“Me too.”

I reach over and slip my hand into hers. We sit like this until she picks up what’s left of my éclair and takes a bite. I take hers and do the same. A tiny smile appears on her face. I squeeze her hand.

“We’ll be fine,” I say.

Millicent has said this before. She said it when we were young and broke with one baby and another on the way. She said it when we bought our first house and then the second, bigger one.

She also said it after Holly, when her body was lying in our family room, her head smashed by the tennis racket.

* * *

• • •

While I stood over Holly, coming to grips with what I had just done, Millicent went straight to work.

“Do we still have that tarp in the garage?” she said.

It took me a second to process. “Tarp?”

“From when we had that leak.”

“I think so.”

“Get it.”

I paused, thinking we should call the police. Because that’s what you do when you kill someone out of self-defense. You call the police and explain what happened, because you did nothing wrong.

Millicent read my mind.

“You think the police will believe Holly was a threat to you?” she said.

Me, the athlete. Me, with the broken tennis racket.

Holly, with no weapon at all.

I did not argue. I went out to the garage and dug through the shelves and plastic containers until I found the rolled-up blue tarp. When I returned to the living room, Holly’s body had been readjusted; her legs were straightened, and her arms, flat at her side.

We spread the tarp out on the floor, and together Millicent and I wrapped the body like a mummy.

“Let’s move her into the garage,” Millicent said.

It was almost like she didn’t have to think about it.

I did what she said, and Holly ended up in the trunk of my car. I took her out to the woods and buried her while Millicent cleaned up the blood. By the time the kids got home from school, every sign of Holly had been scrubbed out.

We did the same thing with Robin, only she didn’t get buried in the ground. Her body and her little red car ended up at the bottom of a lake.

Millicent is right. We have always been fine.

Now it’s my turn to make sure of it.

* * *

• • •

Both halves of the éclair are gone, and Millicent brushes the crumbs into a wastebasket. We stand up to go, walking back through the dark office and out to the car. It’s late. Even the Chinese restaurant is closed, but the gym is available twenty-four hours. It stands out like a single halogen star in a dark sky.

Before starting the car, I turn to Millicent. She is checking her phone. I reach over and put my hand against her cheek, the same way she has touched me so many times. It makes her look up in surprise.

“So do we have a plan?” I say.

She smiles all the way up to her eyes. “Definitely.”

Forty-five

The noise is gone. For the first time, as improbable as it seems, clarity comes all at once. Until I saw Jenna hit that boy, I never realized Millicent and I have been doing more than we realized. We have been destroying our own family.

Owen’s final letter is the easiest one to write. I have a goal now—to get rid of Owen—and it feels like I know how to achieve it.

Though I will send it to Josh, as I always do, the letter is really addressed to the public. I tell them they are stupid.

I gave this to you. I tried to help you catch me by letting you know when, the exact day, I would take my next victim. I even gave you two weeks to prepare, to plan. Yet you failed. You didn’t stop me, couldn’t catch me, and because of you, Naomi is dead. Let there be no mistake: Her death isn’t my fault. It’s yours.

She knew it. Naomi had seen the same reports, had read my earlier letter, yet she was still out alone on that Friday the 13th. Naomi knew she had been stupid. She had faith, though. Faith that you were looking for her, faith that you would find her. She was half-right.

If I had the time, I would tell you everything I did to her. Every mark, every cut, every bruise. But that would be redundant. You already have her body.

Really, there isn’t anything else to say. We played a game, and you lost. Naomi lost. Everyone lost but me. And now I’m done. I came back and accomplished my goal. I have nothing left to prove. Not to you, not to myself.

Goodbye.

Finally.

Once the final version is done, I tell Millicent. She has come to the club to pick up Rory, who played golf after school and he is done before I am. Millicent stops by the tennis court, where I am waiting for my next client. Her flesh-colored heels thump against the cement as she walks toward me with a smile.

Days have passed since our late-night conversation. Now that Jane Doe has gone public she has been giving interviews to anyone who asks. She was impossible to avoid until Jane Doe #2 arrived last night.

Instead of having a press conference, she livestreamed her story on the Internet, and the local news rebroadcast it. The woman is younger than the others, maybe still in college, and she has jet-black hair, pale skin, and lips that look painted with blood. Jane #2 is almost the opposite of Owen’s typical victims, but she told almost the same story as Jane #1. Only the parking lot was different, along with a few dramatic tweaks. This Jane claimed Owen hit her in the face, and she showed off a purplish bruise on her cheek.

As soon as the livestream ended, my old friend Josh appeared on TV. Of late, Josh has been very serious, but last night he sounded almost sarcastic. He did not come right out and say he thought Jane Doe #2 was a liar, but he may as well have. I cannot imagine anyone believed her. I know I didn’t.

The problem is that women like her are keeping Owen as the lead story on the news. I do not have to remind Millicent of this as she walks onto the tennis court.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” I say.

Her dark sunglasses hide her eyes, both from the sun and from me, but she nods. “Hello to you, too.”

“Sorry.” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek. She smells like citrus. “Hello.”

“Hello. The letter is ready?”

“Do you want to read it?” I want her to say yes, I want to watch her read it, but she shakes her head.

“I don’t need to. I trust you.”

“Oh, I know. Just asking.”

She smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “See you at home. Dinner at six.”

“Always.”

I watch her walk away.

She does not go to Joe’s Deli today. Today is all work, either at the office or open houses.

I still watch the tracker, still check where she is going, but it is not because I want to know about Naomi. I already do. If she is not already dead, she will be soon.

I watch the tracker because I like to watch Millicent.

* * *

• • •

Another day goes by, then another, and Josh is back to counting down how many days have passed since Naomi went missing. I watch him on my phone all the time, waiting for the breaking-news announcement about her body. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night, I feel an urge to see if anything is happening. On the Internet, news can break at any time. Normally, this is not a problem. But now that I am waiting for news to break, it is infuriating. And inconvenient.