Before She Knew Him

by Peter Swanson

  Still, when she next saw Matthew, after Thanksgiving break, he’d approached her with such a look of concern that she began to doubt herself. Could that soft-spoken history major have actually planned a murder and then gotten away with it? She began to change her mind. Maybe Jay, beneath his narcissism and his ego, had actually been so ashamed of his abusive behavior that he did kill himself. It was what she told herself to keep her going, especially after she and Matthew became an item, dating for the remainder of their college years, then getting married soon after graduation.

  And now, all these years later, she was thinking about it again, wondering if Matthew really had killed Jay Saravan.

  Of course he did. You knew it as soon as it happened.

  It wasn’t the first time in their marriage that she’d had doubts about her husband. For all his normalcy, Matthew had had a twisted childhood. He didn’t talk about it much, but when he did, Mira realized just how much listening to Jay abuse her in the apartment above him must have triggered thoughts about his own parents.

  And there were other sides to Matthew’s personality. Most of the time he was just a regular all-American guy, a dedicated teacher, a trustworthy husband, but sometimes he was childlike and needy. And sometimes he was distant, scarily so, looking at Mira almost objectively, sizing her up.

  And sometimes he does that right before or right after we have sex.

  But all marriages must be a little bit like that. How well could you really know another person?

  Still, she wondered: What if Matthew really had murdered Jay, and what if he’d enjoyed it so much that he’d continued to kill? Their neighbor Hen believed that Matthew had killed a former Sussex Hall student named Dustin Miller. Mira actually remembered the case; it had been all over the local news. An unsolved homicide of an affluent young man in a nice neighborhood in Cambridge. She’d brought it up to Matthew as soon as she learned that Dustin had been one of his students, and he’d told her he barely remembered him; maybe he’d even said he didn’t know him, she couldn’t exactly recall. Over the last week—since Hen’s accusations—she’d been reading up about the Dustin Miller homicide, still unsolved, and one of the things that had come out was that Dustin had been accused of sexual assault during his time at Sussex Hall. That was news to her, and she couldn’t help thinking that if that were the case, then wouldn’t Matthew have remembered him? It would have been a huge deal.

  Hating herself for doing it, Mira had looked up the exact date that Dustin Miller had died. It had been in the spring, two and a half years ago. She checked her work calendar; she’d been in Kansas City that entire week. It didn’t really mean anything, considering how much time she spent traveling, but she would have been a whole lot happier to discover that she wasn’t away during that particular week.

  And now: Scott Doyle. She hadn’t been traveling then, had she?

  No. Just passed out because your husband kept plying you with drinks.

  And it turned out that Matthew did have a connection with Scott Doyle, although a very remote one. He was the ex-boyfriend of Michelle Brine, a fellow history teacher at Sussex Hall. Had she told Matthew something about her boyfriend, something bad?

  He only kills men. He kills men who mistreat women.

  Mira allowed herself a moment to consider that it was all true. Matthew killed Jay because he was abusing her. Then he killed Dustin Miller because Dustin was a rapist who had gotten away with it. And, finally, Matthew killed Scott Doyle because there must have been something rotten about him as well. Michelle, his fellow teacher, must have confided in him.

  Mira realized she was grinding her teeth and made herself stop. She got off the bed and went to the window and stared out into the dusky evening, a sprawl of office buildings intersected by a grid of city streets. Most of the buildings were dark, some completely abandoned, and most of the car lights she could see were red, commuters fleeing downtown Wichita for bedroom communities.

  What do I do? she thought. If I really believe it’s a possibility that Matthew is a killer, then what do I do?

  Would she turn him in?

  He saved you.

  He wasn’t exactly a serial killer. He was a vigilante. And maybe (please, please, let it be maybe) he was neither of those things. Maybe Hen Mazur from next door was the crazy one, persecuting him, getting into her head, making her doubt her own marriage.

