“So this is Millicent’s.”
I nod. “But it’s not what you think.”
“No?”
“No.” I gesture to his plate. “Finish eating. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
I say “everything,” but I do not mean it.
After we are done, we go sit in his truck. It’s an old pickup and nothing like the sports car he used to drive.
“What did you do?” he says.
“What makes you think I’ve done something?”
He side-eyes me. “You look like hell, you have a new phone number, and you want to get into your wife’s computer.”
As much as I want to tell someone everything, I cannot. No matter how far we go back, there are limits to friendship. Murder is one of them. So is keeping secrets about a friend’s wife.
“I cheated on Millicent,” I say.
He does not look surprised. “Not a good move, I’m guessing.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“So she kicked you out and wants everything? The house, the 401(k), the kids’ college fund?”
I wish that was all she wanted. “Not exactly,” I say. “Millicent wants more than that.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised.” He pauses for a second, shaking his head. “Now that you’ve gone and screwed it all up, I can tell you the truth.”
“What truth?”
“I never liked Millicent. She’s always seemed a little cold.”
I feel the urge to laugh, but that seems inappropriate. “She’s setting me up for things I didn’t do. Some very bad things.”
“Illegal things?” he says.
“Yes. Very much yes.”
He holds up a hand, as if to stop me from saying more. “So I was right. She is cold.”
“You were right.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He runs his hand around the steering wheel, the type of thing someone does without thinking, because they’re too busy thinking. It’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut, to let him decide how insane I am.
“If all you needed was to get into that tablet, why tell me the rest?” he says.
“Because you and I go way back. I owe you the truth.”
“And?”
“And because I’ll probably be in the news soon.”
“The news? What the hell is she doing to you?”
“You’re the first one who has seen me since yesterday,” I say. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
He stares out the window, at the neon Golden Wok sign. “I don’t want to know more, do I?”
I shake my head no.
“That’s the real favor then,” he says. “Keep my mouth shut.”
“Sort of. Yes. But I do need to get into that,” I say, pointing to Millicent’s tablet. It is sitting on Andy’s dashboard. “Will you help me?”
Again, he is quiet.
Andy is going to do it. He may not know it, but he has already decided to help. Otherwise, he would have been gone by now. And by the way he looks, he may need this as much as I do.
“You’ve always been a pain in the ass,” he says. “And for the record, your tennis lessons are way too expensive.”
I smile a little. “Noted. But you accused me of sleeping with your wife. You owe me.”
He nods. “Give it to me.”
I give him the tablet.
* * *
• • •
THE WAITING IS the worst. Like knowing a bomb will go off but not when or where. Or who. I spend the next day in Kekona’s theater room. It has a screen as wide as the wall, and distressed leather recliners. I watch Josh talk about Tobias nonstop. He even speaks to experts about what it is like to be deaf.
I have to admit some of the information is interesting. It would have been useful to have back when I needed it.
The breaking-news music interrupts my musings. The picture on the screen makes my heart jump.
Annabelle.
Sweet Annabelle, the meter maid whose boyfriend was killed by a drunk driver.
She is alive.
And she is still cute as ever, with her short hair and delicate features, but she is not smiling. She does not look happy at all when Josh introduces her as a “woman who has encountered the deaf man named Tobias.”
It is not surprising that she is the first to come forward. She could not save her boyfriend, so she wants to save everyone else.
Annabelle tells our story, as she knows it, beginning with the moment she almost ticketed the car I claimed was mine. She explains how we bumped into each other on the street and I invited her to join me for a drink. She even names the bar. If Eric, the bartender, has not already come forward, he will.
Annabelle leaves out nothing, not even the text she sent me. The police will now have that phone number.
I wonder if Millicent will answer when they call.
Last but not least, Annabelle says she spent the morning with a sketch artist. The drawing is released right after the interview ends.
It looks exactly like me and, at the same time, nothing like me.
I imagine Millicent watching this and critiquing the drawing, saying that the nose is a bit too big and maybe the eyes are too small. She would say they missed the mole by my ear, or the shade of my skin is different. She would see everything, because she always does.
It will not be long before I am identified, although people must already be looking for me. My employer, for one. Millicent must be acting frantic, pretending I have just vanished without a reason.
Jenna and Rory—who knows what they think?
I spend the rest of the day inside, afraid to go out while it is still light.
It makes me think back to the day I married Millicent, at her parents’ home in the middle of nowhere. I can see her in that simple dress, with her hair up and sprinkled with tiny flowers, like she was some kind fairy or nymph that came from another world. She was like that, everything about her was otherworldly. Still is, I suppose.
I also think of what she said that day, because it is so appropriate now.
Here we go.
