My Lovely Wife

“You don’t look okay. Do you want me to call Andy?”

“No, I don’t want you to call Andy.”

I think I should, because I’d want to know if my wife was stoned up to her eyebrows. I reach for my phone.

Trista looks at me. “A woman is going to disappear tomorrow. And then she’s going to die.”

I want to tell her that maybe it won’t happen, maybe they’ll catch him, but I don’t, because it’s a lie. The police are not going to catch Millicent and me. They don’t even know we exist.

“Yes,” I say. “Someone is probably going to disappear.”

“Owen’s a bastard.” Trista looks vacant but isn’t. Beyond the pills is something that refuses to go numb. Something angry.

“Hey, stop that. You can’t blame yourself for this asshole.”

She snorts.

“You won’t be alone tomorrow, will you?” I say this because I am genuinely worried about her. Everything Trista does hurts only herself.

“Andy will be home.” She looks up at the TV, where they are showing footage from when Owen was arrested fifteen years ago. Trista shivers. “I have to go.”

“Wait—let me give you a ride home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Trista.”

“I’ll see you later. Tell Millicent I’ll call her.” She walks toward the women’s locker room but then turns back. “Don’t tell Andy, okay?”

I never told him about seeing Trista drunk, and didn’t tell him about his wife’s past with Owen Oliver. Another omission won’t make the betrayal worse than it already is.

“I won’t tell him,” I say.

“Thank you.”

She vanishes into the locker room, and I stare after her, wondering what we have done. Bringing back Owen has affected more than the police investigation.

My last client of the day also talks about it. He is a nice man with three daughters, and two are in Owen’s target age group. All of them still live in the area. Two are single and live alone, and he is so worried he has offered to send them away for the weekend. He didn’t live here when Owen was around the first time but has heard more than enough.

Despite the afternoon ice cream, dinner is still at six. Jenna says everyone at school has been talking about Owen all week. One of her friends has an older sister who is convinced that Owen is coming for her. Rory snickers at this and says it won’t happen, that both are too ugly even for a serial killer. Jenna throws a dinner roll at her brother, and Millicent orders them to stop. They resort to calling each other names by mouthing them across the table.

“I said stop it.”

Millicent does not like to repeat herself, so they stop. For a minute. Jenna flinches when Rory kicks her under the table. I am sure Millicent sees it, but she says nothing, because when dinner is over she announces an impromptu movie night. Sometimes when they fight too much, she makes them spend more time together. It is her way of making sure they work it out instead of going their separate ways.

They argue for twenty minutes about which movie to watch. Neither Millicent nor I interfere; in fact, we don’t pay attention. We are in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes, when she asks if I am going back out tonight.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“It’s fine.”

My tone is sharper than I mean it to be. Hearing about Owen all day has not helped my stress level. Neither did seeing Trista. Something about her, about what she is doing to herself, bothers me.

Everything that happens tomorrow is because of me. I wrote the letter to Josh, I chose the date, I promised another woman would disappear. And I am the one who switched from Annabelle to Naomi just last night. I am the one who has to make sure she is right.

The flip of a quarter chooses our movie for the evening, and it is about a dolphin. Rory and Jenna sit together on the floor with a bowl of popcorn and do not throw it at each other. Millicent and I sit on the couch with our own popcorn. She spends more time looking at our kids than at the movie, and her eyes look ten shades lighter. They always do with the kids.

She stays like that until the movie is over and the kids trudge upstairs to bed, their banter light and filled with dolphins. I start to stand up when she puts her hand on my knee and squeezes it.

“You better get ready,” she says.

She makes it sound like this is her idea, and it irritates me. “You’re right,” I say. “I need to get out of here.”

“You okay?”

I look down at her, at my wife with the clear eyes that are so unlike Trista’s. Everything about Millicent is the opposite of Andy’s wife.

I smile, thankful I am not married to Trista.

Twenty-four

I had not intended to wear my suit, because speaking to Naomi wasn’t in the plan, but at the last minute I put on the one Millicent likes best. It is dark blue with a hand-stitched collar, and it cost too much. But since I have it, I might as well wear it.

As I stand in front of the mirror and put on my tie, Millicent appears behind me. She leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, and she watches me. I know she wants to ask, because I never wear this suit except with her. She bought it.

I continue with my tie, put on my shoes, collect my wallet, phone, and keys. My disposable phone is not in the house.

When I look up, she is still there, still in the same position.

“I guess I’m off,” I say.

She nods.

I wait for her to say something, but she remains silent. I walk past her and down the stairs. As I reach the door to the garage, I hear him.

“Dad.”

Rory is at the door to the kitchen with a glass of water. He holds up his other hand and rubs his thumb and forefinger together. More money.

He did not just happen to be in the kitchen. He was waiting for me.

I nod and walk out.

* * *

• • •

Naomi is at the front desk, checking people in, answering the phone, troubleshooting for everyone who walks up with a problem. Tonight, I do not sit outside. I am in the lobby.

It is large and plush, with overstuffed furniture in dark colors and thick fabrics. Velvet curtains hang against the walls, trimmed in gold braid like the Lancaster uniforms. Fringe and tassels are everywhere.

I can hide in this lobby, hidden in the ornate decor, just another unknown guest working on my computer, having a drink, because I cannot sit in my hotel room for one more minute. This is almost the truth. I cannot sit in my car outside the hotel for one more minute. If Naomi is the one, I feel compelled to get a little bit closer.

But not to speak to her; I’ve decided not to do that. There is just no time. Not after the last-minute change. I am too stressed, too worried. Resurrecting Owen Oliver has become more complicated than I thought it would be. Maybe because of the media, maybe because of Trista, but it’s also because my kids won’t shut up about him.

This is so much different than Lindsay. It was just Millicent and me, no one else, not even on the periphery.

New Year’s Eve, Millicent and I went to a party at the country club. Jenna was twelve, Rory a year older, and it was the first time we had left them alone on December 31. They had been ecstatic about it. So were we. Ringing in the New Year with adults hadn’t happened since before the kids were born.