Annabelle certainly does.
Every Wednesday night, she and her parents eat at the same Italian restaurant. My guess is that they order the same food, the same drinks, maybe even the same dessert. Dinner starts at six thirty and ends by eight. Annabelle walks, and it takes her eleven minutes to walk from the restaurant to her apartment, unless she stops at a store, gets a phone call, or runs into someone she knows. Like me.
While Annabelle is looking at her phone, I bump right into her.
She looks up at me in surprise. Then, recognition.
“Hi there,” she says.
She is wearing more makeup than she does during the day. Her lipstick is darker, eyes outlined. Her short, cropped hair makes her face look even more attractive.
I take out my phone.
Well if it isn’t the nicest meter maid in town ?
She rolls her eyes. “How are you?”
I nod and point to her.
She gives me the thumbs-up.
What are you doing out alone? Don’t you know there’s serial killer on the loose?
She smiles as she reads it. “I’m headed home right now.”
Care for a drink first?
She hesitates.
I point to a bar down the street.
Annabelle looks at her watch. I am surprised when she says yes. She should say no, especially with the whole Owen Oliver thing, but Annabelle is even lonelier than I thought.
The bartender, Eric, greets me with a wave. I have been here several times, always alone, always waiting for Annabelle to walk by on her way home from dinner with her parents. Eric knows me as Tobias. I taught him all the sign language I know. He can spell out my name and my drink, gin and tonic.
Annabelle orders the same. “Heavy on the tonic,” she says.
She does not trust me, and I do not blame her. I am just a guy who begged her not to give me a ticket. A probably very nice, nonthreatening deaf guy.
“So you know him?” Annabelle speaks to Eric while pointing at me.
“Sure, I know him. Tobias is a light drinker and a big tipper. He doesn’t say much, though.” He winks, letting her know he is kidding.
She laughs, and it is a nice sound. I start to picture being in bed with her. This makes me wonder how long it will take before she asks me to her place. I already know she will, and I know her place is not far. The power of knowing so much and choosing what will happen next—this is what I like.
“You’re a tag team,” she says, motioning to Eric and me. Annabelle is careful to face me when she speaks. She does not forget I am deaf.
After the first sip or two of our drinks, Eric fades to the other end of the bar. It is just Annabelle and me, and she tells me many of the things I know and some I don’t. For example, I did not know that she had linguine with mushrooms tonight. But now I know this is what she eats on Wednesday nights.
I tell her my Tobias story. I am an accountant, divorced, no kids. I loved my wife very much, but we met in high school and married too soon. It happens.
Annabelle is a good listener and nods in all the right places.
What about you? Boyfriend?
She shakes her head. “I haven’t had a boyfriend in a while.”
I know it won’t be long now. I expect that invite will come after drink number two and before number three.
Why don’t you have a boyfriend?
The question is not just conversation. I am genuinely curious.
Annabelle shrugs. “I haven’t met anyone?”
I shake my head.
Too generic.
It takes her a minute. I assume she is about to tell me her last boyfriend was an asshole. He cheated on her. He was always out with the guys. He was a selfish prick.
“My last boyfriend was killed,” she says.
The shock almost makes me speak out loud.
That’s horrible. How did it happen?
“Drunk driver.”
I vaguely remember that Annabelle had posted something online about a fund-raiser against drunk driving. There was no indication it was personal.
I ask her more about him. His name was Ben, and Annabelle had met him through work. Ben had been a cop. He took night classes in criminal justice and wanted to work his way up to detective, then sergeant.
She no longer keeps his picture on her phone, because she didn’t think it was healthy to stare at it.
This statement is so sad that I have to look away.
“Hey,” says Annabelle. She taps me on the arm, telling me to look at her. “I’m sorry. This is all too serious.”
No, it’s okay. I asked.
“I’m tired of talking about me. What about you? Girlfriend?”
I shake my head no.
“Your turn. Why not?”
It’s been hard to get back into dating. I was married for ten years. And being deaf … it just makes things harder, I guess.
“Well, any woman that won’t go out with you because you are deaf isn’t worth it.”
I smile. Her words are generic, but from her they sound genuine. It makes me wonder what she would say if I told her the truth.
Then I decide. I am not going to sleep with her.
Instead, I shift the conversation and we stop talking about ourselves. W e talk about music, movies, current events. Nothing personal, just random talk that doesn’t cause pain. When I stop flirting, so does she. The air between us changes.
Eric returns to our end of the bar and asks if we want another drink. Neither of us orders one.
She does not want me to walk her home. Understandable, but I insist that Eric call her a cab. She takes it, and I’m sure it’s because of Owen Oliver. Before she leaves, I ask for her number. She gives it to me, and I give her the number to the disposable phone.
Annabelle thanks me for the drink with a handshake. It is both formal and endearing. I watch her walk out of the bar.
I will not text her. Of this I am sure.
I am also sure that Annabelle is not the one. She will not go missing on Friday night.
It is because of her boyfriend. As soon as I heard the story, I knew it wouldn’t be her.
Maybe because it would be too much tragedy for one young life. To lose a loved one in a violent crash only to be murdered.
None of this is fair. Our system of choosing her was developed, in part, by Owen, but how we did it was arbitrary. I just happened to see Anabelle that day. It could have been anyone.
Now, I am back at the Lancaster Hotel, watching Naomi. She is still a bit too tall for Owen’s profile. I know her only through the computer and the glass doors of the Lancaster. I have never spoken to her, have never heard the sound of her voice.
I want to, though. I want to hear her laugh, to see how she acts after a drink or two. I want to know if she really has a thing for older men or if she just needs the money. I want to know if I like her, dislike her, or feel nothing for her. But I won’t. I cannot take the chance that something will make me want to let her live.
So I do not go inside the hotel; I do not approach her. When her shift is over, I watch her leave. She has changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She talks on the phone as she walks to her car, a tiny thing the color of a lime. At eleven fifteen on a Wednesday night, her only stop is at a fast-food drive-through. Minutes later, she is home, walking to her apartment, bag of food in one hand and uniform in the other. Naomi lives on the first floor of a quiet building that caters to people who don’t make much money. The yard is overgrown, with thick bushes near her front door.
Perfect. We have lots of choices for the Friday the 13th, from the hotel parking lot to Naomi’s apartment building.
Now I just have to tell Millicent I’ve changed my mind.
Twenty-three
At six in the morning, the radio announcer’s voice booms into my ear, and it’s loud enough to make me jump. Millicent likes her clock radio. It is an old one, the kind with flip numbers and faux wood casing, and it annoys me to no end. The radio is her way of leaving the toilet seat up.
“Good morning. It’s Thursday, October 12, and you’ve got one more day to lock up, ladies. Owen Oliver is coming to get one of you pretties—”
The radio goes silent. I open my eyes to see Millicent standing above me.