She laughed at me.
Holly laughed until tears sprang from the corners of her eyes, and she laughed some more. The longer it went on, the more humiliated I started to feel. That may have made her laugh harder. I started to understand how she made Millicent feel, and it made me angry.
“You bitch,” I said.
She stopped laughing. Her eyes almost glowed with rage. “Get out.”
“What if I don’t? What if I stay here and make your life miserable?” My voice was much louder than it should have been.
“Get out.”
“Stay away from my family.”
Holly stared at me, still as a statue. She did not budge then, and she never did.
I turned around to leave, feeling a bit helpless. I could not reason with Holly, could not make her understand.
Robin was at the end of the aisle, watching everything.
She also worked at the store. She was wearing the same yellow shirt and green apron. I saw her, walked right past her, and I may have nodded at her. Or maybe I didn’t. But she was there, she had seen me, and now she was standing at my door.
“I’m not wrong,” she said. “You were the one I saw that day.”
I did not pause. “I’m sorry—you’ve got the wrong person.” I shut the door.
She knocked again.
I ignored it.
Robin’s voice came through the door. “You know she’s gone, right? Didn’t even pick up her last check.”
I opened the door. “Look, I’m really sorry about your friend, but I have no idea—”
“I got it, I got it. Wrong guy. Wasn’t you. Now that I know who you are, I’ll just let the police sort it all out.”
She turned around and started to leave.
I did not let her.
No one knew Holly was missing. No one was looking for her, and I didn’t want them to start. Millicent and I were not experts in forensics or DNA or anything of the sort. Anyone who looked too deep was bound to find all our mistakes.
I asked if Robin wanted to come inside and talk. She hesitated at first. She took out her phone and kept it in her hand as she walked into the house. We went to the kitchen. I offered her a drink; she said no. Instead, she grabbed an orange from the table and started peeling it. Without admitting a thing, without even introducing myself, I asked her what happened. She started to talk about the grocery store, about Holly, and about herself.
She gave me a history of how she came to work at the grocery store, when she met Holly, and how they had become friends. I got up from the table and went to the refrigerator to get a soda. While the door was open, I sent a quick text to Millicent. I used the same language she had used when Holly was in the house.
911 Get home NOW
It felt like hours passed before her car pulled up. By then, Robin was asking what we should do to resolve our current situation. She did not want justice for her dear old friend Holly. She wanted money, and lots of it.
“I figure this can be a win-win for both of us,” she said. The front door opened, and Robin’s head spun around. “Who’s that?”
“My wife,” I said.
Millicent appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, like she had been running. She was dressed for work in a skirt, blouse, and heels. Her jacket was open; she hadn’t bothered to button it. She looked from me to Robin and back again.
“This is Robin,” I said. “She used to work with a woman named Holly.”
Millicent raised an eyebrow at Robin, who nodded.
“That’s right. And I saw your husband talking to her. He called her a bitch.”
The eyebrow turned to me.
I said nothing.
Millicent took off her jacket and slung it over a chair. “Robin,” she said, walking into the kitchen, “why don’t you tell me everything that happened?”
Robin smirked at me and started to talk, beginning with when I walked into the grocery store.
Behind me, Millicent was rummaging around in the kitchen. I could not see what she was doing. I heard her heels click against the floor as she came back to us. Robin gave her an odd look but kept talking.
I did not see the waffle iron in Millicent’s hand until I heard the crack of Robin’s skull. She hit the floor with a thud.
Millicent killed Robin the same way I had killed Holly. No hesitation. All instinct.
And it was sexy.
Nineteen
The call comes as I leave the club, on my way out to check on Annabelle. Millicent is on the phone, telling me our daughter is sick.
“I picked her up from school.”
“Fever?” I ask.
“No. What’s your schedule?”
“I can come home now.”
All thoughts of Annabelle vanish. I turn the car around.
At home, Millicent is pacing around the foyer while talking on the phone. The TV is on in the family room, where Jenna is on the sectional couch, cocooned in blankets, her head resting on a stack of pillows. On the end table, a glass of ginger ale, a stack of plain crackers, and a big bowl just in case.
I sit down on the couch next to her. “Mom says you’re sick.”
She nods. Pouts. “Yeah.”
“Not faking?”
“No.” Jenna smiles a little.
I know she isn’t faking it. Jenna hates being sick.
In kindergarten, she had pneumonia and missed a month of school. She wasn’t sick enough to be in the hospital, but she was sick enough to remember it all. So does Millicent. Sometimes she acts like Jenna is five all over again. It’s a bit much now that Jenna is thirteen, but I don’t argue. I worry about Jenna, too.
“Watch with me.” Jenna points to the TV.
I take off my shoes and put up my feet. We watch a game show, yelling out the answers before they are revealed.
Millicent’s heels click across the floor. She walks over and stands in front of the TV.
Jenna hits the mute button.
“How are we? Are we good?” asks Millicent.
Jenna nods. “We’re good.”
Millicent turns to me. “How long can you stay?”
“All afternoon.”
“I’ll call you later.”
Millicent walks over to Jenna and feels her forehead, first with her hand and then with her lips. “Still no fever. Call if you need anything.”
Her heels click back down the hall. Jenna keeps the TV muted until after the front door closes. We go back to watching the game show. At the commercial break, Jenna mutes the TV again.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“Me? I’m not the one who’s sick.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I know it’s not. “I’m fine. Just busy.”
“Too busy.”
“Yeah. Too busy.”
She doesn’t ask again.
Millicent calls twice, first interrupting a talk show and then a teenage soap opera. Rory gets home around three, and, after some initial grumbling, he joins our TV marathon.
At five o’clock, I become a father again.
“Homework,” I say.
“I’m sick,” Jenna says.
“Rory, homework.”
“You’re just now remembering I go to school?”
“Homework,” I say again. “You know the rules.”
He rolls his eyes and heads upstairs.