“Who’s Michelle Brine?”
Matthew stopped himself from saying more. He’d told himself before meeting with Hen that he needed to be careful about providing any information that she could use to prove that her side of the story was true. He wasn’t sure Michelle fit into that category, but he wanted to be careful.
“She doesn’t matter,” he finally said, then quickly added, “I am very sorry that you had to witness what you witnessed. I never would have done it if I’d known that would happen. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Not really.”
“You’re not a bad person. I would never hurt you.”
“What if you suddenly decided that I was a bad person? Wouldn’t that change things?”
“I would still never hurt you. I would never hurt a woman.”
Hen spontaneously smiled, her brow creasing. For a moment Matthew thought she was going to laugh at him. “You don’t think there’d be a woman bad enough for you to want to kill?”
“No, there wouldn’t be. Of course not. I know what you’re thinking, that I’ve got some savior complex, that I’m going to save all the innocent females of the world from the big bad wolves. I’m not an idiot. I know that’s part of it. My dad was a monster and my mother was his victim, and that’s why I think the way I do. I’ve psychoanalyzed myself far more and far deeper than you or anyone else could. I know what I am.”
“But—”
“But the truth is that men hurt women far more than women will ever hurt men. It’s just a fact. And . . . and I would never hurt you not just because you’re a woman, but also because you’re a decent human being. I know that.”
“So, if you believe that, if you believe I’m a decent human being, then maybe you’ll listen to me. I think you should turn yourself in, confess to the police. Tell them what you told me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Don’t you want to stop what you’re doing? Isn’t that why you’re here, talking with me? You must feel guilt.”
“I don’t feel guilt. I’m here talking with you because I thought you might understand.”
“I don’t. I don’t understand. I’m sorry. I think you’ve developed a bogus moral code, a story you tell yourself so that you can do what it is that you like to do. You like to kill people. It’s obvious.”
“I do,” he said. “I like to kill people.” A shiver went over Matthew’s skin, a ripple starting at his back and going up to the base of his skull. It felt so good to say the words. “I would never pretend that it isn’t part of it. I’m not delusional.”
Hen sighed. “I think I should go.”
“Don’t you like it when you’ve created a piece of art? Something disturbing. Doesn’t it give you a perverse thrill?”
“It’s entirely different. My art doesn’t hurt people. It’s just art.”
“It’s not just art, really, though, is it? It’s revealing a part of yourself.”
Hen rapidly shook her head. “All it’s revealing is my imagination, something entirely removed from reality. I can separate the two, and you can’t. That’s the difference between us.”
“Okay,” Matthew said. “Think about what I’ve said, though. You’d probably like killing, if you ever tried it.”
“I wouldn’t, trust me.”
“Are you going to tell the police what I said today?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“I know that, but I think you’re going to get caught. And when they do catch you, I’ll go to them and tell them everything.”
“Does your husband know we’re meeting here today?”
“I’ll probably tell him about it,” Hen said, and Matthew thought it was the first time she’d lied since sitting down across from him.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Matthew said, and then witnessed a look of concern pass across Hen’s features. “No, don’t worry. I have no designs on Lloyd, but, still, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“He came to my house for dinner. I watched him, and I could tell that he has no real moral compass. Whenever Mira left the dining room or came back in, he watched the way she moved. He probably imagined having sex with her.”
“Jesus. All right, I should go.” Hen slid along the booth.
“Can I ask you one thing? When you first got involved with him, was he with someone else?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Clearly, he was. People don’t change, Hen. He’s cheating on you, but you probably already knew that.”
Chapter 26
Hen had felt an array of emotions since sitting down at the Winner’s Circle with Matthew Dolamore, but suddenly she felt real anger. All that bullshit philosophy about her artwork, and now it seemed like he was accusing (threatening?) Lloyd.
She stood. “Fuck you, Matthew,” she said. “You’re not anyone’s savior, trust me on that.”
“I’m not saying I’m a savior, just that your husband is probably not what he seems.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
She left the bar, not realizing how dark it had been in there until she punched her way back out into the light of late afternoon. Wind was whipping leaves and trash around the parking lot. She got into her car and pulled out onto 117. The song she’d been listening to when she parked in front of the bar—“Shiver” by Lucy Rose—started up again. She slid the volume down, wanting a moment to digest the conversation she’d just had. Going over Matthew’s words in her mind, she kept wondering if he’d given her anything, any piece of information, that would be worth bringing to the police. She knew they wouldn’t believe her outright if she told them everything he’d said, but what if she had some solid evidence? But no, the more she thought about it, he just talked about his philosophical reasons for killing. If only she had figured out a way to record him—she’d definitely thought about it—then this would all be over. He wanted to talk. And it was clear that he also wanted to impress Hen, to intrigue her, maybe even to make her see life the way he saw it. And what was that shit about Lloyd? She thought back to the night they’d all had dinner together, tried to remember if she’d noticed Lloyd checking Mira out. She had no recollection of that. She did know that he looked at other women, which was 100 percent fine with her. She was more comfortable with his telling her that he was attracted to other women than she’d be if he told her he wasn’t. Still, why was Matthew so confident that Lloyd was a cheater?
