My Lovely Wife

But I keep my mouth shut, because that’s what friends do. We don’t point out each other’s faults unless asked.

My feelings about this are conflicted. I want my kids to feel safe. I also want them to know how dangerous the world is.

My name is not Tobias. I use that name only when I want someone to remember me. In this case, the bartender. I introduced myself and typed out my name when I first walked in and ordered a drink. He will remember me. He will remember that Tobias is the deaf man who left the bar with a woman he just met. The name was for his benefit, not Petra’s. She will remember me anyway, because how many deaf guys could she have slept with?

Sometimes it's just easier to go along with things. It's easier than breaking it all up and starting from scratch.

I wanted to surprise you,” she says. “For our anniversary.” I stare at her. My lovely wife. “It’s demented,” I say. She raises an eyebrow at me. Before she can speak, I put my finger against her lips. “And it’s brilliant,” I say.

The doctor called after hearing about Jane Doe, saying he wanted an extra session. He is afraid this new attack will make Jenna regress. I am not sure she has progressed enough to regress, but I take her anyway.

No toys or phones at the table. Allowances must be earned by doing chores around the house. We will have movie night once a week. Sugar will be limited to fruit, not fruit juice, and special occasions. All food will be organic, as money allows. Physical activity and exercise are encouraged. No, they’re mandatory. Homework must be done before TV or video games.

No matter how far we go back, there are limits to friendship. Murder is one of them.

It feels like what I know could fit in my hand and everything I don't know would fill the house.

I watch. Her red hair is loose, messy, and she keeps brushing it back with one hand. She wears thermals, the nubby old-fashioned kind, and striped socks. Her nighttime clothes are the least-fashionable thing about her, and I have told her how dorky they are. But I do not say that tonight. Instead, I go down the hall and check on Jenna.

I laugh and rub her leg. It is slung over mine in that lazy way. “The kids might think it’s weird.

I would order whatever she ordered, and, because I had already decided she was special, I could not imagine her ordering anything as mundane as water. It would be something more unusual, like pineapple juice with ice, and when I ordered the same thing we would have a moment of symmetry, symbiosis, serendipity—it didn’t matter what.

They were also horrible, cold people who should not have become parents. They should have been smart enough to know a baby couldn’t fix anything.

It makes me think back to the day I married Millicent, at her parent's home in the middle of nowhere. I can see her in that simple dress, with her hair up and sprinkled with tiny flowers, like she was some kind fairy or nymph that came from another world. She was like that, everything about her was otherworldly. Still is, I suppose. I also think of what she said that day, because it is so appropriate now. 'Here we go.

I was so disappointed. It was not personal. It was not anything Jenna had done or hadn't done. I just wanted a little red-haired girl to match my boy and my wife with the flame-coloured hair. This was the picture in my mind, the image I had when I thought about my family. The real Jenna did not fit, because she looked like my mother instead of her own.

Rory snickers at this and says it won’t

She looks exactly like my wife and, at the same time, nothing like her.

I stare at her. My lovely wife.

Why do you think it's so popular? The missing-woman story?" "Because who can resist a damsel in distress?

I think all kids go through a stage where everything will be our [the parents'] fault." "How long does it last?" She shrugs. "Twenty years?

Beyond the pills is something that refuses to go numb. Something angry.

They were young, bright, and happy. This is how victim pictures always look.

At some point, it doesn’t even matter what we’re selling. The brand becomes more important than the product.

One Cent. “That’s what I should call you,” I said. “Penny.” “Penny?” “Millicent.” “Oh god.” “Plus you have red hair,” I said. “Penny? Are you serious?” I smiled. “Penny.” She shook her head at me. I was in love, fully and undoubtedly, but I hadn’t said the words out loud. Instead, I called her Penny. Eventually, we said the real words and I stopped calling her Penny. Now, she has brought it back, and I don’t want to let it go.