* * *
• • •
THE NEWS STARTS to break faster, which is no surprise. The public has been given just enough information to provide more of it.
The second person who claims to know Tobias is a bartender, but not Eric. This young man works at the bar where I met Petra. Josh, while overexcited about all the news, seemed rather disappointed in this young man, because he does not remember the exact day, nor time, he met Tobias. He remembers so little it is almost embarrassing, at least for him. To top it all off, he gets the drink wrong. Tobias never ordered a vodka tonic.
I am almost offended by this. I always believed Tobias was more memorable than that.
Or maybe this bartender is just a moron.
When nothing new is happening, everything is repeated. I see Annabelle’s interview over and over; they repeat the best parts until I have them memorized. During commercial breaks, I wonder if my kids are watching the same channel.
I know Millicent is. I can just see her sitting on the couch, watching Annabelle on our big TV. In my mind, Millicent is smiling. Or scowling. Both.
By the evening news, Eric shows up, but on another channel. Josh does not get this interview. The reporter who interviews him is a middle-aged woman, one of our more famous local personalities. Up until now, I have not seen her covering anything about this case—not when Owen was back and not when he turned out to be dead. The fact that she has become involved worries me. A serious manhunt is about to begin, or already has, and they are all looking for me.
Eric remembers more than the last bartender, beginning with the drink: gin and tonic. He describes my suit, right down to the type of tie I had been wearing. He remembers the color of my eyes, my tan, even the le
ngth of my hair.
Each new revelation makes my stomach turn. Somehow, I managed to find the only bartender in town with a photographic memory.
Within minutes, the other stations repeat what Eric said. It makes me a little sick to hear Josh repeat all those personal things about me. I wish I had known what a horrible person he really is. If I did, I never would have sent letters to him.
Though I suppose I am not one to judge who is horrible and who is not.
Hour after hour goes by, deep into the night, before the old movies and infomercials begin. I open my laptop and search the true-crime sites. The sketch is everywhere, along with all the same interviews I just watched, and I scan through all the message boards. My name is not there, nor should it be. Not yet, anyway.
Sixty-five
I DO NOT SLEEP for long. Within an hour of my waking up, the news stations have set up for a press conference by Claire Wellington. Coffee makes my stomach turn as I wait for it to start. Claire has not said anything good yet, and I know she will not this morning.
A podium is set up at the police station. It is flanked by the U.S. and state flags and surrounded by microphones, cameras, and lights. Ten minutes after the scheduled time, Claire walks to the podium. She is not wearing a pantsuit. Today, it a navy skirt and a matching jacket, which is similar to the type of suits Millicent wears, only not as tight. Somehow, I know this is a bad sign.
Claire begins with the sketch that has already been released, and she asks the community to post it at businesses, schools, and civic buildings, as well as on community websites. Although anyone who has not seen it by now doesn’t have a TV or the Internet. Or is in a coma.
But this is not why Claire is having a press conference. This is just her opening act. The main event comes next.
“Now, I have an update on the three women we found in the church basement. Trying to identify them is a painstaking process, given the varying amounts of decomposition. Their fingerprints have also been removed.”
She pauses, takes a deep breath. “Despite the difficulties, the Woodview medical examiner and forensic investigators have done an amazing job. The first of these women has been identified, and her family has been contacted. Thanks to the hard work of a lot of people, this young woman can finally be laid to rest.”
Before she says the woman’s name, a picture appears on the screen.
I know her.
Jessica.
The cashier at the EZ-Go where I get my coffee. She left not long ago. The guy who took her place said she was going to school in another state. I am shocked Millicent knew who she was. Millicent does not buy coffee or anything else at the EZ-Go.
She must have been following me for a lot longer than I realized. Maybe Millicent has always kept track of what I do. And who I speak to.
This idea makes my heart beat too fast. I put down the coffee.
On TV, a split screen has Jessica on one side and Claire on the other. The detective is still talking, explaining that the other women have not been identified.
Now, I know what Millicent has done. She has killed women I know, who can be connected to me. Maybe this was part of her setup.
Or maybe she thinks I was sleeping with all of them.
Perhaps she has gone scorched-earth, destroying everyone who could be a threat.
My mind spins with who the other two might be. Not any of my clients. None have disappeared recently, and if they did, I would know. Wealthy people don’t just vanish without someone looking for them.
I run through all the women I know, particularly young women who fit Owen’s profile. A number of them work at the club as bartenders, waitresses, retail sales clerks. I know all of them by sight and have said hello to most. Some have been there longer than others. Most are still there; they aren’t dead in a church basement.
Except one.
Beth.
Perky Beth from Alabama, a waitress at the club. We never had an affair; she was just a nice young woman, and sometimes we talked while I ate at the clubhouse. That was it.
