In the meantime, back to my real life. I’ve canceled too many lessons over the past few weeks. My work schedule is now packed all day, every day, in addition to all the little things that must get done. Picking up the kids, dropping them off, quick runs to the store for whatever we are missing. Burying myself in the minutiae makes my life feel normal. It almost makes that nervous twitch I always feel go away. And if Millicent didn’t keep looking at me, asking so many questions with her eyes, it might have.
Her answers arrive on Thursday evening.
Millicent and I are at the country club, attending a retirement party for someone on the board. Soirees at the club are garish to the point of vulgar. The food is rich, the wine is heavy, and everyone congratulates everyone else on their success.
We go because we should; networking is part of both our jobs. We even have a system. After walking in together, we separate. I go left, she goes right, and we make our way around the room and meet again in the middle. We switch sides, separate again, and come together back at the entrance.
Millicent is wearing a bright yellow gown; with her red hair, she looks like a flame. From my side of the room, I catch glimpses of her as she moves within the crowd, that yellow dress never far from my eye. I see her laugh, smile, show concern or delight. When her lips move, I try to guess what she is saying. She carries a glass of champagne but never drinks it. No one has ever noticed.
Tonight, her eyes are the lightest I’ve seen in a long time, like a brand-new leaf under the sun. They shift up to mine. Millicent sees that I am staring at her.
She winks.
I exhale and move on with my own networking.
Andy and Trista are here, both with full glasses of wine. Andy pats his stomach and says he really needs to start working out or something, which he does. Trista doesn’t say much, but she looks at me a little too long. She must remember our conversation about Owen, or at least parts of it.
Kekona is also at the party. She is with a young man, her latest escort, and she doesn’t bother to introduce him. Instead, she talks about everyone else—who looks good and who doesn’t, who has had work done and who needs it. As one of the wealthiest members of the club, Kekona can say anything she wants and people will still accept her.
Beth, a waitress at the club, passes by with a tray of drinks and offers me one. Her Alabama accent sticks out and makes her always sound perky.
I shake my head. “Not tonight.”
“ ’Kay,” she says.
I move on to a newer couple, the Rhineharts. Lizzie and Max just moved into Hidden Oaks. My wife sold them their house, and I met them once. Max is a golfer, but Lizzie says she used to play tennis. She thinks she should get back into it. Her husband tires of the topic and changes it to marketing, which is his business. Max thinks he can do great things for the Hidden Oaks Country Club, although he hasn’t officially been hired by anyone.
I move on, telling Lizzie to call if she wants to play tennis again. She promises she will.
Millicent and I meet at the halfway mark. Her glass of champagne is still full. She pours half of it into a plant.
“You okay?” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“Another round, then?”
“Let’s do it.”
We separate a second time, and I move through the other side of the room, greeting everyone I haven’t seen yet. It feels like I am moving in circles, because I am.
The announcement comes before the eleven o’clock news. I don’t know who saw it first or who mentioned it, but I do see people pulling out their phones. Too many of them, all at once.
A woman next to me whispers, “It’s him.”
And then I know.
Someone turns on the TV screens in the bar. We are surrounded by Josh, who is in the middle of his shining moment. He doesn’t look quite as young tonight, and it might be the glasses. They’re new.
“I received this letter earlier in the week. After discussing it with both the police and the owner of the station, we decided that in the interest of public safety, we had no choice but to put it on the air.”
A shot of the letter appears on the screen. We all follow along, reading the typed words as Josh says them out loud. When he gets to the part about a woman disappearing on Friday the 13th, a collective gasp erupts from the party guests.
I look around and find the yellow dress.
Millicent is looking at me, a half smile on her lips and one eyebrow raised, as if she is asking me a question.
I wink.
* * *
• • •
“Brilliant,” she says. “You are brilliant.”
Millicent is lying on the bed, naked, the yellow gown thrown over a chair.
“You think everyone believes it now?” I know they do. I want her to say it.
“Of course they do. They all believe it.”
I am standing at the foot of the bed, also naked, smiling, and feeling like I captured the flag.
Millicent stretches her arms up, grabbing on to the headboard.
I fall back onto the bed next to her. “They’re all going to be looking for Owen.”
“Yes.”
“They won’t see anything else.”
Millicent touches me on the nose. “Because of you.”
“Stop.”
“It’s true.”
I shake my head. “We have to stop gloating.”
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
• • •
The next few days are as good as it ever was. The way Millicent smiles at me lifts my heart. I even stand up straighter.
She feels it, too. The day after the party, she sends me a text signed Penny. It is the only nickname I ever had for her. I haven’t used it in years.
I first came up with it while we were on a date, before we were officially a couple but after we had slept together. Neither of us had much money, so many of our dates were simple. We took long walks, went to bargain matinees, and took advantage of happy hour buffets. Occasionally, we got more creative. On this particular night, we drove twenty miles to eat cheap pizza and play video games at an old-fashioned arcade. I beat her at the sports games, but she kicked my ass in anything involving guns.
Across the street from the arcade, there was a small park and a fountain. She took out a penny, made a wish, and tossed it in. We watched it sink to the bottom, settling on top of so many others. The water was so clear I could still see the words at the bottom of the coin.
One Cent.
“That’s what I should call you,” I said. “Penny.”
“Penny?”
“Millicent.”
“Oh god.”
“Plus you have red hair,” I said.
“Penny? Are you serious?”
I smiled. “Penny.”
She shook her head at me.
I was in love, fully and undoubtedly, but I hadn’t said the words out loud. Instead, I called her Penny. Eventually, we said the real words and I stopped calling her Penny. Now, she has brought it back, and I don’t want to let it go.
Twenty-one
Monday the 9th, Annabelle is at work. The day is beautiful—plenty of sunshine but not too hot. Almost brisk. Annabelle has parked her car at the end of the block and walks down the street, scanning license plates and checking meters. Her short hair sticks out from under the cap she wears to shade her eyes. She wears one earbud in her right ear, the white cord snaking down her chest, through her shirt, and into the right front pocket of her pants. Her blue uniform is decidedly unisex.