  Mira heard the phone buzz on her bed and went back to look at it, expecting a message from Matthew. But it was John McAleer, texting her back: No problemo. Totally understand, but I’ll still check in later, see if I can convince you to get one drink. After the message he’d put one of those smiling, winking emoji faces. Suddenly she realized that John was determined to see her during this trip, and she was a little nervous. Also a little annoyed. She decided to just not text him back, not give him any encouragement at all. Men were creeps. Like all women, she’d known this for a long time. Apparently her husband knew this as well. Maybe she should call him up, tell him she was having a problem with a pesky colleague here in Wichita. See if John McAleer wound up dead in a week. She actually giggled out loud at the thought, the laughter making her chest hurt worse than it already was.

  She wasn’t hungry, but she opened up the room service menu anyway. If she didn’t eat now, she’d wake up starving in the middle of the night.

  Chapter 29

  “Where’d you sleep last night?” Lloyd asked.

  Hen was in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to beep, a mug in her hand.

  “Oh, sorry. I slept on the couch.”

  “Were you up all night sketching?”

  “No, I wasn’t. I slept. I promise.”

  “I missed you,” Lloyd said, and sat down at the kitchen table, pouring himself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

  Hen took a sip of her coffee, then said, “I realized last night that I never even asked you about Rob’s party. It was a little hectic when you got back.”

  “Yeah, I’ll say. It was fine. Same old, same old.”

  “Who was there?”

  “The usual crowd, plus or minus a few people. Todd and Steve, of course. Evan was there, and Chrissy, and then there were some new people. A couple of neighbors I hadn’t seen before.”

  As he spoke, milk dribbled down his chin, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand.

  “Rob seeing anyone new?”

  “If he was, she wasn’t there. No, I don’t think so.”

  “Has he had any girlfriends since Joanna?”

  “Since Joanna?” Lloyd looked toward the ceiling, and Hen tried to see if he was giving anything away. “I don’t think so. It’s not exactly like he lives in an area filled with available single women.”

  “Are they still in touch?”

  “Is who still in touch?”

  “Rob and Joanna.”

  “Why? You hoping they get back together?” Lloyd said, smiling, milk still on his chin.

  “Sometimes. You know I don’t really mind Rob, but she was his better half. At least for me she was.”

  “You know that I saw her pretty recently?”

  “Who, Joanna?”

  “Yeah, I ran into her in Boston. The company she works for is downtown. She still lives in Northampton, though.”

  “What does she do?”

  “I’m not sure I remember. She told me. Something to do with public health research, I think.”

  Hen was watching Lloyd carefully. He was lying to her—although it was entirely likely that he might not remember the specifics of Joanna’s job even if he was fucking her—and he was doing a good job. It was why she had decided to question him, wanting to see what he looked like when he was lying. Did he look guilty at all? Nervous? He actually didn’t, and that fact made Hen’s throat ache and swell, as though she were about to cry. She opened the refrigerator, pulled out a grapefruit.

  “You want half of this?” she asked Lloyd, her voice sounding normal.

  “No, I’m late, actually. I gotta run.”


  With a sharp knife, she sliced the grapefruit in half and carefully separated the fruit segments from their membranes. By the time she’d finished, Lloyd had kissed her on the side of her mouth and left for the day. Hen went to the bathroom and knelt down in front of the toilet bowl, convinced that she was going to be sick, but nothing came up.

  She went to the living room couch. She’d lied to Lloyd as well that morning by telling him she’d slept the night before. She hadn’t. She lay down now, too tired to even want to think about the ramifications of Lloyd’s affair. She wasn’t cold, but she pulled the blanket off the top of the sofa and onto her, then curled into the fetal position, cocooning herself in a small, dark bundle. She closed her eyes, thinking she wasn’t tired enough to sleep, and the next thing she knew she was waking up, sweaty and confused, not having any idea what day or time it was. She pushed the blanket away from her face. Vinegar was perched on the sofa above her, purring rapidly.

