“You can explain that Jenna is safe until she repeats it in her sleep, but it won’t make a difference.”
Millicent sits in front of the doctor, as close as possible. She spent the night in Jenna’s room, barely slept, and she looks like hell. I look about the same. Jenna slept fine last night. Cutting off her hair seemed to bring her peace. When I try to tell the doctor this, he holds up his hand.
“False.”
“False,” I say. I try to mimic his tone, but the arrogance is too much.
“The peace is likely temporary, until some other piece of news sets her off again,” he says. He has spent the last hour with Jenna, part of the emergency Saturday morning session arranged by Dr. Barrow. We are the second part.
“What do we do?” Millicent says.
He has some ideas for how to make Jenna feel safe. First, twice-weekly appointments in his office. They are $200 apiece, no insurance accepted, cash or debit card only. Second, do everything you say you will do. Never let Jenna down. Never let her think you will not be there for her.
“But we don’t,” I say. “We always—”
“Always?” he says.
“At least ninety percent of the time,” Millicent says. “Maybe ninety-five.”
“Make it a hundred.”
Millicent nods, as if she can wave a magic wand and this will happen.
“Last but certainly not least,” he says. “Get her away from the media—from this serial killer, from all the stories about his victim. I realize I’m asking the impossible, especially in this day and age, but try to do it as much as possible. Don’t watch the news at home. Don’t discuss Owen or anything about him. Try to act as if he has nothing to do with your family.”
“He doesn’t,” I say.
“Of course not.”
We write the doctor a big check and leave. Jenna is in the waiting room. The TV on the wall is showing cartoons. She is staring at her phone.
Millicent frowns.
I smile and try my best. “Who wants breakfast?”
The weekend is a flurry of meetings: with the whole family, with Jenna alone, with Rory alone, with both the kids, and with just Millicent. So many meetings with Millicent. By Sunday evening, we have a new set of rules, and they revolve around eliminating the news from our lives. All news programs are banned, as are newspapers. We will stream movies and avoid live TV as much as possible. No live radio. All of these are easy compared to the Internet. The kids use it for school, for fun, for communication.
Millicent tries anyway, beginning with the password. No one will be able to connect unless she does it herself.
Mutiny.
“Then I can’t live here.” Rory goes for broke with his opening statement.
Jenna nods, agreeing with her brother. A rare moment of solidarity.
I agree with the kids. Millicent has proposed something that is impractical, unworkable. Absurd.
But I say nothing.
Rory looks from me to his mother, sensing weakness. He lists all the reasons the password idea will not work, beginning with Millicent’s long hours.
Jenna finally pipes up. “I’ll fail English.”
That does it.
English has been difficult for her this year. She has worked twice as hard at it to stay on the honor roll, and the idea of Jenna falling off it changes Millicent’s mind. She downgrades to a lesser set of rules.
Parental controls, laptops moved to the family room, all news apps removed from phones. Psychological rather than practical, but we all get the point. I have no idea if Jenna will follow the new rules.
A hairdresser tries to shape what’s left of Jenna’s hair. Now that it’s even, it does not look bad—just different. Millicent buys all sorts of hats and caps in case she wants to cover up. She lays them all out on the dining room table, and Jenna walks the length of it, trying on each one. At the end, she shrugs.
“They’re nice,” she says.
“Do you have a favorite?” Millicent asks.
Jenna shrugs again. “I’m not sure I need a hat.”
Millicent’s shoulders slump a little. She is more concerned about Jenna’s hair than Jenna is. “Okay,” she says, gathering up the hats. “I’ll just leave them in your room.”
Before bedtime, I go see Rory. He is on his bed reading a comic book. He slides it under a pillow, and I pretend not to see it.
“What,” he says. Irritation everywhere.
I sit down at his desk. Books, notebooks, empty chargers. A full bag of chips, and a drawing of something that looks half monster and half hero. “It’s not fair,” I say. “None of this is your fault, but you have to live with it anyway.”
“Take one for the team. Got it.”
“What do you think?” I say.
“About what?”
“Your sister.”
He starts to say something. I can tell by those green eyes that he is going to be a smart-ass.
But he stops. Pauses. “I don’t know,” he says. “She’s been a little obsessed with this thing.”
“Owen.”
“Yeah. Like, more obsessed than usual. You know how she gets.”
He is referring to Jenna’s ability to laser-focus on a topic, whether it be soccer or ribbons or ponies. Rory calls it obsession because he doesn’t have it.
“How’s she been at school?” I say.
“Fine, as far as I can tell. Still popular.”
“Can you let me know if anything changes?”
He thinks, perhaps about asking for something in return. “Yeah,” he says.
“And don’t be too much of an asshole to her.”
“But that’s my job. I’m her brother.” Rory is smiling.
“I know. Just don’t be so good at it.”
Millicent and I are finally alone late Sunday night. I am exhausted. Worried. I dread the next story about Owen or Naomi or Lindsay.
Naomi. For the first time in two days, it occurs to me that Millicent has not left our side. She has been with Jenna, me, us, since Friday night. It makes me wonder where Naomi is, if she is still alive. She must have water. She would not survive without that.
I never wanted to think about where Naomi was, how she was restrained, what her surroundings were like. I forced myself not to think about it. Still, the images come. The ones I have heard about, the underground bunker or basement, the soundproof room in an otherwise normal home. Restraints—I think about these as well. Chains and cuffs, made of steel so they cannot be broken.
But it may not be like that. Maybe she is just locked in a room and free to roam around. It could be like a regular room with a bed, a dresser, a bathroom, maybe a refrigerator. Comfortable and clean. Not a chamber of horrors or torture or any of those things. Maybe she even has a TV.
Or not.
I turn to Millicent, who is sitting up in bed, on her tablet, researching children who are afraid of what they hear on TV.
Again, I think about asking her about Naomi. I want to know where and how Millicent is keeping her, but I am afraid of what I might do with that information.
I don’t think I could control myself.
If I know where she is, I will go to see her. I will have to. What if it’s the worst-case scenario? What if she is chained to a radiator in a basement somewhere, covered in dirt and bleeding from torture? Because if that’s what I see, I’m not sure what I would do.
If I would kill her. If I would let her go.
So I do not ask.
Thirty-three
Bringing Owen back has served its purpose. No one doubts he is the one who kidnapped and killed Lindsay, the one who now has Naomi. Now it’s time for him to fade away. The only way is to stop the news: No more letters, no more locks of hair. No more missing women. No more bodies.
We need an exit strategy. Jenna needs it.
At the club, they are still talking about Owen. I refuse. I get out of the clubhouse, away from the gossip, even away from Kekona. We still have two lessons a week, but she is at the club every day. I spend the whole day on the court, either with a client or waiting for the next one. After the past few weeks, and the past weekend, the day is almost too normal. Something has to break it up.