My Lovely Wife(38)

I normally found costume parties depressing. They made me feel surrounded by people who dreamed of being anyone other than who they were.

That night, we were different. Not like the others, not like anyone else at that party. Millicent and I talked about doing it again. Killing a woman. We talked about what we would do to her. If we would do it. Why we would do it.

“What about her?” Millicent said, motioning to a woman whose breasts were so large they bordered on grotesque. They were fake, and we all knew it, because she had told everyone how much they had cost.

I shrugged. “We wouldn’t be able to drown her.”

“You’re right about that.”

“And her?” I said, nodding to a beachy blonde with a date as old as her grandpa.

Millicent smiled, her white teeth stark against her ruby lips. “Mercy killing. Judging by that tan, she’ll get skin cancer anyway.”

I stifled a laugh. Millicent giggled. We were being horrible, gossiping in the most twisted way, but it was all just talk. For most of the night, we spoke only to each other.

Given that it was our first big night out in a long time, I was prepared to stay out late, and even had an energy drink before leaving the house. But we didn’t stay out late. By five minutes after midnight, we were on our way home.

By a quarter after, our 1920s costumes had been thrown off and discarded on our bedroom floor.

I had no idea if we were starting something or continuing it, but I didn’t want it to end.



* * *



? ? ?

In the lobby of the Lancaster, I look at my watch, check my phone, and surf the Internet. It’s all to pretend I’m not watching Naomi. She does not notice me. The night is much busier than normal, in part because the next day is Friday the 13th. People have come to town to see what Owen will do, who he will take and kill. Some of these people work for legitimate media sources; others are the kind who follow spectacles or event that can be recorded and loaded online.

A group of them sit near me in the lobby. They are college-aged kids who are looking to make money, and they speculate about how much money they can make. It’s all based on how graphic their video is, although capturing the actual kidnapping of a woman would be the mother lode. Providing they hold the camera still.

When they finally leave, off to find likely places serial killers hang out, I can focus back on Naomi. I look for something to tell Millicent, something we can share. I want this to feel like it did before.

Naomi is smiling and has been all night. This is amazing, even admirable. Many of the people who approach the front desk are disgruntled or need something, yet she never fails to be kind. She smiles even when someone calls her an idiot.

I start to think she is some kind of Pollyanna, someone who is nice and happy no matter what. I don’t like it. Millicent and I can’t whisper in the dark about that.

Then I see it—the crack in Naomi’s sugary-sweet persona. When one particularly rude guest turns his back, Naomi gives him the finger.

I smile.

Time to go home and tell Millicent.





Twenty-five




I wake up to silence. Dawn is an hour away, and the world is dark as velvet.

It is Saturday the 14th.

Millicent is not home yet.

Our decision to separate came late on Thursday night, after I returned home from the Lancaster. The plan was to keep Naomi alive for a while, just like Lindsay. It had to be done, because it’s what Owen always did.

I just didn’t like it. Didn’t even want to see it.

Part of me knew I should, because it wasn’t fair to make Millicent do it by herself. I tried to imagine what it would be like to lock Naomi up and keep her alive, feeding her, giving her water, and torturing her. It makes my stomach turn.

I don’t think I can see that, up close and in person.

This keeps me from talking to Millicent about where she kept Lindsay and where she will keep Naomi. I’ve thought about asking her but never have. At times, I feel a little bad about it, but not bad enough. Most of the time, I’m just relieved.

“I can do it,” Millicent said.

We were at home alone on Friday morning. The kids were already at school. We sat in the kitchen having another cup of coffee and discussing our plans.

“You shouldn’t have to do it all yourself,” I said.

“I did it before.” Millicent stood up and carried her coffee mug over to the sink.

“Still,” I said. My protests were weak, and I knew it. They made me feel better anyway.

“Still nothing,” Millicent said. “I’ll take care of it. You take care of that reporter.”

“I will. Eventually, I’ll have to contact him again.”

“Exactly.”

She turned to me and smiled, lit up by the morning sun coming through the window.

Our plan was set. It was the same plan we had used on Lindsay.

We had prepared every detail, the way Millicent always does. First, the drug. Lindsay, and now Naomi, had to be unconscious so we could take her to a deserted place. Turned out chloroform is not the miracle knockout drug the movies pretend it is. Our research led us to some dark and scary places on the Internet, where everything is available for a price. Electronic currency, an anonymous e-mail, and a private mailbox can get you anything, including a tranquilizer strong and quick enough to knock out a dinosaur.