My Lovely Wife(44)

She winks. “For your next letter.”

This tiny thing lifts my mood. I do not write letters, but Owen does.

“It will convince them,” Millicent says.

“Whatever you say.”

She puts her hand on my cheeks and strokes it with her thumb. I think she is going to kiss me, but she doesn’t, not out here in the driveway where any neighbor could see us. Instead, she walks back to the house as casually as she walked out, like she has just reminded me to pick up almond milk on the way home.

I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope and open the corner.

Inside, a lock of Naomi’s hair.





Twenty-nine




Despite what Millicent said, I go back and forth about the lock of Naomi’s hair. I wonder if it will make things better or worse. Although Jenna is no longer carrying a knife, as far as I know, she also is not eating much. She picks at her food, swishing it around her plate. She does not say much at dinner. We have not heard any blow-by-blows of her soccer practices or school days.

I do not like this. I want my Jenna back, the one who smiles at me, the one who asks for something, so I can say yes. The only thing she asks for now is to be excused from the table.

If I send a letter to Josh, confirming that Naomi is Owen’s victim, the search will only intensify. The police will go through every building within fifty miles to find her, and the media will cover every moment of it.

But perhaps it is worse to not send the letter. Perhaps it’s worse to let everyone wonder if Owen has Naomi, maybe forever. Because then Jenna will learn that people can just disappear with no one ever finding them. It is the truth, but maybe she should not know that. Not yet, anyway.

Once again, Millicent is right. The lock of hair is useful.

I go through several drafts of the letter. The first is too elaborate; the second is still too long. The third is down to a paragraph. Then I realize Owen does not have to say anything.

The hair will say enough.

They will DNA-test it, and they will know it is Naomi’s. All I have to do is wrap it up in a piece of paper and sign at the bottom.

—Owen

The final touch is the cheap cologne.

I dump the lock of hair onto my letter. Fifty strands, a hundred—I don’t know how many, but they are a couple of inches long. At one end, the hair is frayed with slight differences in length. The other end was cut so straight I can almost hear the scissors snip.

I do not allow myself to think about it any further. I do not want to picture the look on Naomi’s face when she sees the scissors, do not want to imagine the relief she feels when only her hair is cut.

Instead, I fold up the paper around the hair, put it into a new envelope, and use a sponge to seal the flap. I do not take my gloves off until the letter is in the mailbox.

As soon as I drop it in, I feel a surge of adrenaline.



* * *



? ? ?

Work should be an escape, but is not. Everyone is talking about Naomi, about Owen, about where she might be held and if she will ever be found. Kekona is in the clubhouse; she does not have a lesson but is there anyway, gossiping with a group of women who are all old enough to be Naomi’s mother. The men sitting at the bar stare up at the screen, at the pretty missing woman they would have liked to meet. No one is saying anything about Naomi’s activities at the Lancaster. She has become everyone’s daughter, sister, the girl next door.

It is scary how fast this has happened.

The others were not like this—especially not Holly. No one ever looked for her, because she was never reported missing.

Millicent and I made that decision together. We never discussed it after Holly was gone; it never occurred to me. I was too busy thinking about not getting caught to wonder what came next. Days later, Millicent’s mother called. Her Alzheimer’s had not advanced to the point where she’d forgotten how many daughters she had. We never told her Holly had been released, but she knew anyway. She had called the hospital.

That evening, we had our first date night. We’d never had one before. We used to make fun of the term right up until it became useful.

When I told Millicent her mother had called, the expression on her face did not change. Dinner had just ended, the kids were watching TV, and we were still at the table. Veggie-burger patties piled with tomatoes and organic cheese, sweet-potato fries and salad. I was still picking at the fries, dipping them in the spicy pseudomayonnaise.

“I thought this would happen,” she said.

I glanced behind me, making sure the kids were not around. In those days, I jumped at my own shadow. I was not used to breaking the law, much less killing anyone, so every little sound meant we were getting caught. Each day, it felt like I had aged a year.

“We shouldn’t talk about this here,” I said.

“Of course. Later, when the kids are asleep.”

Even that made me nervous. “We should go outside. Or in the garage. We can sit in the car or something.”

“Perfect. It’s a date.”

Our first date night took place after eleven-year-old Rory and ten-year-old Jenna were asleep. Millicent left the door to the house cracked, just in case they needed us.

I assumed we would tell her mother we had not seen Holly. I was wrong.

“We can’t tell her that she’s missing,” Millicent said. “They’ll look for her.”