My Lovely Wife

I order a couple more shots. Josh drinks his and slams the glass on the bar.

“A couple days ago, I reported something a source told me. The next day, he calls and says I can’t talk about it anymore. Technically, the police can get fired for talking to the press. She’s just decided to enforce the rule.” He throws up his hands, as if this is an abomination. “Even if they talk to me. And I worked with the police when I got those letters from Owen. Or whoever sent them. I didn’t have to do that. I could have just read them on the air without telling the police at all.”

“What does that mean?” I say. “Your sources won’t tell you anything?”

“Oh, they still tell me stuff. I’m just not allowed to report it on the air. Well, I guess I could, but I’m a nice guy. I don’t want anyone to get fired, especially not someone I need. That bitch won’t be here forever.”

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. He glances at it and rolls his eyes. “See, this is what I’m talking about. I get a tip from a source, the second time I’ve heard this information, but I can’t do anything with it. Y-E-O, it says. ‘Your Eyes Only.’ ” He lets out a big, noisy sigh. “Worst acronym ever.”

“That sucks.”

“No shit.”

I wait. I stare at the TV, not saying a word, hoping to convey that none of this matters to me. Because the less I care, the better chance he will tell me.

It takes him one more shot.

“Okay, I have to tell someone,” he slurs. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny I showed you this. At least until they make it public.”

“You think they will?”

“They don’t have a choice.”

Josh slides the phone over to me. The text is on the screen, sent by someone named J. The whole thing reminds me a little of being Tobias.

Until I read the text.

YEO:

There are bodies buried under the church.

Fifty-nine

I thought the text was going to be about the supposed message on the wall. Instead, it is about buried bodies. “So what?” I say.

“So what?” Josh says.

“That church is over a hundred years old. There’s probably a whole graveyard of people buried there.”

“I’m sure there is. But that’s not what he’s talking about.” Josh leans in and lowers his voice a little. The smell of all that alcohol hits me in the face. “Have you been out there?”

I almost say yes, but then remember I am not a true-crime freak. “No.”

“They have this big tent set up, but it’s behind a bunch of trees. That’s where they’re taking the bodies.”

“You keep saying that. What bodies?”

“The bodies in the basement aren’t from a hundred years ago,” he says. “They’re women who have been killed recently.”

“No.”

“Yes. And I can’t go on the air with it.”

Josh rambles on, complaining all over again about Claire and his sources. I am not listening anymore.

Naomi and Lindsay have already been found, which leaves Holly and Robin. Holly was killed out in the middle of nowhere, in the woods, and we buried her out there.

Robin was killed in our kitchen. Her car and body are at the bottom of a nearby lake.

I interrupt Josh. “Do you know when this information will be released?”

“Soon, I’m sure. They can’t hide those bodies forever.”

He keeps talking, but I think only of Claire Wellington. It will take her about a minute to show up at our door, asking about Millicent’s sister, Holly.

And why she was never reported missing.

Because we thought she just moved away.

Because we didn’t care.

Because she used to torture my wife.

Because she was crazy.

I text Millicent.

We need a date night.

She turns me down.

No date night. I’m at the hospital.

I read it three times before throwing money on the bar and leaving First Street Bar & Grill without saying another word to Josh. Or maybe I say I have to go. I’m not sure.

Millicent calls me as I’m trying to call her. She is talking fast, and I’ve been drinking, so all I catch are the highlights.

Rory. Emergency room. Fell from the window.

I don’t bother with the car, because I’m close enough to run. The hospital is three blocks away, and I arrive to find Millicent pacing in the hall.

As soon as I see her, I know.

Rory is okay. Or will be.

Millicent’s fists are clenched, lips pursed, and it feels like an electric current is shooting out of her. If Rory was really hurt, she would be worried, crying, or in shock. But she isn’t. She is bursting with anger.

She grabs me and hugs me. It is quick and violent, and then she pulls back to sniff my breath.

“Beer,” I say. “What happened?”

“Our son snuck out of the house to see his girlfriend. He fell climbing up to her window.”

“But he’s okay?”

“He is. We thought his wrist was broken, but it’s a bad sprain. He’ll have to wear a sling—”

“Why didn’t you call me when it happened?” I say.

“I did. I texted you.”

I pull out my phone. There it is, right on the cracked screen. Depending on the angle, it can be difficult to read. “Oh god, I’m sorry—”

“Forget it. You’re here now. The important thing is he’s okay.” Millicent’s anger is back, if it had ever really left. “He’s just grounded for a century.”

Someone giggles.

Around the corner, Jenna is sitting in a waiting room. She waves. I wave back. Millicent directs me to a vending machine for coffee. It is bitter and burns my tongue, and is exactly what I need. It settles me down instead of the opposite, because my heart is beating too fast, from the sprint over, and the alcohol, and my son in the hospital.

Millicent disappears into the examining room to be with Rory. When they come out, Rory has a brace on his wrist and a sling on his arm. Millicent’s anger has softened, at least for now.

He does not look me in the eye. Maybe he is still angry at me, or maybe he knows he is in trouble. Hard to tell, because right now I am torn between knocking him upside the head and hugging him. I ruffle his hair.

“If you don’t want to play golf, you should have just said so,” I say.

He doesn’t smile. He loves golfing.

We get home after midnight. I check on Rory a few minutes after he goes to bed. Even he falls asleep right away.

Isit down on my bed, exhausted.

My car is still at the First Street Bar & Grill.

And there are bodies buried under the church.

“Millicent,” I say.

She comes out of the bathroom, halfway through her nighttime routine. “What?”

“I was drinking beer tonight with Josh. The reporter.”

“Why would you—”

“He told me there are bodies buried in that church basement.”

“Bodies?”

I nod, watching her. Her surprise looks genuine. “Did he say whose bodies?” she asks.

“I assume Holly and Robin.”

“They aren’t anywhere near that church. You know that.” She walks away, back into the bathroom.