Finally.
Once the final version is done, I tell Millicent. She has come to the club to pick up Rory, who played golf after school and he is done before I am. Millicent stops by the tennis court, where I am waiting for my next client. Her flesh-colored heels thump against the cement as she walks toward me with a smile.
Days have passed since our late-night conversation. Now that Jane Doe has gone public she has been giving interviews to anyone who asks. She was impossible to avoid until Jane Doe #2 arrived last night.
Instead of having a press conference, she livestreamed her story on the Internet, and the local news rebroadcast it. The woman is younger than the others, maybe still in college, and she has jet-black hair, pale skin, and lips that look painted with blood. Jane #2 is almost the opposite of Owen’s typical victims, but she told almost the same story as Jane #1. Only the parking lot was different, along with a few dramatic tweaks. This Jane claimed Owen hit her in the face, and she showed off a purplish bruise on her cheek.
As soon as the livestream ended, my old friend Josh appeared on TV. Of late, Josh has been very serious, but last night he sounded almost sarcastic. He did not come right out and say he thought Jane Doe #2 was a liar, but he may as well have. I cannot imagine anyone believed her. I know I didn’t.
The problem is that women like her are keeping Owen as the lead story on the news. I do not have to remind Millicent of this as she walks onto the tennis court.
“I’m ready whenever you are,” I say.
Her dark sunglasses hide her eyes, both from the sun and from me, but she nods. “Hello to you, too.”
“Sorry.” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. She smells like citrus. “Hello.”
“Hello. The letter is ready?”
“Do you want to read it?” I want her to say yes, I want to watch her read it, but she shakes her head.
“I don’t need to. I trust you.”
“Oh, I know. Just asking.”
She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “See you at home. Dinner at six.”
“Always.”
I watch her walk away.
She does not go to Joe’s Deli today. Today is all work, either at the office or open houses.
I still watch the tracker, still check where she is going, but it is not because I want to know about Naomi. I already do. If she is not already dead, she will be soon.
I watch the tracker because I like to watch Millicent.
Another day goes by, then another, and Josh is back to counting down how many days have passed since Naomi went missing. I watch him on my phone all the time, waiting for the breaking-news announcement about her body. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, I feel an urge to see if anything is happening. On the Internet, news can break at any time. Normally, this is not a problem. But now that I am waiting for news to break, it is infuriating. And inconvenient.
I go downstairs and out to the backyard, where I check my phone. The news is the same as when I went to bed. Nothing is breaking, nothing is happening; it is like a boring rerun.
But I’m not tired. At two in the morning, the air is still, and so is our neighborhood. No one in Hidden Oaks throws late-night parties or even plays loud music. I don’t even see a light on in any of our almost-mansions.
I wish I could say this was our dream home, that we took one look at it and knew it was the place we wanted to be, the place we had worked so hard to get. It isn’t true. Our dream home is a bit deeper into Hidden Oaks, where the houses become real mansions. The inner circle is for hedge funders and surgeons.
We live in the middle circle, but only because of a nasty divorce, which led to frozen assets followed by a bank foreclosure. Because Millicent had sent that bank a lot of mortgage business, we were able to buy a house we should not have been able to afford. This is why we live in the middle of Hidden Oaks. We should be in the outer circle, but once again, I found my way into the middle.
The sound of rustling bushes makes me jump. There is no wind tonight.
The noise comes from the side of the house. If we had a dog, I would assume it made the noise, but we don’t. We don’t even have deer in this area.
The rustle comes again, followed by a creaking sound.
With my phone in hand, I get up to investigate. Our back porch is about half the length of the house, from the kitchen to the corner. In the dark, I walk over to the far railing. The path along the side of the house is partially lit by a street lamp, and it’s empty. No animals, no burglars, no serial killers.
A soft scraping noise comes from above. I look up just in time to see Rory sneaking back into the house.
I had no idea he’d snuck out.
Forty-six
Partying, drugs, girls. Or just because.
These are the reasons Rory sneaks out of the house. They are the same for all teenage boys. I first snuck out to smoke weed. Next, I snuck out because it worked the first time. Eventually, it was because of Lily. My parents never knew. Or more likely, they never cared.
And yet, even when Rory saw me sneaking out, it still did not occur to me that he was doing the same thing. This is how oblivious I have been.
Instead of confronting Rory when I see him, I wait until the next day. This gives me a chance to see if there is anything I missed, anything I should know before having this conversation with him.
His room is messy, as always, except for his desk. It is almost obsessive-compulsive but not officially, because he isn’t particular about anything else. He doesn’t care if his clothes are piled up or his books are all over the floor, but his desk is always orderly. Maybe because he never uses it.
Normally, I would never search through his room. I have never done it before. But then, I’ve never seen him sneak out before. My son has secrets, and, in my book, that warrants a search.
Rory is at school. He has his phone with him, and he is not allowed to keep a computer in his room, so my search takes place in the analog world. The nightstand comes first, then his desk, the dresser, and the closet. I even look under the bed, under the dresser, and in the back of his sock drawer.
It is the most disappointing search.
No porn, because he looks at it online. No notes from girls, because they text. No pictures, because they are on his phone. No drugs or alcohol, because if he is using them he isn’t stupid enough to hide them in his room. That’s something, I suppose. My son is not an idiot.
I do not tell Millicent, because she has enough to do.
She does not know. If she did, Rory would already be grounded for life. But she doesn’t know because she would never hear him. Millicent sleeps like a rock. I am not even sure the fire alarm would wake her up.
It’s almost lunchtime when I’m done with that pointless search, so I head to the school. The office administrator sends a text to his teacher, who sends him to the office. Even though Rory and Jenna attend a private school, uniforms aren’t required. They do have a dress code, so every day Rory wears khakis and a button-up. Today the shirt is white. His backpack hangs on one shoulder, and his red hair needs to be trimmed. As soon as he sees me, he brushes the bangs off his forehead.
“Everything okay?” he says.
“Everything’s great. Just thought we might spend the afternoon together.”
His eyebrows lift, but he does not argue. For now, being with me is still better than his afternoon classes.
Lunch is at Rory’s favorite restaurant, where he orders the steak Millicent never cooks for him. He does not question it until the waitress brings a soda, which we do not keep in the house. He knows something is up, so it is no surprise when he says, “What’s up, Dad?” But it is a shock when he follows it up with, “Are you and Mom getting divorced?”
“Divorced? Why would you even ask such a thing?”
He shrugs. “Because this is the kind of thing you do when you have to say something like that.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.” He says this like everyone knows it.
“Your mother and I are not getting a divorce.”