It upsets me, unnaturally so. I do not like to think of Trista spending eternity in an outfit she hates. I hope she is not looking down on this funeral.

“She looks beautiful,” Millicent says.

If I could say something to Trista, I would tell her I am sorry. Sorry for the clothes, for asking her about Owen, for bringing Owen back.

I would also tell her that Andy is right. She was enchanting. I know this because I understand exactly what Andy meant.

Millicent is enchanting. This is exactly as I would describe her. She was enchanting when I met her, and she is enchanting now. And if she died and I had to speak at her funeral service, I would be just like Andy. If I had to describe how enchanting she was, at the same time knowing I would never be with her again, I would shake my fist at the sky. Or at whoever had ruined everything.

In Andy’s case, it would be me. His friend.

Thirty-seven

The man on TV is overweight and unhealthy-looking, half-dead in his fifties. He has a soft, round gut, the beginning of jowls, and sprigs of grey hair around his head. I know the type. My clients are like him, or used to be.

Josh is interviewing him in front of the Lancaster Hotel. This man is the first to say, or even insinuate, that Naomi was anything other than the girl next door everyone says she was.

“I’m not saying she did something wrong,” he says. “I just think if we’re going to find her, we have to be honest about who she was.”

He was a frequent guest at the Lancaster and came to town twice a month for work. He had spoken to Naomi several times, as well as to some of the other regulars. “Let’s just say she didn’t always keep things businesslike with some of the guests.”

“Can you elaborate on that?” Josh says.

“I don’t think I really need to do that. People are smart enough to figure it out on their own.”

This is the first time anyone mentions Naomi’s extracurricular activities. It is not the last.

Other coworkers come forward, claiming to know the truth about Naomi. She slept with a number of men. Some were guests at the hotel. No one mentioned money, just sex. She was not a prostitute. Naomi was a twenty-seven-year-old woman who’d had sex with more than one hotel guest.

The first of her lovers to come forward does not reveal his identity. On TV, he appears as a silhouette, and his voice is garbled.

“Were you ever a guest at the Lancaster Hotel?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And did you know a front desk clerk named Naomi?”

“I did.”

“And did you have sex with her?”

“I am ashamed to say that I did.”

He goes on to say that Naomi was the aggressor. She is the one who came after him.

Another man comes forward. And another. More shadows, more garbles. All remain anonymous. None of the men who slept with Naomi will reveal themselves. It is not because they are married, because at least two are identified as single or divorced. They just do not want to admit that they were one of her men.

Or her conquests. Someone on TV calls them that.

At the club, the talk starts to change. People stop saying it is a travesty and a shame. Some even stop saying Owen is a monster. Instead, people start asking how Naomi could have prevented it. How she could have avoided being a victim.

Kekona is one of them. The stories about Naomi confirm her belief that trouble comes to people who look for it. And in her mind, sex counts as trouble.

On TV, they will not stop talking about Naomi’s personal life. Josh is front and center on the story; everyone who comes forward goes to him first. The more I watch, the more mesmerized I become. Naomi is one person and then another in the blink of an eye.

The first time I have a chance to discuss it with Millicent is after we attend Jenna’s latest appointment with her psychologist. We take her back to school, where she joins her friends to decorate the gym for an upcoming fund-raiser. Millicent then takes me back to the club, where my car is parked. She turns on the radio and the news blasts out of it. The announcer says that yet another man, who remains unnamed like the others, has claimed he slept with Naomi while staying at the Lancaster. That makes seven.

“Fantastic,” Millicent says.

“Fantastic?”

“As long as they’re talking about her, or Owen, we don’t have anything to worry about.”

I want to bring up Jenna and how this might be affecting her. While I would like nothing more than for my daughter to be a virgin for the rest of her life, even I can admit that is not healthy.

Millicent reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You were right to switch. Annabelle wouldn’t have been the same.”

This is true. It also makes me squeeze her hand back.

* * *

• • •

I go up to Jenna’s room to say good night. She is lying on her bed, reading an actual book, because her laptop is downstairs. Her hair is a tiny bit longer now, and it is starting to look quite stylish, I think. She looks at me over the top of the book, asking without asking what I want.

I sit down on the edge of her bed.

“You want to talk, don’t you?” she says.

“You’re getting too smart for me.”

Jenna narrows her eyes. “Why are you flattering me?”

“See? Too smart.”

She sets down her book with a sigh. It makes me feel stupid, which is pretty common when I am around my children.

“How are you?” I say.

“Fine.”

“Seriously. Talk to me.”

She shrugs. “I’m okay.”

“Do you like the doctor?”

“I guess.”

“You’re not still scared of Owen, are you?”

Another shrug.

For the past few weeks, our conversations have been like this. They used to be different. Jenna used to tell me about all her friends and teachers—what this one did or what that one said. She would babble on forever if I let her.

I even knew about her first crush. He sat in front of her in English, which was part of why English had become her most difficult subject.

Now, she will not say anything, and it’s because of the psychologist. I think she is tired of talking.

I lean down and kiss her on the forehead. As I do, something flickers in the corner of my eye. Between the bed and the nightstand, underneath the mattress, something is sticking out. I recognize it from our kitchen.

My daughter has taken another kitchen knife and hidden it under her mattress.

I do not say anything.

Instead, I say good night and leave, closing the door without a sound. As I walk down the hall, I pass by Rory’s room and hear him on the phone. I am about to go in and tell him to go to sleep, but then I hear him talking about Naomi.

It’s impossible to keep the news blocked out of the house.

Thirty-eight

I have kept a few things from Millicent. Like the broken-down truck from so many years ago. And Trista. I did not tell her Trista had dated Owen Oliver Riley. Never mentioned that was why she left Andy, why she committed suicide.

Petra. It would be silly now to mention Petra, the woman who suspected I was not deaf. No reason to bring her up.

And Rory. I have not mentioned Rory’s blackmail, because that would lead back to Petra.