It is after dark, because I will not go out during the day. I also won’t let Andy see the car or the license plate, so it’s parked two blocks away and I walk down to the lot. He is standing outside his truck with Millicent’s tablet in his hand. No other cars are around, no lights on. The lot belongs to a boarded-up car parts store.
Andy is standing a bit straighter than he was the last time I saw him. His chin is up.
“Whole damn county is looking for you,” he says.
“Yeah, I got that.”
Andy turns around and sets the tablet on the hood, keeping it propped up with his hand.
“If you tell me you failed, I’ll stop believing you’re a genius,” I say.
“I never fail. But I don’t know if any of this is helpful.” He swipes the screen, which lights up with a keypad. “New code. Six-three-seven-four. First, the bad news. She must’ve known you took this, because she wiped out everything in the cloud.”
“Of course she did.”
“Not to worry—there is some good news. She did have some information stored on the hard drive. She couldn’t get to that.”
He shows me a few pictures. A couple of the kids, a few of open houses, and a snapshot of a grocery list.
I shake my head. It’s all too mundane to be useful.
“She liked games,” Andy says. He opens a few Match 3 games and crossword puzzles.
Any hope I have blows away like a dead leaf. Of course there is nothing on the tablet. Millicent would never be so stupid.
“Also found a few recipes,” he says, bringing up some pdf files.
“Stuffed mushrooms, huh?”
“The spinach hummus dip sounds good.”
I sigh. “You’re an asshole.”
“Hey, it’s your wife,” he says. “Last but not least, her Internet searches and the sites she visited. She cleared the history, but I recovered most of it, for what it’s worth.”
Not much. More recipes, medical websites about sprained wrists and upset stomachs, the school’s online calendar, and a bunch of real estate websites.
“No smoking gun,” I say.
“Doesn’t look like it.”
I sigh. “Not your fault. Thanks for trying.”
“You owe me forever, you know,” he says.
“If I don’t go to jail for life.”
He gives me a hug before driving away in his old truck.
I am alone again, in no hurry to get back to Kekona’s. Even a big house can feel suffocating.
Instead, I go back to the tablet, looking through all those real estate websites she visited. No one is perfect, I tell myself. Not even Millicent. Somehow, somewhere, she made a mistake.
My eyes are almost bleeding when I find it.
Sixty-six
THE WEBSITE MILLICENT visited the most is a property database. She went to the site every day, researching sales records and real estate transfers, all of which were public information. Her browser recorded the addresses she researched.
One of them is a commercial building at 1121 Brownfield Avenue. Six months ago, a man named Donald J. Kendrick sold the building for $162,000. The building has been around for more than twenty years and has had one longtime tenant.
Joe’s Deli.
Donald sold the building to an LLC owned by another LLC and then a third. Ultimately, the building is now owned by R. J. Enterprises, LLC.
Rory. Jenna.
This is Millicent being clever, because she would not see it as a mistake. Our children are never a mistake. This was on purpose.
I think back to six months ago, realizing that it was right after she sold three houses in a row. Plenty of cash for her to use.
Denise was never a client of Millicent’s.
She is a tenant. A tenant who just happened to know Owen’s sister.
Knowing Millicent, she spent hours researching Owen’s history—his family, where they lived and went to school. She hunted until she discovered that Owen was actually dead, and then she found someone who could prove it. Like Owen’s sister. She just needed to get her back in the country.
Who better than an old friend? Especially an old friend with a demanding landlord. Someone who contacted Jennifer Riley and begged her to speak up about Owen’s death.
Millicent. All Millicent. And all within the past six months.
Now I understand her reaction about the Jane Doe victims in the news. Millicent was convinced they were lying; she’d insisted that the real Owen had not returned. She already knew he was dead.
Her dedication to ruining me would be admirable if it weren’t so sick.
Yet I still have no proof. Just an LLC and a commercial building, which even a bad lawyer would argue was an investment, not a plot to frame someone for murder.
I drive back into Hidden Oaks through the back gate, using Kekona’s remote to open it. Once inside, I have an urge to drive past my house. The sun is coming up, and I wonder if the kids are asleep. If they can sleep. If we lived anywhere else, they would be surrounded by reporters. Not here. The public does not have access.
But I don’t drive by. That would be stupid.
Instead, I go back to Kekona’s and turn on her giant screen.
Me. It is all about me.
Now that I have been identified, everyone has something to say about me, and they all say it on camera. Former clients, coworkers, acquaintances—all weigh in on the fact that I am a person of interest. A missing person of interest.
“Nice guy. A little too smooth maybe, but what do you expect from a tennis coach?”
“My daughter took lessons from him, and now I’m just glad she’s alive.”
“Used to see him at the club. Always hustling for clients.”
“My wife and I have known them for years. Never would have guessed. Never.”
“Right here in Hidden Oaks? This is unbelievable. Really.”
“Terrifying.”
Josh is now being interviewed by other reporters, because his talking to me makes him part of the story.
