My Lovely Wife

Jenna. She has the knife from under her bed. I never even saw it in her hand.

She heads right for Millicent, the knife raised, and crashes into her. They both tumble backward onto the bed.

The gun fires a second time.

Another scream.

I jump up. Rory is right behind me. He grabs the gun, which has fallen out of Millicent’s hand. I grab Jenna and pull her off. The knife comes with her. It slides right out of Millicent.

Blood.

So much blood.

Millicent is on the floor now, her hands clasped against her abdomen. The blood is coming from her.

Behind me, Jenna is screaming, and I turn to see if she’s hurt. Rory shakes his head at me and points to the wall. The second bullet is lodged there, not inside my daughter.

“Get her out of here,” I say.

Rory drags Jenna out of the room. She is hysterical and screams all the way down the hall, dropping the bloody knife as she goes.

I turn to Millicent.

She is lying on the floor, staring up at me. Her white nightgown is turning red, right before my eyes. She looks exactly like my wife and, at the same time, nothing like her.

She opens her mouth and tries to speak. Blood comes out. Millicent looks at me, her eyes wild. She does not have long. A few minutes, a few seconds, and she knows it. She keeps trying to say something.

I grab the knife and bring it down hard, plunging it right into her chest.

Millicent does not get the final word.

Epilogue

Three Years Later

The map on the wall showed the whole world, from Australia to the Americas, and the North Pole to the South. We didn’t use darts, because we all have an aversion to metal objects with sharp edges. Instead, we pulled out an ancient Pin the Tail on the Donkey game and put new adhesive on the ribbon tails. Blindfolded, we each took a turn. Jenna went first, followed by Rory. I went last.

I breathed a sigh of relief when two of the first three tails landed in Europe. Neither the Arctic nor Antarctica sounded very inviting to me.

We tacked up a map of Europe and played again—wash, rinse, repeat—until we had found a new place to live: Aberdeen, Scotland.

Our choice was made.

That was two and half years ago, right after I was finally cleared by the police. I didn’t think I would be. In fact, I thought Millicent would be named another one of my victims. No one knew Jenna stabbed her, not after I wiped off the knife and made sure the only prints were mine. I also confessed. I told the police I killed my wife in self-defense, because she was the real killer. It never occurred to me that anyone would believe it.

And they wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Andy, who said it couldn’t be me. I couldn’t even use a tablet computer, he told them, so how the hell could I kill so many women without getting caught?

Then there was Kekona, who said I was a terrible liar and could never be a serial killer. Although she did mention that I was a pretty good tennis coach.

And my kids. Jenna told the police that she overhead our argument and that her mother admitted to setting me up. Rory told them it was self-defense, because his mother was about to shoot him. Neither told the police what really happened. Those details do not matter.

I like to think the police believed everyone who stood up for me, that they knew I couldn’t be a killer. But it was the DNA. All the evidence in the church basement underwent rigorous testing at the FBI lab in Quantico. The result confirmed what we already knew: The DNA was mine.

The samples came from two sources: sweat and blood. And they saved me. Or rather, Millicent’s lack of knowledge saved me. The FBI tests revealed that all the samples of blood and sweat had the exact same amount of chemical decomposition. It looked like Millicent had collected my fluids just once and then sprinkled them around all at the same time. The report stated that I must have been in that basement only once, because the DNA had been left on the same day. An impossibility if I had killed those women at different times.

It’s too bad Millicent never knew how badly she had screwed up.

As soon as I was cleared, we sold the house and left Hidden Oaks. The first thing I had to get used to was the cold. And the snow.

I’ve never lived where it snows before, but now it surrounds us. At first, it’s light and fluffy, like hand-spun cotton candy. When it blankets the city, everything goes quiet. It’s as if Aberdeen has been lifted right into the clouds.

The day after, it’s slushy and dirty and the whole city looks covered in soot.

Our third winter is coming up, and I have grown a bit more used to it. Rory has not. Just last night, he showed me a website for a college in Georgia.

“Too far,” I said.

“We’re in Scotland. Everything is far.”

He had a point. And that was the point, to get far away from our old life. We are doing okay. I can say that without crossing my fingers.

Jenna has a new therapist and a couple of prescriptions. I find it amazing that she functions at all, given what Millicent did to her. Rory has his own therapist, as do I. Once in a while, we have a group session, and we haven’t hurt one another yet.

I do not tell them that I miss her. Sometimes. I miss the family she built, the structure, the way she kept us organized. But not all the time. Now, we don’t have as many rules, but we still have some. It’s all up to me, I can make a rule or not. Break it or not. No one is around to tell me if I am wrong or right.

Today I am in Edinburgh, a larger city than Aberdeen. I have come to see my tax attorney. Moving out of the country is complicated. Taxes must be paid in multiple places, depending on where money is kept. Our house in Hidden Oaks sold for a good amount; we are more than comfortable for the moment. I also coach tennis. It is a huge sport in Scotland, though much of the time we play on indoor courts.

When I am done with the tax lawyer, I find myself with a little time before the next train to Aberdeen. I stop in a pub near the station and motion to the bartender for an ale on tap. He fills a mug with a dark, syrupy liquid, unlike any beer I drank back home.

The woman next to me has dark hair and pale skin. She is dressed like someone who just got off work and is having a drink before heading home. I can sense her relief that the day is almost over.

After half a drink, she glances up at me and smiles.

I return the smile.

She looks away and looks back.

I take out my phone, type out a message, and slide it across the bar.

Hello. My name is Quentin.