My Lovely Wife

I nod, understanding this more than he knows. “It’ll only depress you.”

“Word.”

I did not know people still said “Word” in a real way, but this big bearded fellow says it like he means it.

I leave without asking about the news. They are still talking about whether or not Owen is really gone, but there is no real news. No updates. Just new ways of repeating the old.

And already, Owen is starting to fade. He is still the lead story but no longer dominates the entire broadcast.

Just as I thought.

And now, my thoughts revolve around my family, my kids. About Rory’s girlfriend, whom I still haven’t met. I did figure out the Hammonds live on the next block. It would take Rory all of sixty seconds to get from our house to theirs if he cut through the middle of the block. I should have known this already, should have known Rory was sneaking out, but I was too busy doing it myself. Now I am making up for lost time.

Jenna has a new fascination with makeup. This has just started in the past week, perhaps because she is no longer trying to hide from Owen. I caught her putting lip gloss on before we left for school one morning, and Millicent said it looked like someone had been in our bathroom.

And she still has that knife under her mattress. I am starting to wonder if she forgot it was there.

These are all things I would miss if I were still distracted by Owen, by Naomi and Annabelle and Petra. I cannot remember the last time I charged the disposable phone.

And Millicent. We have talked about having a real date night. It has not happened yet, but when it does, we will not talk about Holly or Owen or anything of the sort. In the meantime, she has started an anti–hot dog crusade on the Internet.

I took the tracker off her car. Now, I want to look at my wife, not the blue dot representing my wife.

Even work has been booming, I have two new clients, because my schedule is no longer as erratic. Most of my day is at the club, and so when I’m not teaching, I have time to network.

Andy. I haven’t spoken to him since he moved out of Hidden Oaks. He left right after Trista died; he put the house up for sale, and I haven’t seen him since. He no longer comes to the clubhouse. It doesn’t seem right that I have let him disappear out of my life. In part, that’s been because of my own schedule. But it is also because of Trista.

I call him to see how he is. Andy does not answer and does not call back. I make a half-hearted attempt to search for him online, to try and figure out where he is living now, but I give up after a few minutes.

I still have that bottle of eye drops, though I have seen no evidence that Rory, or anyone, is using drugs of any kind. It doesn’t make sense why they are in the house, much less in the pantry. Eye drops don’t need to be hidden.

* * *

• • •

Kekona has gone back to Hawaii for a month, so my first client is Mrs. Leland. She does not like to talk about crime or Owen or anything of the sort. Mrs. Leland is a serious player, who only talks about tennis.

After her lesson is over, I have a minute between clients, just long enough to see a text from Millicent.

?

I do not know what it means or what she is asking, so I text back:

What?

Midway through my lesson with a retiree named Arthur, Millicent sends me a link to a news story. The headline does not make sense.

OWEN IS DEAD

I read the story once, then again, and the third time it becomes more unbelievable than the first.

Fifteen years ago, Owen Oliver Riley was charged with murder and let go on a technicality. He vanished without a trace until recently, when the body of a young woman was found and someone claiming to be Riley sent a letter to a local reporter, taking responsibility for the murder and promising to kill another woman, even naming the day she would disappear. When a second woman’s body was found, it seemed he had made good on his promise. The next letter claimed that he was done and would now leave for good. But was he ever here at all?

“No,” says Jennifer Riley. “Owen’s sister contacted the local police last week and subsequently issued a statement.”

In a twist so shocking it hardly seems real, she claims that fifteen years ago, after Owen Riley was released, both she and her brother moved to Europe. Neither returned to the United States, not even for a visit, her statement says, and they changed their first names and lived in anonymity.

Five years ago, her brother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, she told police, and after several rounds of radiation, he finally succumbed to his illness and passed away. His body was cremated, her statement says.

Owen Riley’s obituary did not appear in any U.S. newspaper. It was announced only in a U.K. paper under his pseudonym, Jennifer Riley claims. She provided a copy of it to police, along with a death certificate. Authorities are currently working to verify the information.

Until recently, Jennifer Riley told police, she had no idea her brother had “returned” to the area where they grew up. She went on to say, “I wanted nothing to do with this. After leaving the area so many years ago, I wanted nothing to do with it. However, an old friend of mine reached out and convinced me to say something, because the police were convinced it was Owen.

“I will state this as clearly as possible: The recent murders of two young women are tragic and heartbreaking. However, I need to make it clear that my brother had nothing to do with them.”

Fifty-one

My phone is lying on the cement court, the screen shattered. I do not remember dropping it. Or maybe I threw it.

A hand is on my arm. Arthur, my client, is staring at me. His eyes are hidden under thick grey brows, and they are crinkled up. Worried. “Are you okay?” he says.

No. Okay is not what I am. “I’m sorry. I have to go. It’s a family—”

“Of course. Go.”

I pick up my phone and bag and leave the court. On the way to the parking lot, I hear people say hello but do not see their faces. All I can see is that headline:

OWEN IS DEAD

In the car, with the engine running, it occurs to me I have no idea where Millicent is. Not without that tracker on her car.

Through the broken screen, I send her a text.

Date night

Her reply:

Date lunch. Now.

I am already pulling out of the parking lot.

The kids are at school, so we meet at home. Her car is out front, and she is inside, pacing the length of the family room. Today her shoes are navy blue, and they do not make a sound when she walks. Her hair is shorter, cut above her shoulders, because she didn’t want Jenna to be the only girl in the family with short hair.

When I walk in, she stops pacing and we look at each other. Nothing to say.

Other than we screwed up.

She smiles a little. Not a happy smile. “Didn’t see this coming.”

“We couldn’t have.”

I reach out to her, and she comes to me, into my arms. My heart is beating faster than normal, and she leans her head against it.

“They’ll start looking for the real killer,” I say.

“Yes.” She leans her head back and looks up at me.

“We could just leave.”

“Leave?”