She does not want me to walk her home. Understandable, but I insist that Eric call her a cab. She takes it, and I’m sure it’s because of Owen Oliver. Before she leaves, I ask for her number. She gives it to me, and I give her the number to the disposable phone.
Annabelle thanks me for the drink with a handshake. It is both formal and endearing. I watch her walk out of the bar.
I will not text her. Of this I am sure.
I am also sure that Annabelle is not the one. She will not go missing on Friday night.
* * *
• • •
It is because of her boyfriend. As soon as I heard the story, I knew it wouldn’t be her.
Maybe because it would be too much tragedy for one young life. To lose a loved one in a violent crash only to be murdered.
None of this is fair. Our system of choosing her was developed, in part, by Owen, but how we did it was arbitrary. I just happened to see Anabelle that day. It could have been anyone.
Now, I am back at the Lancaster Hotel, watching Naomi. She is still a bit too tall for Owen’s profile. I know her only through the computer and the glass doors of the Lancaster. I have never spoken to her, have never heard the sound of her voice.
I want to, though. I want to hear her laugh, to see how she acts after a drink or two. I want to know if she really has a thing for older men or if she just needs the money. I want to know if I like her, dislike her, or feel nothing for her. But I won’t. I cannot take the chance that something will make me want to let her live.
So I do not go inside the hotel; I do not approach her. When her shift is over, I watch her leave. She has changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She talks on the phone as she walks to her car, a tiny thing the color of a lime. At eleven fifteen on a Wednesday night, her only stop is at a fast-food drive-through. Minutes later, she is home, walking to her apartment, bag of food in one hand and uniform in the other. Naomi lives on the first floor of a quiet building that caters to people who don’t make much money. The yard is overgrown, with thick bushes near her front door.
Perfect. We have lots of choices for the Friday the 13th, from the hotel parking lot to Naomi’s apartment building.
Now I just have to tell Millicent I’ve changed my mind.
Twenty-three
At six in the morning, the radio announcer’s voice booms into my ear, and it’s loud enough to make me jump. Millicent likes her clock radio. It is an old one, the kind with flip numbers and faux wood casing, and it annoys me to no end. The radio is her way of leaving the toilet seat up.
“Good morning. It’s Thursday, October 12, and you’ve got one more day to lock up, ladies. Owen Oliver is coming to get one of you pretties—”
The radio goes silent. I open my eyes to see Millicent standing above me.
“Sorry,” she says. “Forgot to turn it off.”
She turns and walks back to the bathroom. Her red hair, cotton shorts, and tank top dissolve into a long dark ponytail and a blue uniform with gold trim.
I had been dreaming about Naomi when the alarm went off. She was behind the desk at the Lancaster, chatting with a man so old he wheezed when he spoke. Naomi threw her head back and laughed. It sounded like the cackle of a witch in a fairy tale. Then she turned to me and winked. The freckles across her nose started to bleed. I think I had been about to say something when the alarm went off.
Millicent lied; she did not forget to turn the alarm off. She is still a little upset with me. Not because we had to switch back to Naomi at the last minute, but because I made the decision without her.
Last night, we had another date night in the garage. She thought it was a last-minute planning session to run through everything before the big day. And originally it was, at least until I told her it couldn’t be Annabelle.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I said we should switch back to Naomi.”
“Naomi is too tall. She doesn’t fit the profile.”
“I know, but Annabelle is—”
“She’s what?”
I made the decision to lie in a split second. “She started seeing someone.”
“A boyfriend?”
“If he’s not yet, he will be. He’ll call the police right away.” This is the type of scenario we prefer to avoid.
Millicent shook her head. She may have even cursed under her breath. “I can’t believe we’re just finding this out.”
“We always watched her at work.”
“Not always.”
I let that go. This was not the time to question Millicent about what she hasn’t told me. Not when I was lying.
“So,” I said. “Naomi.”
Millicent sighed. “Naomi.”
We do not mention Annabelle again.
* * *
• • •
I do not want to work, but I have no choice. My day is packed with back-to-back lessons, and when they are finally over I pick up the kids from school and take them to the dentist. By chance, their appointments have landed on Thursday the 12th. Millicent schedules their cleanings in advance, every six months on the dot.
As we walk into the office, Jenna and Rory play roshambo to see who goes first. It is one of the few times they speak in unison.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”
Rory loses, Jenna gloats, and the bigger picture eludes them. Both still have to get their teeth cleaned.
In the waiting room, I check the news on my phone and am bombarded by pictures of Owen’s previous victims. Our local paper put all of them on the front page, and all the pictures had been taken when they were smiling and alive. The message is not subtle. If you look like these women, tomorrow you will be at risk. Owen could be coming for you. There is no indication that anyone would be able to fight back or escape, and the only way to survive is to not get chosen. It is a little offensive, I think, that women are treated as if they are so helpless. The writer of this article has never met my wife.
After the dentist, ice cream. Millicent meets us for this bizarre family tradition. I was the one who started it, back when the kids were much younger and I wanted to make them stop crying at the dentist. The promise of ice cream worked, and now they won’t let it go.
We all have our favorite. Millicent orders vanilla, I have chocolate, and Rory gets rocky road. Jenna is the experimental one. She always orders the special. Today, it is blueberry chocolate chip, and she loves it. I think it is disgusting.
Once everyone’s teeth are tingling and our brains are frozen, we split up. Millicent takes the kids home, and I go back to work. On my way into the club, I run into Trista. She canceled our last lesson, and I’ve barely seen her since that drunken day she told me about her relationship with Owen Oliver. I am so grateful to her for that, but she doesn’t know it. She doesn’t know much of anything right now; she stares at me with the dead stare of a drunk, but it isn’t because of alcohol. She is on pills—most likely painkillers, and a lot of them. I see it quite often at the country club.
But never from her.
“Hey.” I reach out and touch her arm. “Are you okay?”
“Perfect.” She says the word hard, like she’s anything but.