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.