My Lovely Wife(90)

Though I suppose I am not one to judge who is horrible and who is not.

Hour after hour goes by, deep into the night, before the old movies and infomercials begin. I open my laptop and search the true-crime sites. The sketch is everywhere, along with all the same interviews I just watched, and I scan through all the message boards. My name is not there, nor should it be. Not yet, anyway.





Sixty-five




I do not sleep for long. Within an hour of my waking up, the news stations have set up for a press conference by Claire Wellington. Coffee makes my stomach turn as I wait for it to start. Claire has not said anything good yet, and I know she will not this morning.

A podium is set up at the police station. It is flanked by the U.S. and state flags and surrounded by microphones, cameras, and lights. Ten minutes after the scheduled time, Claire walks to the podium. She is not wearing a pantsuit. Today, it a navy skirt and a matching jacket, which is similar to the type of suits Millicent wears, only not as tight. Somehow, I know this is a bad sign.

Claire begins with the sketch that has already been released, and she asks the community to post it at businesses, schools, and civic buildings, as well as on community websites. Although anyone who has not seen it by now doesn’t have a TV or the Internet. Or is in a coma.

But this is not why Claire is having a press conference. This is just her opening act. The main event comes next.

“Now, I have an update on the three women we found in the church basement. Trying to identify them is a painstaking process, giving the varying amounts of decomposition. Their fingerprints have also been removed.”

She pauses, takes a deep breath. “Despite the difficulties, the Woodview medical examiner and forensic investigators have done an amazing job. The first of these women has been identified, and her family has been contacted. Thanks to the hard work of a lot of people, this young woman can finally be laid to rest.”

Before she says the woman’s name, a picture appears on the screen.

I know her.

Jessica.

The cashier at the EZ-Go where I get my coffee. She left not long ago, The guy who took her place said she was going to school in another state. I am shocked Millicent knew who she was. Millicent does not buy coffee or anything else at the EZ-Go.

She must have been following me for a lot longer than I realized. Maybe Millicent has always kept track of what I do. And who I speak to.

This idea makes my heart beat too fast. I put down the coffee.

On TV, a split screen has Jessica on one side and Claire on the other. The detective is still talking, explaining that the other women have not been identified.

Now, I know what Millicent has done. She has killed woman I know, who can be connected to me. Maybe this was part of her setup.

Or maybe she thinks I was sleeping with all of them.

Perhaps, she has gone scorched-earth, destroying everyone who could be a threat.

My mind spins with who the other two might be. Not any of my clients. None have disappeared recently, and if they did, I would know. Wealthy people don’t just vanish without someone looking for them.

I run through all the women I know, particularly young women who fit Owen’s profile. A number of them work at the club as bartenders, waitresses, retail sales clerks. I know all of them by sight and have said hello to most. Some have been there longer than others. Most are still there; they aren’t dead in a church basement.

Except one.

Beth.

Perky Beth from Alabama, a waitress at the club. We never had an affair; she was just a nice young woman, and sometimes we talked while I ate at the clubhouse. That was it.

Not long ago, she left because of a family emergency back in Mobile. The manager of the restaurant told me that. No one questioned this. No one suspected anything had happened to her. No one showed up looking for her.

If more time had passed, maybe her family would have.

I get up and start pacing—first, around the theater room, and then throughout the whole house. Upstairs, downstairs, into all the rooms and around in a circle.

One more.

Millicent killed a third woman. No one else has disappeared—not that I know of—so I wonder if it might be Petra. With Annabelle and the bartenders around to recognize Tobias, why not get rid of her?



* * *



? ? ?

A ringing phone breaks through my panic. The only one who has my new number is Andy.

“It’s you,” he says. He does not mention the police sketch and does not have to.

I nod at the phone, as if he can see me. “This is what I was telling you,” I say. “She’s setting me up.”

“Yeah, I got that part. But you failed to convey the magnitude of her anger.”

“I said you didn’t want to know. I told you.”

“How is she even doing this?”

Again, I want to tell him, but I can’t. I also do not have a good answer. “If I knew, I would tell the police.”

He sighs. Right before he hangs up, he says, “Goddammit.”

And he still has Millicent’s tablet.

All day, I watch the news, scour my laptop, and look up my kids on the Internet. My search comes up with nothing new—just some old articles in the local paper from Jenna’s soccer team or Rory in a golf tournament.

I look at the pictures I took from the house. They feel like they are from a hundred years ago, back when I had a life that now feels like a dream.