Jenna is staring at the floor and does not look up.
Nell gestures for me to sit, and I do. Then I see the knife.
Six-inch blade, stainless steel. Carved wooden handle. It comes from our kitchen, and now it is on top of Nell’s desk.
Nell taps her pink fingernail against the knife. “Your daughter brought this to school today.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. And I am not sure I want to.
“A teacher saw it in her backpack when she was taking out a notebook.”
Jenna sits against the wall, facing us, but her head is still down. She says nothing.
“Why would you bring this to school?” I ask.
She shakes her head. Says nothing.
Nell stands up and motions for me to follow. We walk out of the office, and she shuts the door behind us.
“Jenna hasn’t said a word,” Nell says. “I was hoping you, or your wife, could get her to tell us why she has the knife.”
“I’d like to know myself.”
“So this isn’t something you’ve—”
“Jenna has never been violent,” I say. “She doesn’t play with knives.”
“And yet …” Nell does not finish the sentence and does not have to.
I go back into the office alone. It does not look like Jenna has moved an inch. I move a chair closer to hers and sit down.
“Jenna,” I say.
Nothing.
“Can you tell me about the knife?”
She shrugs. It’s a start.
“Were you going to hurt someone?”
“No.”
Her voice is strong, unwavering, and it startles me.
“Okay,” I say. “If you didn’t plan to hurt anyone, why would you bring a knife to school?”
She looks up. Her eyes do not look as strong as her voice. “To protect myself.”
“Is someone bullying you?”
“No.”
It is all I can do to stop myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking the answers out of her. “Jenna, please tell me what happened. Did someone threaten you? Hurt you?”
“No. I just wanted …”
“Wanted what?”
“I didn’t want him to hurt me.”
“Who?”
She whispers his name. “Owen.”
The punch to my gut is shocking. Painful. It never occurred to me that Jenna would be afraid of Owen.
I put my arms around her. “Owen is never going to hurt you. Not in a million years. A million trillion years.”
She chuckles a little. “You’re stupid.”
“I know. But not about this. Not about Owen hurting you.”
Jenna pulls back and looks at me, her eyes not quite as wide now. “That’s why I brought the knife. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
“I know.”
She waits outside the door while I speak to Nell, who nods and half smiles as I explain Jenna’s fear of Owen Oliver. I say he has been all over the news for a few weeks now; his face is all over the Internet, the TV, and even on flyers in front of the grocery store. “Something like this was probably inevitable,” I say, pointing to the knife. “Now that I think about it, this doesn’t surprise me at all. The media hasn’t stopped talking about Owen since he came back.”
Nell raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s back?”
It feels like I am thirteen, covered in dirt and bruises, and a little blood at the corner of my mouth. My fight with Danny Turnbull had gone well, at least from my perspective, except I was sent to the principal’s office. When I told my principal Danny had started the fight, she gave me the same look Nell Granger is giving me right now.
“I don’t know if he’s back,” I say. “But obviously my daughter thinks he is.”
“So she says.”
“You have some reason to doubt her? Because I don’t.”
Nell shakes her head. “No, no reason. Jenna has always been a good kid.” She doesn’t say “so far,” but she doesn’t have to.
“Can I take her home now?”
“You can. But I have to keep the knife.”
I do not argue.
Jenna has been excused for the rest of the day, so we have lunch. We go to a big chain restaurant that has a ten-page menu, with everything from a greasy breakfast to barbecued ribs and everything in between. We have been to this restaurant a hundred times, and Jenna always orders a grilled cheese-and-tomato sandwich or a club. Today, she orders a salad with dressing on the side, and no soda, just water.
When I ask if she is okay, Jenna says she is fine.
I want to talk to Millicent. I want to tell her about our daughter. But my wife is still not answering her phone.
She must be with Naomi. They are probably in some bunker or cement room, just like in the movies, and this is why she has not picked up the phone. It does not ring underground.
Or maybe she is just busy.
I send her a text, letting her know everything is fine, even though I’m not sure it is. After sending it, I hear the familiar sound of a breaking-news alert.
On the other side of our booth, there is a bar area with multiple TVs, and Naomi stares back at me from all of them. She looks larger than life on the giant screens. The banner across the bottom reads:
LOCAL WOMAN STILL MISSING
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Jenna is also looking at the screens. “She’s the one Owen took.”
“They don’t know for sure,” I say.
“She’s going to die, isn’t she?”
I do not answer. Inside, I am smiling. At least half of me is.
The other half is worried about Jenna.
Twenty-seven
Naomi. Naomi with her hair down, with her hair up, with no makeup, and with her lips painted-bubble gum pink. Naomi in her work uniform, in jeans, in a green satin bridesmaid dress. Naomi is everywhere, all over the TV and online and on everyone’s lips. Within hours, her three friends have multiplied. Suddenly, everyone knows her, and they are more than happy to tell reporters all about their dear friend Naomi.
We are at home Monday night, and the TV is on. Millicent is here. She offers just a vague explanation of her afternoon absence. In return, I give her a vague explanation of what happened at Jenna’s school. I make it sound much less alarming than it was.
“Basically, it was a big misunderstanding,” I say.
Millicent shrugs. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The news is on. Jenna is obsessed with it, but Rory is bored unless there is new information. He orders her to change the channel. She refuses.
I did not realize how Owen Oliver would affect our kids. Holly and Robin never had this kind of publicity. Now, they have been talking about Owen for weeks. Jenna may talk about Naomi forever.
This makes the good feelings I had start to fade.
I walk out to the backyard. In one corner, we have a large oak tree. The kids’ old playset is in the other corner; it has been wasting away for years. I forgot it was even here, but now all I can see is how faded it is, how the plastic is cracked and it must be dangerous. I go back through the house, into the garage, and get my toolbox. It is important, even crucial, that I take the playset apart and get rid of it before someone gets hurt.