A horn blared behind her, and she realized she’d been sitting at a green light. She moved forward, catching up with the slow-moving traffic. It wasn’t quite five yet, but the roads were busy. She pulled out her phone to see if Lloyd had sent her a message that he was leaving yet, and saw that he’d actually sent a text saying that he was working late and she would be on her own for dinner.
She thought, Obviously cheating, then laughed out loud in the car. She didn’t like the way her laugh sounded, almost as if she were out of breath.
Back at home, she was greeted at the door by Vinegar mewling loudly. He led her to the basement and his empty food bowl, and she filled it, apologizing.
In the kitchen, she looked into the refrigerator for a while, trying to decide if she wanted another beer. She was trembling slightly, even though she’d felt relatively calm at the bar. But she’d been sitting across from someone who was insane, someone who was suddenly very interested in her life. All the beers in the fridge were Lloyd’s overly hoppy IPAs. There was a small bottle of cranberry juice, and she made herself a drink over a lot of ice with the bottle of vodka they kept in the freezer. She took a long sip, then focused on her breathing. Her mind was jumping. She kept trying to think about what Matthew had said about Dustin Miller and Scott Doyle, but found herself thinking about Lloyd instead. If he was cheating on her, she supposed that it would be relatively eas
y. He worked in Boston, and she was stuck out here in the suburbs. He did occasionally work late, as he was tonight, but he always came back eager to tell Hen about the new campaign his firm was working on. If he was lying, then he was a very good liar. And Hen didn’t think Lloyd was a good liar. So, if he was cheating, then when was he doing it? His last chance would have been at Rob’s annual bonfire party, and she was pretty sure that the only people who showed up to that were other guys from his college, maybe the occasional girlfriend or wife. And it was hardly a sexy event, just a bunch of dudes getting high and playing with fire.
Hen put her drink down on the kitchen counter and went toward the stairs. The thought of that party had triggered a sudden memory in her from the day after Scott Doyle’s murder. Lloyd at the police station, taking her in his arms. He’d come directly from Rob’s house that day. She remembered the smell of him. The stale sweat, which was not a surprise. But there’d been something else, something she’d barely noticed because of everything else that was going on. He didn’t smell like smoke. She’d been to Rob’s bonfire parties many times, and the next day, and sometimes the day after that, you reeked of woodsmoke. It got into your clothes and into your hair. It got into your nostrils and stayed there.
In their bedroom, Hen looked at the overflowing laundry basket, two weeks’ worth of clothes that both Lloyd and she had been ignoring. She started to paw through it, spreading the clothes across the unmade bed until she found what she was looking for—the outfit Lloyd had been wearing on his weekend away. His nicest jeans and a checked shirt with a frayed collar. She pressed her face into the shirt and breathed in deeply. There was no trace of smoke at all. Just to make sure, she pulled out all of Lloyd’s clothes from the laundry basket and smelled them. Nothing.
Back downstairs, she picked up her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts, finding Rob Boyd, surprised she still had his number on her phone. Her thumb hovered over the Call button. What exactly was she going to say? She couldn’t just out and out ask if Lloyd had showed up at the bonfire, because if Rob said no, she could almost guarantee that he’d alert Lloyd to the call right away. She racked her brain, coming up with a reason to call, and hit the button before she changed her mind.
“Hen?” came Rob’s voice almost immediately.
“Hey, Rob,” she said.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Totally fine. I have kind of a random question for you.”
“Okay?” His voice sounded like it was coming from a hollow room. Hen guessed he was driving.
“I’m doing a cover illustration for a new book, or hoping to, anyway. It’s about witches and they want a bonfire on the cover.”
“Cool,” Rob said.
“I looked online for photos of bonfires and didn’t find anything . . . I was wondering—”
“Yeah, I actually have some awesome shots. Want me to send you some?”
“Yes, that would be amazing. Very, very helpful.”
“Not a prob.”
“How are you? It’s been a while.”
“I’m all right. Getting old. Missed you guys at this year’s party.”
Hen felt an actual physical sensation move through the center of her body. “Oh, sorry about that . . . We just moved into this new house, and—”
“Yeah, Lloyd already gave me all your lame excuses. I didn’t buy it from him and I’m not buying it from you.”
“Who was there?”
Rob began to list names, most of which meant nothing to Hen. She pretended to listen, but all she really wanted to do was to get off the phone and absorb the information she’d just received. Lloyd hadn’t gone to Rob’s party, which meant that he’d gone on some romantic weekend away with whomever he was now involved with—there was no other possibility, was there?
Rob was finishing up his list. “. . . and Justin, of course, who never misses it.”
“Hey, sorry again. Next year for sure.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Oh, fuck . . . Red light, lady.” Hen heard the bleat of a horn, then Rob continued: “Look, I gotta go. I’ll send you some sweet bonfire pictures.”
“Thanks so much, Rob.”
