Everything that happens tomorrow is because of me. I wrote the letter to Josh, I chose the date, I promised another woman would disappear. And I am the one who switched from Annabelle to Naomi just last night. I am the one who has to make sure she is right.
The flip of a quarter chooses our movie for the evening, and it is about a dolphin. Rory and Jenna sit together on the floor with a bowl of popcorn and do not throw it at each other. Millicent and I sit on the couch with our own popcorn. She spends more time looking at our kids than at the movie, and her eyes look ten shades lighter. They always do with the kids.
She stays like that until the movie is over and the kids trudge upstairs to bed, their banter light and filled with dolphins. I start to stand up when she puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it.
“You better get ready,” she says.
She makes it sound like this is her idea, and it irritates me. “You’re right,” I say. “I need to get out of here.”
“You okay?”
I look down at her, at my wife with the clear eyes that are so unlike Trista’s. Everything about Millicent is the opposite of Andy’s wife.
I smile, thankful I am not married to Trista.
Twenty-four
I had not intended to wear my suit, because speaking to Naomi wasn’t in the plan, but at the last minute I put on the one Millicent likes best. It is dark blue with a hand-stitched collar, and it cost too much. But since I have it, I might as well wear it.
As I stand in front of the mirror and put on my tie, Millicent appears behind me. She leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, and she watches me. I know she wants to ask, because I never wear this suit except with her. She bought it.
I continue with my tie, put on my shoes, collect my wallet, phone, and keys. My disposable phone is not in the house.
When I look up, she is still there, still in the same position.
“I guess I’m off,” I say.
She nods.
I wait for her to say something, but she remains silent. I walk past her and down the stairs. As I reach the door to the garage, I hear him.
“Dad.”
Rory is at the door to the kitchen with a glass of water. He holds up his other hand and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. More money.
He did not just happen to be in the kitchen. He was waiting for me.
I nod and walk out.
Naomi is at the front desk, checking people in, answering the phone, troubleshooting for everyone who walks up with a problem. Tonight, I do not sit outside. I am in the lobby.
It is large and plush, with overstuffed furniture in dark colors and thick fabrics. Velvet curtains hang against the walls, trimmed in gold braid like the Lancaster uniforms. Fringe and tassels are everywhere.
I can hide in this lobby, hidden in the ornate decor, just another unknown guest working on my computer, having a drink, because I cannot sit in my hotel room for one more minute. This is almost the truth. I cannot sit in my car outside the hotel for one more minute. If Naomi is the one, I feel compelled to get a little bit closer.
But not to speak to her; I’ve decided not to do that. There is just no time. Not after the last-minute change. I am too stressed, too worried. Resurrecting Owen Oliver has become more complicated than I thought it would be. Maybe because of the media, maybe because of Trista, but it’s also because my kids won’t shut up about him.
This is so much different than Lindsay. It was just Millicent and me, no one else, not even on the periphery.
New Year’s Eve, Millicent and I went to a party at the country club. Jenna was twelve, Rory a year older, and it was the first time we had left them alone on December 31. They had been ecstatic about it. So were we. Ringing in the New Year with adults hadn’t happened since before the kids were born.
Less than a month earlier was when I saw that woman at the mall, the one who looked like Robin. Millicent and I had sex that night. Not the married get-it-over-with kind of sex. It was the kind we had when we were first dating, when we couldn’t get enough of each other. The great sex.
The next day, it was all over. The sex, the mood, the feeling. We went back to arguing about money—what we could and could not afford. That included the New Year’s Eve gala.
It was a costume party. Millicent and I dressed up like we were from the 1920s, a gangster and his flapper girlfriend. My suit was pin-striped, and I wore shiny wingtips and a fedora. Millicent wore a shimmery violet dress with a feathered headband, and her lips were painted crimson.
I normally found costume parties depressing. They made me feel surrounded by people who dreamed of being anyone other than who they were.
That night, we were different. Not like the others, not like anyone else at that party. Millicent and I talked about doing it again. Killing a woman. We talked about what we would do to her. If we would do it. Why we would do it.
“What about her?” Millicent said, motioning to a woman whose breasts were so large they bordered on grotesque. They were fake, and we all knew it, because she had told everyone how much they had cost.
I shrugged. “We wouldn’t be able to drown her.”
“You’re right about that.”
“And her?” I said, nodding to a beachy blonde with a date as old as her grandpa.
Millicent smiled, her white teeth stark against her ruby lips. “Mercy killing. Judging by that tan, she’ll get skin cancer anyway.”
I stifled a laugh. Millicent giggled. We were being horrible, gossiping in the most twisted way, but it was all just talk. For most of the night, we spoke only to each other.
Given that it was our first big night out in a long time, I was prepared to stay out late, and even had an energy drink before leaving the house. But we didn’t stay out late. By five minutes after midnight, we were on our way home.
By a quarter after, our 1920s costumes had been thrown off and discarded on our bedroom floor.
I had no idea if we were starting something or continuing it, but I didn’t want it to end.
In the lobby of the Lancaster, I look at my watch, check my phone, and surf the Internet. It’s all to pretend I’m not watching Naomi. She does not notice me. The night is much busier than normal, in part because the next day is Friday the 13th. People have come to town to see what Owen will do, who he will take and kill. Some of these people work for legitimate media sources; others are the kind who follow spectacles or event that can be recorded and loaded online.
A group of them sit near me in the lobby. They are college-aged kids who are looking to make money, and they speculate about how much money they can make. It’s all based on how graphic their video is, although capturing the actual kidnapping of a woman would be the mother lode. Providing they hold the camera still.
When they finally leave, off to find likely places serial killers hang out, I can focus back on Naomi. I look for something to tell Millicent, something we can share. I want this to feel like it did before.
Naomi is smiling and has been all night. This is amazing, even admirable. Many of the people who approach the front desk are disgruntled or need something, yet she never fails to be kind. She smiles even when someone calls her an idiot.
I start to think she is some kind of Pollyanna, someone who is nice and happy no matter what. I don’t like it. Millicent and I can’t whisper in the dark about that.
Then I see it—the crack in Naomi’s sugary-sweet persona. When one particularly rude guest turns his back, Naomi gives him the finger.
I smile.
Time to go home and tell Millicent.
Twenty-five
I wake up to silence. Dawn is an hour away, and the world is dark as velvet.
It is Saturday the 14th.
Millicent is not home yet.
Our decision to separate came late on Thursday night, after I returned home from the Lancaster. The plan was to keep Naomi alive for a while, just like Lindsay. It had to be done, because it’s what Owen always did.
I just didn’t like it. Didn’t even want to see it.
Part of me knew I should, because it wasn’t fair to make Millicent do it by herself. I tried to imagine what it would be like to lock Naomi up and keep her alive, feeding her, giving her water, and torturing her. It makes my stomach turn.