I don’t think I can see that, up close and in person.
This keeps me from talking to Millicent about where she kept Lindsay and where she will keep Naomi. I’ve thought about asking her but never have. At times, I feel a little bad about it, but not bad enough. Most of the time, I’m just relieved.
“I can do it,” Millicent said.
We were at home alone on Friday morning. The kids were already at school. We sat in the kitchen having another cup of coffee and discussing our plans.
“You shouldn’t have to do it all yourself,” I said.
“I did it before.” Millicent stood up and carried her coffee mug over to the sink.
“Still,” I said. My protests were weak, and I knew it. They made me feel better anyway.
“Still nothing,” Millicent said. “I’ll take care of it. You take care of that reporter.”
“I will. Eventually, I’ll have to contact him again.”
“Exactly.”
She turned to me and smiled, lit up by the morning sun coming through the window.
Our plan was set. It was the same plan we had used on Lindsay.
We had prepared every detail, the way Millicent always does. First, the drug. Lindsay, and now Naomi, had to be unconscious so we could take her to a deserted place. Turned out chloroform is not the miracle knockout drug the movies pretend it is. Our research led us to some dark and scary places on the Internet, where everything is available for a price. Electronic currency, an anonymous e-mail, and a private mailbox can get you anything, including a tranquilizer strong and quick enough to knock out a dinosaur.
Since we had only had to knock out a 130-pound woman, we didn’t need much.
Millicent bought a notebook computer that only we knew about. We used it for researching the drugs. Also to find Lindsay.
And Petra.
And Naomi.
On Friday night, we took Naomi together. Just as we had done with Lindsay.
In the parking lot behind the hotel, Millicent waved down Naomi as she was driving away. They were just beyond the security cameras. I watched as Millicent bent down to the driver’s-side window, talking fast as if she needed help because her car had broken down. Then I saw the telltale jerk of her arm when she injected Naomi with the drug. Millicent pushed Naomi’s body to the side as she slipped into the driver’s seat and drove away.
I followed, smiling. After so much searching and planning and talking, I loved watching it all play out.
We separated in the woods. I took Naomi’s car and got rid of it while Millicent drove away in my car with our still-unconscious victim. By the time I made my way to Millicent’s car, parked a block from the Lancaster, and then back home, it was after midnight. In Hidden Oaks, everyone’s porch light was on, including ours.
The kids were not asleep. They were doing exactly what I would’ve done at their age: watching scary movies. Both were camped out in the living room with their phones and tablets and a pile of junk food. I joined them.
They thought I had been out patrolling the neighborhood, helping to protect Hidden Oaks from Owen Oliver. We have our own private security, but last night a group of residents decided to help be on the lookout. I just wasn’t one of them.
The kids already knew Millicent wouldn’t be home until morning. We told them she would be with a group of girlfriends who didn’t want to be alone. Neither cared. I’m not sure Owen Oliver is real to them. He is the boogeyman on TV, the psycho in the movies. It doesn’t occur to them that any woman—a teacher, a neighbor, or even their mother—could be at risk. My feelings about this are conflicted. I want my kids to feel safe. I also want them to know how dangerous the world is.
Still lying in bed, I start to wonder about where Millicent took Naomi, about what will happen to her. What may already be happening. To stop myself, I get up and turn on the TV. The sports channel. While listening to the baseball scores from yesterday, I make coffee. The newspaper thumps against the front door, and I leave it there. Instead, I drink coffee and watch cartoons until the kids get up, then turn off the TV before they come downstairs. Rory is first to the kitchen. He grabs the remote and clicks on the news.
“So who got whacked?” He takes a bowl out of the cupboard and dumps cereal in it.
“Don’t say whacked.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, who got murdered?”
Jenna appears in the doorway. She looks back and forth between Rory and me. “Did it happen? Did Owen come back?”
Rory turns up the volume on the TV. The reporter they show is not Josh. It is a young blond woman who looks like Owen’s type.
“Police tell us they won’t know anything for a while. Given the concern about last night, they have received many calls about women who have not answered their phones or checked in with their families. We don’t know if any of these women are actually missing, and it will likely be some time before the police have sorted everything out …”
“The police are idiots,” Rory says. He turns to Jenna and pokes her arm. “Like you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
They stop talking about Owen. I do not hear his name again until we are in the car, on the way to Jenna’s soccer game. During a break in the music, the radio announcer says the police have received more than a thousand calls from people claiming they saw Owen Oliver on Friday night.
Still no word from Millicent, though I lie to the kids and tell them she is having brunch with her friends. Neither seems to care.
At the game, I start checking my phone more often.
A few of the parents talk about the news, speculating about Owen and the Friday the 13th note and wondering if it was all a hoax. One of the fathers said it had to be, but the women were not so sure. When he laughed, a woman asked what was so funny about claiming someone would be killed on Friday the 13th.
I check my phone. Still nothing.
Jenna’s team is up by one. I give her the thumbs-up. She smiles and rolls her eyes at the same time. It occurs to me that the thumbs-up sign is probably uncool.
Then I see her. She is behind Jenna, near the parking lot, and she is walking around the field. Her red hair is down, bouncing as she moves. She is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt with a lion, the school mascot, on the front. She’s always trying to look like all the other soccer moms, but she never succeeds. Millicent always stands out.
As she gets closer, she smiles. It is a big, wide smile that reaches to the depths of her eyes. Relief floods through my veins. Only then do I realize how nervous I have been. Silly. I know better than to doubt Millicent.
I reach out to her. She slides her arm around my waist and leans in to kiss me. Her lips are warm, and her breath smells like cinnamon and coffee.
“How’s Jenna doing?” Millicent says, turning toward the field. I cannot stop looking at her.
“Winning by one.”
“Perfect.”
She slips away from me and says hello to some of the other parents. They chat about the game, about the beautiful weather, and, eventually, about Owen.
When the game is over, I have to go to work. It is Millicent’s Saturday to take the kids out to lunch, and we have only a moment alone in the parking lot. The kids are in the car, buckled up and arguing. We stand together between our cars.
“Everything good?”
“Perfect,” she says. “No problems at all.”
We go our separate ways, and as I drive to the club, I feel more than happy. Buoyant, maybe. Like I’m floating.
At the club, I have a rare Saturday lesson with Kekona, our Hidden Oaks gossip. I think she scheduled it because she wants to talk about Owen, about what may have happened the night before, and our lesson confirms it. Owen is all she talks about it.
“Fifty-three women. The news says fifty-three women were reported missing between last night and this morning.” She shakes her head. Kekona’s long dark hair is rolled up into a bun at the base of her neck.
“Owen did not kidnap fifty-three women last night,” I say.