My boss says I was the best tennis pro he has ever employed, and it’s too bad I’m a sicko.
And Millicent. She does not appear on camera, nor do they show a picture of her, but my wife releases a statement:
My children and I ask that you respect our privacy during this unimaginably difficult time. I am cooperating fully with the police and have nothing further at this time.
Short, sweet, and written by Millicent. Probably dictated by a lawyer, perhaps one of her clients. Someone who used to be my friend.
Now I just have Andy, although if he knew the truth he would kill me.
I think of Kekona, wonder if she is my friend, if she would believe me if she were here. We’ve known each other for at least five years, and we have relaxed into an easy banter at our lessons. Even when she misses a lesson she still pays, and when she has a party she always invites us. Does this make her a friend? I don’t know anymore.
I am not used to being this alone. For seventeen years, Millicent has been with me, and for most of that time so were the kids. I’ve had a family to worry about, to worry about me. After the first few years back in Hidden Oaks, my old friends started to get married, move away, start their own families. It didn’t seem to matter that they weren’t around. I was busy enough without them.
Now I see my mistake. Focusing only on my family has left me isolated and alone, except for one old friend who can never know the truth.
* * *
• • •
MY PITY PARTY is broken up by Claire Wellington, who I bet hates parties. She’s that one who checks her watch, sips a glass of water, and waits for an escape. I have no idea if this is correct, but I believe it anyway.
She holds another news conference at five o’clock, just in time for the evening news. Today
her suit is an ugly color of grey, like flannel, though it isn’t, because this is Florida and that would be ridiculous. Her hair is dull, and so is her skin. Claire is not getting much sleep and should probably stop working so much.
“As everyone knows, we have a team of people working to identify the women found in the church basement. Twenty-three-year-old Jessica Sharpe was the first to be identified. Now we have identified the other two.”
She takes a deep breath, and so do I.
Easels are set up on either side of her. Both pictures are covered, and a uniformed policeman reveals the first.
I am right. It’s Beth.
She is wearing no makeup in the picture, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. This makes her look about twelve.
“Beth Randall was twenty-four, originally from Alabama, and she was most recently employed as a waitress at the Hidden Oaks Country Club. Not long ago, her parents received a letter they thought was from her. Whoever wrote it claimed Beth was moving up to Montana to work on a farm.”
Millicent. I would know her sense of humor anywhere. The only thing she hated more than fishing boats was farms.
“At the same time, her employer received a letter saying that she had a family emergency and was returning home to Alabama to help. Neither knew their letter was a fake.”
Claire pauses for a moment as the cameras zoom in on the photo of Beth. She then turns to the other easel. I still think it must be Petra. I cannot think of anyone else who has disappeared or moved away. And I haven’t checked on Petra in a long time. If I could have left the house, I might have.
The policeman unveils the photo.
This time, I am wrong. It is not Petra.
Crystal.
The woman who used to work for us.
The one who kissed me.
* * *
• • •
I’D NEVER EVEN thought of her. Now that I think about it, I should have, but I haven’t seen Crystal in more than a year. We haven’t been in contact at all since she stopped working for us.
Did Millicent know about the kiss? Is that why she killed Crystal? Or was she just collateral damage, part of Millicent’s bigger plan?
I may never know. Of all the questions I would ask Millicent, those would not be in the top ten.
But my guess is that Crystal told Millicent. She was tortured into it.
I do not want to think about that.
The press conference is still on, and Claire introduces a man whose name I recognize from a documentary about Owen. He is a rather famous profiler, now retired, who is now an independent consultant and has written several true-crime books. This man—this tall, thin, decrepit-looking man—steps up to the podium and says he has never encountered a killer like me.
“He kills women he knows in a peripheral way, such as this cashier, and he also has created a separate persona, a deaf man named Tobias, that he uses to find more victims. The variety of methods used may be what has kept him from being discovered for so long.”
Or maybe it’s all a lie. But no one says that.
Piece by piece, my life is destroyed, like it was never real at all. It was just a line of dominoes set up by Millicent. The faster they fall, the less likely it seems I can get myself out of this.
And still I watch.
I watch until my eyes blur and my head feels like it’s crumbling into my neck.
Definitive proof. This is what I need. Something like DNA evidence on a murder weapon, or video of Millicent killing one of these women.
I just don’t have it.
* * *
• • •
THE PHONE WAKES me up. In the middle of watching my personal apocalypse, I dozed off. Kekona’s theater seats are just too comfortable.
I pick up my phone and hear Andy’s voice.
“Still breathing?”
“Barely.”
“I can’t believe they haven’t caught you.”
“You underestimate my intelligence.” On TV, they are showing a picture of me at my high school prom.
“More like dumb luck,” he says.
On top of everything else, there is the guilt. Andy believes in me because he doesn’t know the half of it.
Another profiler is on TV. He has a deep, twangy accent that makes me want to turn the channel. But I do not.
“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.
My Lovely Wife Page 29
