reconciliation. She is quick to label that one as “probably unreliable, but you never know.”
Thirty minutes into our one-hour lesson, she mentions Lindsay.
This is unusual, because Lindsay was not found within our little community of Hidden Oaks, nor was she a member of the country club. Lindsay lived, worked, and was found twenty miles away, which is outside Kekona’s gossip zone. Most of the time she stays inside the Oaks, deep within its gates, where she lives on one of the largest houses. She lives less than a block away from where I grew up, and I know Kekona’s house well. Or I used to. My first girlfriend lived there.
“There’s something weird about this girl in the motel,” Kekona says.
“Isn’t there something weird about all murders?”
“Not really. Murder is almost a national pastime. But then again, normal girls don’t just show up dead in abandoned motels.”
Kekona says what I’ve been thinking all along.
The motel still baffles me. I don’t understand why Millicent didn’t bury her or take Lindsay’s body a hundred miles out to the woods, or anywhere but here, near where we live, in a building where she was sure to be found eventually. It doesn’t make sense.
Not unless Millicent wants to get caught.
“Normal girls?” I say to Kekona. “What’s a normal girl?”
“You know, not a drug addict or a prostitute. Not someone who lives on the fringe. This girl was normal. She had a job and an apartment and, presumably, paid her taxes. Normal.”
“Do you watch a lot of those police shows?”
Kekona shrugs. “Sure, who doesn’t?”
Millicent doesn’t. But she does read the books.
I send my wife a text:
We need a dat`1e night.
Millicent and I haven’t had a real date night in more than ten years. The phrase is our code, because at some point we sat down and came up with a code. Date night means we need to talk about our extracurricular activities. A real conversation, not just whispers in the dark.
Between the text and date night, there is Rory’s suspension. He has been at home alone all day, and in Millicent’s fantasies her son has been reading a book to improve his mind. Instead, he has been playing his new video game, courtesy of me. There is no sign of it when I walk in the door. Rory is setting the table in silence.
He looks up at me and winks. For the first time, I do not like the person my son is becoming. And it’s my fault.
I go upstairs to take a quick shower before dinner. When I come back down, Jenna has appeared. She is making fun of Rory.
“Everyone was talking about you today,” she says. Jenna types into her phone while she talks. She always does this. “They said you’re so stupid you had to look up the spelling of your own name. That’s why you were cheating.”
“Ha ha,” Rory says.
“They said you’re too stupid to be older than me.”
Rory rolls his eyes.
Millicent is in the kitchen. She has changed out of her work clothes and is now wearing yoga pants, a long sweatshirt, and striped socks. Her hair is piled on top of her head, secured with a giant clip. She smiles and holds out a bowl of salad for me to put on the table.
The kids continue to bicker as she and I put the food out.
“You’re so stupid,” Jenna says. “They say I got all the brains in the family.”
“You sure didn’t get any beauty,” Rory says.
“Mom!”
“Enough,” Millicent says. She sits down at the table.
Rory and Jenna shut up. They put their napkins on their laps.
It is all so normal.
When we are done eating, Millicent asks Jenna and me if we will take care of the dishes. She wants to go over Rory’s schoolwork with him to make sure he got it all done today.
I see the panic in his eyes.
It is going to be a long evening for Rory; I can hear it from the kitchen as Jenna and I clean up. I rinse, she stacks the dishwasher, and we talk a little.
Jenna babbles about soccer, going into details I cannot possibly understand. Not for the first time, I wonder if I should become more involved and volunteer to be an assistant coach or something. Then I remember I just don’t have the time.
She keeps talking, and my mind wanders to Millicent. To our date night.
When the dishes are done and Rory is out of excuses, everything winds down for the night. Rory goes to his room to do the homework he didn’t do earlier. Jenna chats and talks and texts all at the same time. When it is time to go to bed, Millicent takes both of their computers. She takes them every night at bedtime so they won’t stay up and chat with strangers on the Internet after we’ve gone to bed. I think there are strangers on the Internet at all hours, but I do not argue with her about this.
Once the kids are in bed, Millicent and I go to the garage for our date night.