Not long ago, she left because of a family emergency back in Mobile. The manager of the restaurant told me that. No one questioned this. No one suspected anything had happened to her. No one showed up looking for her.
If more time had passed, maybe her family would have.
I get up and start pacing—first, around the theater room, and then throughout the whole house. Upstairs, downstairs, into all the rooms and around in a circle.
One more.
Millicent killed a third woman. No one else has disappeared—not that I know of—so I wonder if it might be Petra. With Annabelle and the bartenders around to recognize Tobias, why not get rid of her?
* * *
• • •
A RINGING PHONE breaks through my panic. The only one who has my new number is Andy.
“It’s you,” he says. He does not mention the police sketch and does not have to.
I nod at the phone, as if he can see me. “This is what I was telling you,” I say. “She’s setting me up.”
“Yeah, I got that part. But you failed to convey the magnitude of her anger.”
“I said you didn’t want to know. I told you.”
“How is she even doing this?”
Again, I want to tell him, but I can’t. I also do not have a good answer. “If I knew, I would tell the police.”
He sighs. Right before he hangs up, he says, “Goddammit.”
And he still has Millicent’s tablet.
All day, I watch the news, scour my laptop, and look up my kids on the Internet. My search comes up with nothing new—just some old articles in the local paper from Jenna’s soccer team or Rory in a golf tournament.
I look at the pictures I took from the house. They feel like they are from a hundred years ago, back when I had a life that now feels like a dream.
* * *
• • •
NIGHTTIME. I AM out by the pool, pacing around it. If Kekona had any neighbors, they would think I must be a madman, which I may be, but no one is close enough. Since no one is, I jump in the pool, clothes and all, and stay underwater until I can’t. The air feels like a shock when I break the surface. It both wakes me up and calms me down.
I climb out and lie down on the patio, staring up at the sky, trying not to wonder how much worse it can get.
My life has just blown up, and I should feel angry. I think the anger is there, bubbling under the surface, all mixed in with the sadness and heartbreak, the guilt and shame and horror. It will all come, and it will all overwhelm me, but not yet. Not until I figure out how to get myself out of this mess.
And get my kids. I fall asleep thinking of them. Just us, not Millicent.
* * *
• • •
THE SUN AND the birds wake me up. It’s so peaceful here at Kekona’s, so easy to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I understand why she rarely leaves the Oaks. Why would anyone willingly leave this for reality? I would not if I didn’t have to.
Eventually, I do go back inside and turn on the TV.
Me.
I am on that wall, staring back at myself. My picture fills the screen, and my name appears at the bottom, along with a banner:
PERSON OF INTEREST
Even though I am expecting it, I still fall to my knees.
So fast. My whole life has fallen apart in less than a week. If it were not happening to me, I would not believe this is possible.
Josh’s voice makes me look up. He is talking, always talking, but today he is not a reporter. Because we met at the First Street Bar & Grill, he is the subject of the interview. The star.
Most of what he says is a lie, and an abbreviated one at that. I approached him. I asked about the case. I begged him to give me the names of his sources. He skips the part about getting drunk, calling
Claire Wellington a bitch, complaining about the information he had, and shared, but could not say on the air.
“I understand the police are calling this man a person of interest, and maybe that’s all he is. I can only tell you what I felt. You know that feeling you get when something is just wrong? Like that little alarm goes off in your head, telling you to get away? That’s how this guy made me feel.”
His remark is creepy enough to make me sound guilty, even though Josh had been in no condition to feel anything when I met him.
I want to put the battery back in my real phone. To see if the kids texted me, if they’re worried, if they believe what is being said about me. Or to see how many times the police have called.
Instead, I am alone, trapped in Kekona’s beautiful house without anyone to talk to.
Until the phone rings. Andy.
I pick up but don’t say a word. He is already talking.
“Those murders really upset Trista. I’m almost glad she can’t see how many there are.”
If Trista were still alive, she would know Owen didn’t kill these women. And she would have no reason to kill herself. I do not mention this.
“I remember,” I say. “She talked about it at the club.”
“But you didn’t do it.”
“I did not kill those women.” True. I only killed Holly, and no one found her.
“If I find out different—”
“Call the police,” I say. “Turn me in.”
“I was going to say I’ll kill you myself.”
I take a deep breath. “Deal.”
“I got into this tablet. Can you tell me where you are?”
“For your own good, you—”
“Don’t want to know,” he says. “I got it.”
* * *
• • •
WE MEET IN another parking lot, not the one outside Golden Wok. My disguise is a baseball cap and sunglasses, and I have not shaved for two days. It isn’t much, but no one is looking for me inside Kekona’s SUV. I drive out the back gate of Hidden Oaks to avoid the guards.
My Lovely Wife Page 28
