“The level of torture can be directly correlated to the level of anger the killer has for the victim. For example, the burns on Naomi indicate that the killer was furious with her for some reason. It’s impossible to know if the rage came from something she did or someone she reminded him of. Likely, we won’t know that until he is caught.”
Now I turn the channel. And I see a ghost. My ghost.
Petra.
Sixty-seven
She is not only alive; she looks different. Not as much makeup and less flash. More upscale, as if she has spent the past couple of days getting a makeover. Her blue eyes are sharp and focused, and her previously unremarkable hair is shiny and stylish.
I remember her apartment, her bed. The cat named Lionel. She likes lime green and French vanilla ice cream and she couldn’t believe I like ham on my pizza. I don’t.
I also remember the sound of Petra’s voice when she asked if I was really deaf. The same voice she has now, on TV. Suspicious. Accusatory. A tiny bit hurt.
“I met Tobias in a bar.”
When the reporter asks why she waited days to come forward, Petra hesitates before answering.
“Because I slept with him.”
“You slept with him?”
She nods, hangs her head in shame. For having sex or for choosing me, I don’t know which one. Maybe both.
At first the media portrayed me as just a sick, twisted psychopathic serial killer. Now I am a sick, twisted psychopathic serial killer who cheats on his wife.
As if people needed another reason to hate me.
If they knew where I was, they would be lined up with pitchforks. But they don’t know, so I am still able to sit here, watch TV, eat junk food, and wait until they either find me or Kekona returns home. Whichever comes first.
Petra goes from being nowhere to everywhere. She lies about some things, tells the truth about others. With each interview, the story becomes a little more detailed and my depression digs in a little deeper.
I still have moments when I think I can do something, so for hours I go through that stupid tablet like something new will appear. Perhaps a video of Millicent in that basement or a list of the women to kill.
When I’m not doing something useless, I am useless. A lump of self-hate and pity, wondering why I ever got married in the first place. Wishing I had never seen Millicent, much less sat next to her on that airplane. I wouldn’t have turned into who I am now without her.
And when I’m not sinking into the quicksand of depression, I stare at the TV. I pretend all of this is someone else’s problem.
I wonder how much my kids hate me. And what Dr. Beige is saying about me. I bet he is telling Jenna I am the source of all her problems. It was never Millicent, never Owen, always me. Because it couldn’t be her.
Andy calls again.
“I saw your wife,” he says.
“You what?”
“Millicent. I went over to your house and saw her,” he says.
“Why?”
“Look, I’m trying to help you out here. It’s not like I want to be in the same room with that woman,” he says. “So I called her. Millicent and I have a lot in common. We’ve both lost our spouses.”
Except I’m not dead. “Were the kids there?”
“Yes, saw them both. They’re fine. Maybe a little stir-crazy, because they’re staying in the house. The media and all.”
“Did they say anything about me?”
A pause. “No.”
This is probably good news, but it still hurts.
“Listen, whatever you’re going to do, you better do it fast,” Andy says. “Millicent said she wants to take the kids and get out of here for a while.”
This would be reasonable for a wife who’d discovered her husband is a serial killer. It would also be reasonable for a serial killer who’d framed her husband. “She didn’t say where, did she?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“One more thing,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“If I hadn’t talked to you before all this happened, I don’t know if I’d believe you. Not after seeing Millicent like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like she’s devastated.”
The last part is what worries me. No one is going to believe a word I say. Not without proof.
As the hours pass, I sink further into Kekona’s chair. The images on the TV float past my eyes: Lindsay, Naomi, me, Petra, Josh. He is talking, always talking, and he repeats everything. Autopsy. Strangled. Tortured. He must have said that last one a million times.
At one million and one, I sit up straight.
I am up, racing around Kekona’s house, throwing aside my clothes and garbage until I find it.
Millicent’s tablet.
She had looked at medical websites for information about the kids’ ailments, but maybe there was more. Maybe I had missed it.
If I was going to torture someone but not kill them, I would have to research it. And I would start by looking up various injuries on medical websites.
A long shot. A very, very long shot.
As stupid as I feel for thinking that this kind of evidence might be on the tablet, what keeps me going is imagining how stupid I would feel if I didn’t look … and it was right there all along.
I find the tablet in Kekona’s dining room, on a table large enough to seat sixteen. It seems like a perfect place to sit down and go through the tablet again. I check each site, looking for something about torture and strangulation. I look for hot water burns and oil burns and internal bleeding and cuts on eyelids. I even look for cigarette burns, which is absurd, because Millicent refuses to be near cigarettes.
And I find nothing.
She looked at how long it takes for a sprained wrist to heal. She also searched for a variety of information about upset stomachs—what caused them and what to do about them.
That was it.
Nothing about torture, nothing helpful. I should have known better.
I shove the tablet away, and it skids. My immediate reaction is to check and see if I scratched Kekona’s dining room table. As if it matters, but I do it anyway. I stand up and look straight down at it, running my finger across the wood, when something on the tablet screen catches my eye.
It is still on the page about upset stomachs. On the right-hand side, there is a list of possible causes. One of them is purple instead of blue, because the link has been clicked.
Eye drops.
Sixty-eight
Tetrahydrozoline is the active ingredient in eye drops that gets rid of red eyes. Swallowing a large amount can cause serious problems. The drops lower blood pressure and can put someone into a coma. Or kill them.
But swallowing a small amount causes an upset stomach and vomiting. No fever.
The eye drops belong to Millicent.
She has been giving them to Jenna.
No.
Impossible.
The thought makes me physically ill. Jenna is our child, our daughter. She is not Lindsay or Naomi. She is not someone to torture.
Or maybe she is. Maybe Jenna is no different. Not to Millicent.
My daughter does not have a recurring stomach problem.
She has a mother who is poisoning her.
I want to kill Millicent. I want to go to my house, kill my wife, and be done with it. I am that angry.
This feeling is different. Before, I never actually thought, “I want to kill a woman” or even “I want to kill this particular woman.” My desire wasn’t that clear, that succinct. It was about Millicent, about the two of us, and what I wanted out of it was more complex.
Now it is simple. I want my wife to die.
I head for the front door without a hat or a disguise or a weapon of any kind. I am angry and disgusted, and I do not care if I have a plan. My hand is on the doorknob when I realize how stupid I am. How stupid I always am.
I could probably get across Hidden Oaks without being spotted. Most think I’m on the run, not hiding in my own neighborhood. And once I did get all the way to my house, I could get inside, because I have a key. That’s assuming it’s not under surveillance.
On the other side, my wife. Who I now know is a monster.
Just like the real Owen.
Also, my kids. They are in the house, and both believe it is me, not her. I am the monster. And now all I can see is their reaction when I kill their mother.
I do not open the door.
And I do not just need a plan. I need evidence. Because on TV, evidence of me is everywhere.