“Take one for the team. Got it.”

“What do you think?” I say.

“About what?”

“Your sister.”

He starts to say something. I can tell by those green eyes that he is going to be a smart-ass.

But he stops. Pauses. “I don’t know,” he says. “She’s been a little obsessed with this thing.”

“Owen.”

“Yeah. Like, more obsessed than usual. You know how she gets.”

He is referring to Jenna’s ability to laser-focus on a topic, whether it be soccer or ribbons or ponies. Rory calls it obsession because he doesn’t have it.

“How’s she been at school?” I say.

“Fine, as far as I can tell. Still popular.”

“Can you let me know if anything changes?”

He thinks, perhaps about asking for something in return. “Yeah,” he says.

“And don’t be too much of an asshole to her.”

“But that’s my job. I’m her brother.” Rory is smiling.

“I know. Just don’t be so good at it.”

* * *

• • •

Millicent and I are finally alone late Sunday night. I am exhausted. Worried. I dread the next story about Owen or Naomi or Lindsay.

Naomi. For the first time in two days, it occurs to me that Millicent has not left our side. She has been with Jenna, me, us, since Friday night. It makes me wonder where Naomi is, if she is still alive. She must have water. She would not survive without that.

I never wanted to think about where Naomi was, how she was restrained, what her surroundings were like. I forced myself not to think about it. Still, the images come. The ones I have heard about, the underground bunker or basement, the soundproof room in an otherwise normal home. Restraints—I think about these as well. Chains and cuffs, made of steel so they cannot be broken.

But it may not be like that. Maybe she is just locked in a room and free to roam around. It could be like a regular room with a bed, a dresser, a bathroom, maybe a refrigerator. Comfortable and clean. Not a chamber of horrors or torture or any of those things. Maybe she even has a TV.

Or not.

I turn to Millicent, who is sitting up in bed, on her tablet, researching children who are afraid of what they hear on TV.

Again, I think about asking her about Naomi. I want to know where and how Millicent is keeping her, but I am afraid of what I might do with that information.

I don’t think I could control myself.

If I know where she is, I will go to see her. I will have to. What if it’s the worst-case scenario? What if she is chained to a radiator in a basement somewhere, covered in dirt and bleeding from torture? Because if that’s what I see, I’m not sure what I would do.

If I would kill her. If I would let her go.

So I do not ask.

Thirty-three

Bringing Owen back has served its purpose. No one doubts he is the one who kidnapped and killed Lindsay, the one who now has Naomi. Now it’s time for him to fade away. The only way is to stop the news: No more letters, no more locks of hair. No more missing women. No more bodies.

We need an exit strategy. Jenna needs it.

At the club, they are still talking about Owen. I refuse. I get out of the clubhouse, away from the gossip, even away from Kekona. We still have two lessons a week, but she is at the club every day. I spend the whole day on the court, either with a client or waiting for the next one. After the past few weeks, and the past weekend, the day is almost too normal. Something has to break it up.

I have a lesson with a couple who has lived in Hidden Oaks since its inception. They are slow to move, but the fact that they can move at all is saying something.

When we are done, the three of us walk up to the pro shop together. I want to get a coffee and get a look at my schedule for the week. The shortest route to the pro shop is through the clubhouse, which is where I see Andy.

I have not seen him since before Trista left him. Back then, he looked like always: paunch around the middle, thinning hair, ruddy complexion from all that wine.

Now, he looks all wrong. He is leaning up against the bar, wearing sweatpants that look a hundred years old. His cotton Hidden Oaks shirt is brand-new, still creased in the folds, as if he just bought it from the pro shop and put it on. He is clean-shaven, but his hair looks unkempt. The drink in his hand is brown and pure—no mixer, no ice.

I walk up to him because he’s my friend. Or he was until I started hiding things from him.

“Hey,” I say.

He turns to me but doesn’t look happy. “Well, if it isn’t the pro. The tennis pro, I mean. Unless you’re some other kind of pro.”

“What’s up?”

“Oh, I think you know what’s up.”

I shake my head. Shrug. Act like I have no idea what’s going on. “You okay?”

“No, not really. But maybe you should ask my wife about that. You know her pretty well, right?”

Before he has a chance to say anything else, I take him by the arm. “Let’s go get some air,” I say. Thankfully, he does not protest. He does not say anything that could get me in trouble at work.

We walk through the clubhouse and out the front door. We stand in an arched walkway. Ivy crawls up and around and down the other side. In one direction, the pro shop. The parking lot is in the other.

I stop and face Andy. “Look, I don’t know—”

“Are you sleeping with my wife?”

“Jesus. No.”

He stares at me, unsure.

“Andy, I’d never sleep with your wife. Never.”

His shoulders slump a little as the anger leaves him. He believes me. “But she’s in love with someone else.”

“It’s not me.” I have no intention of telling him who it is.

“But you see her all the time. Twice a week, right? She does take tennis lessons from you?”

“For a few years now. You know that. But she never mentioned having an affair.”

Andy narrows his eyes at me. “Is that the truth?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Since we were kids.”

“And you think I’d be more loyal to Trista than to you?”

Andy throws up his hands. “I don’t know. She was really upset about those missing girls. She won’t watch the news anymore.” He looks down and scuffs his foot against the faux cobblestone. “You swear you don’t know anything?”

“I swear.”

“All right. Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay. You want to grab some lunch or something?” I do not mention getting a drink.

“Not right now. I’m going to go home.”

“You sure?”

He nods and walks away. Andy does not go back into the clubhouse; he goes toward the parking lot. I start to tell him he cannot drive, but I don’t. The valets will stop him. Liability and whatnot.

* * *

• • •

My lessons continue. There is no news. No calls, no further disruptions. Not until I leave work and stop at the car wash on the way home.

I normally check my phone—the disposable—at least every other day, but I broke my own rule. Too much going on, too many other things to deal with.