“That goes for everything, though. Even the news is built on sex and violence,” I say.
“The whole world turns on sex and violence,” says Andy. He draws the circle with his finger again and turns to me. “You know that—you’re from here.”
“I do know.” Officially, the Oaks is one of the safest communities in the state. That’s because all the violence is behind closed doors.
“I know that, too,” Trista says to her husband. “Woodview isn’t that different.”
It is, but Andy doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans over and gives his wife a peck on the lips. As their lips touch, she touches his cheek with her palm.
I am jealous.
Jealous of their simple conversations. Jealous of their heavy drinking. Jealous of their simple foreplay and the sex they will have tonight.
“I think we all get it,” I say.
Andy winks at me. I glance over at Millicent, who is staring at her food. She thinks public displays of affection are distasteful.
When the check arrives, both Millicent and Trista leave the table and go to the restroom. Andy grabs the check before I can.
“Don’t bother protesting. I got it,” he says, looking over the bill. “You guys are cheap dates anyway. No alcohol.”
I shrug. “So we don’t drink much.”
Andy shakes his head and smiles.
“What?” I say.
“If I had known you were going to end up such a boring family man, I would’ve made you stay in Cambodia a lot longer.”
I roll my eyes. “Now you’re the one being a dick,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Before I can respond, our wives return to the table and we stop talking about drinking. And about the check.
The four of us walk out together and say our goodbyes in the parking lot. Trista says she will see me at her next lesson. Andy says he’ll start soon. Trista is behind him rolling her eyes and smiling. They drive off, leaving Millicent and I alone. We have two cars, because we met at the restaurant.
She turns to me. Under the streetlights, she looks as old as I’ve ever seen her. “You okay?” she says.
I shrug. “I’m okay.” I do not have any other option.
“You worry too much,” she says, staring out over the sea of cars. “Everything is fine.”
“I hope so.”
“Trust me.” Millicent reaches out and slips her hand into mine. Squeezes it.
I nod and get into my car, but I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive by the Lancaster Hotel.
Naomi is behind the front desk. Her dark hair falls loose around her shoulders, and although I can’t see the freckles on her nose, I think I can. I am relieved to see her, to know that she is still working behind the front desk and probably still engaging in her extracurricular activities. There is no reason for me to think anything has happened to her, because we have agreed to wait. Checking on Naomi is irrational, but I do it anyway.
This is not the first time I have been irrational. Ever since they found Lindsay, I have not slept well. I wake up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, and it is always about some irrational thing. Did I lock the front door? Are those bills paid? Did I remember to do all the little things I am supposed to do so the house won’t burn down or get taken by the bank, and the car won’t crash because the brakes weren’t checked on time?
All these little things keep my mind off Lindsay. And the fact that I cannot do anything about her now.
Six
Saturday morning, Jenna’s soccer game. I am alone because Millicent has to show a house. Saturday is the biggest day of the week for both real estate and tennis lessons. It is also the biggest day of the week for our kids’ activities. Millicent and I trade off Saturdays with the kids, and the last time we were all together was more than a year ago, when Rory went to the finals in a preteen golf tournament. He is playing golf now—I dropped him early this morning before his sister’s game started—and he is at the same club where I teach tennis. He plays golf because it is not tennis, and I hate that just as much as he wants me to.
So far, Jenna has not displayed any of the same rebelliousness. She does not try to be difficult. Jenna does something because she wants to, not because it will make someone else angry, and I admire that quality in her. She also smiles a lot, which makes me smile back and then give her everything she wants. I have no idea what I am missing, and because I can’t figure it out, Jenna scares the hell out of me.
Soccer is not my game. I learned the rules only when Jenna started to play, so I am not much help. I cannot tell her what to do or how to do better, like I could if she played tennis. It’s only by some stroke of luck that she plays goalie, so at least I know her job is keep the other team from scoring. Beyond that, all I can do is encourage her.
“You can do it!”
“Nice job!”
“Great effort!”
I often wonder if I am embarrassing her. I think so, but I do it anyway, because my only other option is to watch her games in silence. That seems cruel. I would rather be embarrassing. When she blocks the ball from going in the net, I lose my mind. She smiles but waves her hand, telling me to shut up. In these moments, I do not think about anything but my daughter and her soccer game.
Millicent interrupts by sending a text.
Don’t worry.
This is all she says.
On the field, the kids are yelling. The other team tries to score, and my daughter has to block the ball again. She misses.
Jenna turns around, her back to me, hands on hips. I want to tell her it’s no big thing, everyone makes mistakes, but that would be exactly the wrong thing. All parents say that, and all kids hate it. I did.
Jenna looks straight down at the grass. A teammate walks up and pats her on the shoulder, says something. Jenna nods and smiles, and I wonder what her teammate said. I think it is the same thing I would’ve said, but it meant more.
Play resumes. I look back down at my phone. Millicent has not said anything else.
I pull up the news and gasp.
The medical examiner’s report states that Lindsay has been dead only a few weeks.
Somewhere, somehow, Millicent kept her alive for almost a year.
I have an urge to run. To where, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. To do what, I have no idea. I just want to run anywhere.
But I cannot leave Jenna here, alone at a soccer game with no one to cheer for her. I cannot leave my daughter. Or my son.
When Jenna’s game is over, I pick Rory up at the club and the three of us have our usual postsport pizza followed by frozen yogurt. It is difficult for me to stay with the conversation. They notice, because they are my kids—they see me every day and know when something is wrong. This makes me wonder what they think about Millicent.
Except she never looks like anything is wrong. For the past year, she has been calm, even for her. She’d mentioned finding the next woman a month ago.
Everything falls into place. She didn’t mention the next one until after she had killed Lindsay.
For me, the past year had been filled with work, the kids’ activities, chores around the house, arguing about bills, and getting the car washed. Nothing stood out. No single event, day, memory, was anything I would remember twenty, thirty, or forty years from now. Jenna’s soccer team almost went to the city finals but didn’t. Millicent had another good year at work. Gas prices went up and then down, a local election came and went, and my favorite dry cleaner went out of business and I had to find another.
Or maybe the dry cleaner closed two years ago. It all runs together.
During the same time, Millicent had been keeping Lindsay alive. Holding her captive.
The images running through my mind range from disturbing to barbaric. I envision the kinds of things I have heard about in the news, when women are found after years of being held captive by some deranged man. I have never heard of a woman doing this. And as a man, I cannot imagine doing this myself.
I leave the kids at home and drive to the open house where Millicent is working. It’s just a few blocks from ours; the drive takes minutes. Two cars are out front, hers and one other, an SUV.