My DNA. Though it should not be a surprise, Millicent still astonishes me. I have been saying that since I met her.
She managed to get my DNA all over the Bread of Life Christian Church. My sweat is found on the door handle out front, on the lock down to the basement, even on the stair railing. It is like she had a vial of my sweat and dabbed it everywhere.
A spot of my blood is found on the shelves against the wall.
More sweat on the handcuffs.
Blood on the chains and dirt.
She makes it look as if I mostly cleaned up but missed a few spots.
Claire has a midday press conference to announce all of this. I am officially upgraded from person of interest to suspect. The only suspect.
She even says I am “probably armed and definitely dangerous.”
After hours of watching the experts, reporters, and former friends crucify me, I finally leave the house. I drive right out of Hidden Oaks and out into the world, where someone may or may not recognize me.
Across town, I drive by the EZ-Go where I used to get coffee. Instead of stopping, I drive ten miles down the interstate to another EZ-Go, which has the same self-serve machine. With the baseball cap on my head and almost a full week’s growth of facial hair, I go in and get myself a coffee.
The young guy behind the counter barely looks up from his phone. It is almost anticlimactic.
It also emboldens me a little. Every person in the world is not looking for me. I could probably eat in a restaurant, shop at the mall, and see a movie before someone recognizes me. I just don’t want to do any of those things.
Once I am in Hidden Oaks, something makes me drive by my house. The lawn is clear of toys, and the welcome sign on the door is gone. The shades are drawn, and the curtains are closed.
I wonder if Millicent has bought another bottle of eye drops. Or if she even looked for the old one.
I also wonder if Jenna is the only one she poisoned.
I have been sick a few times as well. If Millicent can make her own daughter sick, she is capable of doing it to anyone.
But I do not go inside the house. Not yet. I go back to Kekona’s. The police are not waiting for me, nor have I been followed. Everything inside looks the same.
I almost leave the TV off, to take a break, but I can’t.
Just about everyone is talking about the DNA, and the only exception is Josh. He is back to being a reporter, and he is interviewing a criminal pathologist. This man’s voice is not as irritating, but he is a little boring, like a professor, at least until he gets to the paper cuts on Naomi.
“The locations of the paper cuts are important to determining what caused them. We say ‘paper’ because of the type of cut, but there also different types of paper. For instance, Naomi had shallow paper cuts on tougher skin, like the bottoms of the feet, and deeper cuts in softer areas, like the underside of the upper arm. That indicates that the same item was used, but it couldn’t have been a regular piece of paper. It had to be something that would cut through the heel of a foot.”
I jump off the couch like I’ve been shocked. And in a way, I have. I know what Millicent used to make those cuts.
Sixty-nine
Rarely does Millicent do something by accident. She has a reason for everything, even if it’s to amuse herself.
This is one of those times.
It began so many years ago, when she asked me how I would protect her from assholes on planes who try to pick her up.
I would force them into the center seat, hog the armrests, and give them paper cuts with the emergency information card.
The emergency information card. The one I gave to her on the first Christmas we spent together. She has always kept it.
In her old apartment, it was taped to the mirror in her bathroom.
Our first place together was the small house, a rental, and the card was stuck to the fridge with a googly-eyed face magnet.
When we bought our first house, she slipped it inside the frame of our full-length mirror.
And in our bigger, more expensive house, we have two kids who do not appreciate the emergency-card joke. They think it’s corny. Millicent carries the card with her, stuck inside the visor in her car. When the sun is in her eyes and she flips it down, the card makes her laugh.
The card is what she used to make all those paper cuts. I am as sure of this as I have been about anything.
Hidden Oaks is not an easy place to hide. People notice new cars, especially the ones that just show up and park. They do not notice runners or walkers. People are always starting and stopping exercise programs, so on any given day there could be ten people out or none. A few are always out, like Millicent, but most come and go.
With the same baseball cap, more facial hair, baggy sweatpants, and a big T-shirt—thanks to Kekona, who owns an extraordinary amount of oversize clothing—I leave out the back door of her house, jump the fence, and jog out to the road.
It has been only a week since I disappeared, and the press is still everywhere. It would be impossible for Millicent and the kids to live normal lives right now. She can’t go to work and the kids can’t go to school, but I want to know if Millicent ever leaves the house. It would be a lot easier to get that emergency card if she takes the car out of the garage and parks it somewhere I can access.
Just about anything can go wrong with this idea. Maybe she has thoroughly cleaned that card, so there’s no DNA on it at all—not from her or any of the women. Or maybe she got rid of it, threw it away or burned it up.
For my sake, I hope not.
I may not know everything she does, or everything she has done, but I know who she is on the inside. She keeps that card to remind her of us. And to remind herself of what she did to those women. Millicent enjoys it. I know that now.
Will the police believe me if I bring them that card? If it has DNA from one or more of the dead women and from Millicent, but not mine? Probably not.
Will they believe me if I also tell them about the building Millicent bought with three LLCs, about Denise and Owen’s sister, and if I showed them my schedule when all of these women disappeared? I was always home. And I have no idea what the kids will say about those nights.
No, they wouldn’t believe me. With my DNA in the basement and multiple people identifying me as Tobias, not to mention Millicent’s performance, they won’t believe I’m innocent for a second. But they might believe Millicent and I killed those women together, which would keep my children safe.
It’s the only chance I have. Not just to save myself but to put her where she belongs. In jail or in hell—either one works for me, as long as it is nowhere near my children.
I jog down the block parallel to my house, watching for Millicent’s car through the paths between the houses. On my second pass, I jog down the street she would turn on to go toward the school.
As expected, I never see her car.
Throughout the day, I check back but never see her leave. I just can’t be sure. It would be so much easier if I had left the tracker on her car. Still, I try, because I have to. Jogging and walking have become my new hobby. Too bad I couldn’t adopt that dog at the shelter. It would be handy to have one right now.
I call Andy. He sounds surprised to hear from me. Maybe surprised I am alive.
“I just have a question,” I say.
“Hit me.”
I ask if Millicent ever leaves the house. “I assume she isn’t even going to work,” I say.
He hesitates before answering. “I don’t think so. Neighbors have been bringing food by every day. It’s all over the place. I think they’re hunkered down, avoiding the media.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Why?” he says.
“Doesn’t matter. Thanks again. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
He clears his throat.
“What?” I say.
“I have to ask you not to call again.” When I say nothing, he keeps talking. “It’s the DNA. This whole thing has just become so much bigger than—”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
“I do believe you,” he says. “I just can’t keep—”
“I know. I won’t call again.”