It is scary how fast this has happened.

The others were not like this—especially not Holly. No one ever looked for her, because she was never reported missing.

Millicent and I made that decision together. We never discussed it after Holly was gone; it never occurred to me. I was too busy thinking about not getting caught to wonder what came next. Days later, Millicent’s mother called. Her Alzheimer’s had not advanced to the point where she’d forgotten how many daughters she had. We never told her Holly had been released, but she knew anyway. She had called the hospital.

That evening, we had our first date night. We’d never had one before. We used to make fun of the term right up until it became useful.

When I told Millicent her mother had called, the expression on her face did not change. Dinner had just ended, the kids were watching TV, and we were still at the table. Veggie-burger patties piled with tomatoes and organic cheese, sweet-potato fries and salad. I was still picking at the fries, dipping them in the spicy pseudomayonnaise.

“I thought this would happen,” she said.

I glanced behind me, making sure the kids were not around. In those days, I jumped at my own shadow. I was not used to breaking the law, much less killing anyone, so every little sound meant we were getting caught. Each day, it felt like I had aged a year.

“We shouldn’t talk about this here,” I said.

“Of course. Later, when the kids are asleep.”

Even that made me nervous. “We should go outside. Or in the garage. We can sit in the car or something.”

“Perfect. It’s a date.”

Our first date night took place after eleven-year-old Rory and ten-year-old Jenna were asleep. Millicent left the door to the house cracked, just in case they needed us.

I assumed we would tell her mother we had not seen Holly. I was wrong.

“We can’t tell her that she’s missing,” Millicent said. “They’ll look for her.”

“But she won’t find—”

“No, she won’t. But she won’t stop looking until she can’t remember to.”

“So we lie to your mother? We tell her Holly is here and she’s fine?”

She shook her head. Millicent was staring at the dashboard, lost in thought. Finally, she said, “There’s no way around it.”

I waited, afraid I would sound stupid again.

When Millicent said she wanted to pretend Holly was still alive, I remember thinking it would not work. After all we had done, and after all we had apparently gotten away with, this was the thing that would ruin us. We had not thought it through properly. We never even discussed it.

“It won’t work,” I said. “Eventually, she’ll want to talk to her, see her. They’ll come down or try to get hold of her …” I rambled on, listing all the reasons this could not work. We could not claim to be the only people who saw or spoke to Holly.

“I think Holly wants to get away,” Millicent said. “Probably because of me, because I remind her of what she did and why she was put away.”

I started to get it. “If it were me, and if I wanted a fresh start, I might even leave the country.”

“I would definitely leave the country,” she said.

“Would you send your mother an e-mail?”

“A letter. A long one, letting my mother know that I’m fine, that I just need some time to figure it all out.”

She sent the letter almost a week after Holly died. Holly said she was going to Europe to heal, to find herself, to make her own way in the world, but she would check in regularly. Her mother responded, saying she understood. She even included a picture. It came from my phone, when I took a picture of Holly in front of the kids’ school. The letter then came full circle when she showed it to Millicent during a visit.

When my mother-in-law passed away, she no longer remembered either of her daughters.

Thirty

I first see the report on my phone, while sitting in my car outside a coffee shop. I am in between home and work, on my way back to club after dropping the kids off after school, and I stopped to get a cup of coffee. The breaking-news alert on my phone goes off.

OWEN MAKES CONTACT AGAIN

In the video, Josh talks about the latest note from Owen. For the first time in a while, he does not look tired. He is standing outside the police station. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his eyes are wide from excitement, not caffeine. After spending a week watching the police check empty rest stops and abandoned sheds, he looks like a new man.

A picture of the letter flashes on the screen. Owen’s name is clearly visible.

“This note was not the only thing I received from the man who claims to be Owen Oliver Riley. Wrapped up inside this piece of paper was a lock of hair. We don’t know who it belongs to. We don’t even know if the hair belongs to a man or a woman. DNA testing is going on as we speak, but as soon as we know anything more, we will bring it to you first.”

Josh brings in a young woman who says she is a friend of Naomi’s, though again he points out that we do not know what happened to Naomi. The friend does not look familiar; I do not remember seeing her with Naomi in real life or online. This woman has a nasally voice that grates, and it feels like I am locked in my car with her. She claims that Naomi is “sweet but not cutesy, a great friend but also independent, smart but not a know-it-all,” and I have no idea what any of that means.

She steps out of view. The camera pans over to Josh and then widens. A man is standing next to him. He is a big man, with a mustache that makes him look like a walrus. Josh says he is an assistant manager at the Lancaster Hotel and he worked with Naomi. Josh does not ask him to describe Naomi in one word, but he does.

“If I had to describe Naomi in one word, it would be ‘kind.’ She was kind to everyone, all the guests and all of her coworkers. Always willing to help. If a guest needed something up in his room and room service was busy, she volunteered. If someone was sick, she would cover for them. Never asked for anything. Not from me, anyway. Can’t speak for everyone.”

A knock on my car window makes me jump.

Trista.

I see her, and the reflection of her, on the glass. The last time I saw her, she was drugged into a near coma. As promised, I never told Andy.

Trista is smiling, motioning for me to roll down my window. When I do, she leans in to kiss me on the cheek. Her apricot-colored lipstick feels sticky.

“Well, hey there,” I say.

She laughs. It makes her look younger, and so does the daisy-print visor on her head. “Sorry. I’m in a good mood.”

“I can see that.” I get out of the car and face her. Trista’s eyes are clear, her pupils not too big or too small. Her skin is a faint shade of pink, like she spent yesterday on the beach. “You look great.”

“I am great.”

Relief hits, making me realize how stressed I’ve been about her. “I’m so happy to hear that. I’ve been worried about you.”

“I left Andy,” she says.

“Left him where?” I look behind her, thinking he is in the coffee shop. Really.

“No, I mean we aren’t together anymore.”

I cannot hide my shock. Andy and Trista married not long after Millicent and I did. We attended their wedding. Neither has ever hinted at trouble, not to me and not to Millicent. She would have said something.