My Lovely Wife(35)

“Hey,” says Annabelle. She taps me on the arm, telling me to look at her. “I’m sorry. This is all too serious.”

No, it’s okay. I asked.

“I’m tired of talking about me. What about you? Girlfriend?”

I shake my head no.

“Your turn. Why not?”

It’s been hard to get back into dating. I was married for ten years. And being deaf … it just makes things harder, I guess.

“Well, any woman that won’t go out with you because you are deaf isn’t worth it.”

I smile. Her words are generic, but from her they sound genuine. It makes me wonder what she would say if I told her the truth.

Then I decide. I am not going to sleep with her.

Instead, I shift the conversation and we stop talking about ourselves. We talk about music, movies, current events. Nothing personal, just random talk that doesn’t cause pain. When I stop flirting, so does she. The air between us changes.

Eric returns to our end of the bar and asks if we want another drink. Neither of us orders one.

She does not want me to walk her home. Understandable, but I insist that Eric call her a cab. She takes it, and I’m sure it’s because of Owen Oliver. Before she leaves, I ask for her number. She gives it to me, and I give her the number to the disposable phone.

Annabelle thanks me for the drink with a handshake. It is both formal and endearing. I watch her walk out of the bar.

I will not text her. Of this I am sure.

I am also sure that Annabelle is not the one. She will not go missing on Friday night.



* * *



? ? ?

It is because of her boyfriend. As soon as I heard the story, I knew it wouldn’t be her.

Maybe because it would be too much tragedy for one young life. To lose a loved one in a violent crash only to be murdered.

None of this is fair. Our system of choosing her was developed, in part, by Owen, but how we did it was arbitrary. I just happened to see Anabelle that day. It could have been anyone.

Now, I am back at the Lancaster Hotel, watching Naomi. She is still a bit too tall for Owen’s profile. I know her only through the computer and the glass doors of the Lancaster. I have never spoken to her, have never heard the sound of her voice.

I want to, though. I want to hear her laugh, to see how she acts after a drink or two. I want to know if she really has a thing for older men or if she just needs the money. I want to know if I like her, dislike her, or feel nothing for her. But I won’t. I cannot take the chance that something will make me want to let her live.

So I do not go inside the hotel; I do not approach her. When her shift is over, I watch her leave. She has changed out of her uniform and into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She talks on the phone as she walks to her car, a tiny thing the color of a lime. At eleven fifteen on a Wednesday night, her only stop is at a fast-food drive-through. Minutes later, she is home, walking to her apartment, bag of food in one hand and uniform in the other. Naomi lives on the first floor of a quiet building that caters to people who don’t make much money. The yard is overgrown, with thick bushes near her front door.

Perfect. We have lots of choices for the Friday the 13th, from the hotel parking lot to Naomi’s apartment building.

Now I just have to tell Millicent I’ve changed my mind.





Twenty-three




At six in the morning, the radio announcer’s voice booms into my ear, and it’s loud enough to make me jump. Millicent likes her clock radio. It is an old one, the kind with flip numbers and faux wood casing, and it annoys me to no end. The radio is her way of leaving the toilet seat up.

“Good morning. It’s Thursday, October 12, and you’ve got one more day to lock up, ladies. Owen Oliver is coming to get one of you pretties—”

The radio goes silent. I open my eyes to see Millicent standing above me.

“Sorry,” she says. “Forgot to turn it off.”

She turns and walks back to the bathroom. Her red hair, cotton shorts, and tank top dissolve into a long dark ponytail and a blue uniform with gold trim.

I had been dreaming about Naomi when the alarm went off. She was behind the desk at the Lancaster, chatting with a man so old he wheezed when he spoke. Naomi threw her head back and laughed. It sounded like the cackle of a witch in a fairy tale. Then she turned to me and winked. The freckles across her nose started to bleed. I think I had been about to say something when the alarm went off.

Millicent lied; she did not forget to turn the alarm off. She is still a little upset with me. Not because we had to switch back to Naomi at the last minute, but because I made the decision without her.

Last night, we had another date night in the garage. She thought it was a last-minute planning session to run through everything before the big day. And originally it was, at least until I told her it couldn’t be Annabelle.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“I said we should switch back to Naomi.”

“Naomi is too tall. She doesn’t fit the profile.”

“I know, but Annabelle is—”

“She’s what?”

I made the decision to lie in a split second. “She started seeing someone.”

“A boyfriend?”

“If he’s not yet, he will be. He’ll call the police right away.” This is the type of scenario we prefer to avoid.