I imagine Millicent watching this and critiquing the drawing, saying that the nose is a bit too big and maybe the eyes are too small. She would say they missed the mole by my ear, or the shade of my skin is different. She would see everything, because she always does.
It will not be long before I am identified, although people must already be looking for me. My employer, for one. Millicent must be acting frantic, pretending I have just vanished without a reason.
Jenna and Rory—Who knows what they think?
I spend the rest of the day inside, afraid to go out while it is still light.
It makes me think back to the day I married Millicent, at her parents’ home in the middle of nowhere. I can see her in that simple dress, with her hair up and sprinkled with tiny flowers, like she was some kind fairy or nymph that came from another world. She was like that, everything about her was otherworldly. Still is, I suppose.
I also think of what she said that day, because it is so appropriate now.
Here we go.
The news starts to break faster, which is no surprise. The public has been given just enough information to provide more of it.
The second person who claims to know Tobias is a bartender, but not Eric. This young man works at the bar where I met Petra. Josh, while overexcited about all the news, seemed rather disappointed in this young man, because he does not remember the exact day, nor time, he met Tobias. He remembers so little it is almost embarrassing, at least for him. To top it all off, he gets the drink wrong. Tobias never ordered a vodka tonic.
I am almost offended by this. I always believed Tobias was more memorable than that.
Or maybe this bartender is just a moron.
When nothing new is happening, everything is repeated. I see Annabelle’s interview over and over; they repeat the best parts until I have them memorized. During commercial breaks, I wonder if my kids are watching the same channel.
I know Millicent is. I can just see her sitting on the couch, watching Annabelle on our big TV. In my mind, Millicent is smiling. Or scowling. Both.
By the evening news, Eric shows up, but on another channel. Josh does not get this interview. The reporter who interviews him is a middle-aged woman, one of our more famous local personalities. Up until now, I have not seen her covering anything about this case—not when Owen was back and not when he turned out to be dead. The fact that she has become involved worries me. A serious manhunt is about to begin, or already has, and they are all looking for me.
Eric remembers more than the last bartender, beginning with the drink: gin and tonic. He describes my suit, right down to the type of tie I had been wearing. He remembers the color of my eyes, my tan, even the length of my hair.
Each new revelation makes my stomach turn. Somehow, I managed to find the only bartender in town with a photographic memory.
Within minutes, the other stations repeat what Eric said. It makes me a little sick to hear Josh repeat all those personal things about me. I wish I had known what a horrible person he really is. if I did, I never would have sent letters to him.
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.”