Hen dropped her hand to the top of her thigh, the phone gripped loosely, and just sat for five minutes. Lloyd wasn’t just having a fling; he was orchestrating weekends away. The thought was somehow so alien to her, as strange as hearing that Lloyd had once been a woman or that he was secretly employed by the CIA. She felt hurt, but she also just felt baffled, blindsided by this new information. Part of her bafflement was that she never really thought of Lloyd as someone who hid things, as someone with enough cunning, enough intelligence, really, to get away with a major affair. Suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything.
Lloyd’s laptop was charging on the kitchen counter, and Hen went and grabbed it. It was password protected, but Hen knew almost all of Lloyd’s passwords. And unless it was the password for their bank account or credit card account, Lloyd almost always used ASDFJKL; (Hen had given him a hard time once about how easy that would be to figure out, but he’d kept it anyway). The password worked, and Hen went first to Lloyd’s internet history. He’d cleared it the night before, and the only sites he’d visited that morning had been a Red Sox blog that she knew he commented on and his email account. She quickly scanned his emails, looking for anything from a woman she didn’t know, but also looking for correspondence with Rob Boyd. She didn’t find anything in his inbox, but when she went to his Sent folder, she did find an email exchange with Rob in which Lloyd had said that they couldn’t come to the bonfire that year (“still got a shitload of unpacking to do”) and that they’d definitely make it the next year.
Hen went further back, looking at all the emails Lloyd sent, most of them to his parents or to his brother in North Carolina. Going back over a year, though, she found an email conversation that he’d had with Joanna Grimlund, Rob’s ex-girlfriend who still lived in Massachusetts.
The first email was from Lloyd to Joanna: “Hey, I had a really great time over the weekend.” This was from a year ago, also in October. Hen had skipped that bonfire party.
According to the time stamp, Joanna had responded to Lloyd about five minutes later: “Me, too. Too bad Rob has to be there at his own parties. Otherwise they’d be perfect. Just kidding! J.”
The next email came from Lloyd the following day and was five words: “Can you call me today?”
There was no response, or if there had been, it had been deleted. Whatever had begun that weekend had obviously continued without the benefit of email.
Hen opened up a new message box in her husband’s email account and put Joanna’s address in, then wrote, “We need to end this.” She hovered the cursor over the Send button but didn’t press it, even though the thought of it made a strange little giggle rise in the back of her throat. She deleted the unsent message, quit the browser, and shut the laptop. Lloyd would be home soon, and she needed to decide what to do with the information she had. If she accused him as soon as he came in the door, told him she knew he hadn’t been to Rob’s party over the weekend, then it would all spill out. Unless he somehow tried to make up an excuse, he would tell her everything. He was having an affair with Joanna Grimlund. He was probably in love with her, and he was probably going to leave Hen. In fact, he’d probably be thrilled that Hen would be the one who brought it up. It would end the torment.
Hen was pacing, and she found herself standing in the living room, looking out the window toward her neighbors’ house. At least now she wasn’t thinking about everything that Matthew had told her. That had somehow been eclipsed by the information that Lloyd had been lying to her for an entire year. Why hadn’t he just left?
The phone in her jeans buzzed and she looked at Lloyd’s text, saying that he was on his way home.
She put the phone back in her pocket and suddenly knew that she wasn’t going to confront him tonight. It felt important, somehow, th
at she hold on to the information she had about him for a while, that she spend some time knowing more than he did.
And when he eventually entered the house, sullen and quiet, and gave Hen a perfunctory kiss on the top of the head and went straight to the refrigerator for a beer, Hen watched him, and it felt like she was watching a stranger.
Chapter 27
Matthew got home just before dusk. The inside of the house was dark, but he didn’t turn on any lights. He went to his office and thought about the conversation with Hen. It had gone so much better than he’d ever imagined. He’d told her things about himself that he’d never told anyone, and she’d stayed in her seat, listening, her dark brown eyes looking right at him. Every word he’d said had lifted a weight from him, and now he felt as light as he’d felt in years and years.
He replayed the conversation to himself many, many times, his breathing getting shallow. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought up Lloyd to her so soon—she’d been out of there as soon as he did—but he needed her to know that she wasn’t immune from what men did to women, that Lloyd was as full of lustful thoughts as anyone. He wasn’t sure, of course, that he was cheating, but it was a definite possibility. He was a man, after all, and that’s what men did.
The name he really wished he hadn’t mentioned was Michelle’s. Why had he said that thing about her suffering at the hands of Scott Doyle? He did want to be entirely truthful with Hen—wasn’t that the plan?—but that didn’t mean he needed to tell her everything right away. No, the reason he shouldn’t have mentioned Michelle was that Hen could look her up if she wanted to, go talk with her. Not that it would lead to anything, but the thought made him feel queasy, the way he felt knowing that his brother had probably sent Michelle an email. Jesus, he’d forgotten all about that. All the good feelings he had from his conversation with Hen suddenly drained from his body.
Before She Knew Him Page 17