  “Hi, you,” she said, and he purred even louder, their eyes locked.

  She pushed the blanket entirely off her and looked at her watch. It was just past noon, and all the memories of the last twenty-four hours rushed in. But instead of feeling upset and sorrowful, she felt suddenly detached, as though the five hours of dreamless sleep had knocked all the emotions out of her. She stayed curled up on the couch, even though she had to pee, and thought about Lloyd, wondering if he’d fallen in love with Joanna or if it was just about the sex. Or was it something else altogether? She suddenly wanted to know, not out of a desire for revenge or self-pity, but because she loved Lloyd and wanted to know what was going on with him. She’d had her own close call, one that she’d decided Lloyd would never know about, but maybe she’d tell him now if he confessed to her what was happening with Joanna. One of the things she’d loved about Lloyd when they first met was his brutal honesty. When they’d become involved—when she was the other woman—he’d told her once that his goal was to have a new relationship with a different woman every year, to always be falling in love, then falling out of love, then falling in love again.

  “Sounds awful,” Hen had said.

  “I know, right?” he’d said back. “I think I’m addicted to the misery of love. I need that drama in my life. Basically, I’m an asshole.”

  “I’m not sure it makes you an asshole, exactly. More like an idiot.”

  “Right,” he’d agreed, and laughed. “More like an idiot.”

  She had actually been attracted to that side of Lloyd, the one who promised to make her life more exciting, more unpredictable. It was a long time ago, though, and Hen now recognized that her desires from back then had been partly influenced by the manic side of her disease. She’d had a romantic notion of one of those marriages you read about in biographies: messy, creative, romantic, and laced with infidelities. It wasn’t what she wanted now, not by a long shot, but she recognized the appeal. As it was, her years with Lloyd had been comfortable and stable and maybe just a little bit dull.

  She stood up, weak with hunger, and made her way to the kitchen, Vinegar scurrying along with her. She noticed the half a grapefruit she’d left on the counter. Using her hands, she devoured the segments of the fruit, then squeezed the remaining juice directly into her mouth. Then she grabbed the Cheerios that Lloyd had left on the kitchen table and ate handfuls directly from the box until she wasn’t hungry anymore.

  After eating, she took her sketchbook with her out to the front porch and sat on one of the padded deck chairs, curling her feet up under her. It was an insanely windy day—according to weather reports, it was the tail end of a tropical storm that had climbed the coast from Florida—but the wind was warm, filled with traces of mist. Hen sat for a long time, watching the trees across the street bend and shake, leaves departing their branches. She saw an image suddenly—a tree losing all its leaves at once, but they weren’t leaves, they were small birds, flying off as one flock into the turbulent sky. Then she pictured a sky full of birds, so numerous that they blocked out everything, forming dark chattering clouds. She shuddered.

  Eventually, she allowed herself to think of Lloyd again, trying to decide what she should do. She could confront him, of course, cause a scene. She could kick him out of the house or demand that he stop seeing Joanna. She could ask for a divorce. She wondered what her younger self would have done. She would have fought for him, probably, tried to win him back. Or else she would have gotten revenge, had her own affair, taken up with someone new. It would have been easier back then, when the world was full of all those grungy, love-hungry boys in their twenties. But whom could she have an affair with now? Matthew, of course, the murderer next door. Hen laughed out loud, then quickly scanned the street to make sure no one had heard her. She checked her watch—it was a little after three o’clock, and she did wonder if Matthew was coming home soon. She realized that that was part of the reason she was out on the porch, watching cars go by and leaves fall. And it wasn’t an affair she wanted—again, the thought almost made her laugh out loud—it was that she wanted to talk with him some more, find out how exactly he’d known about Lloyd.

  The gusting winds began to produce rain, sporadic bursts that pattered in the leaves. She began to sketch a tree, a flock of birds lifting off from its branches, but every time a car drove by she looked up.

  At four o’clock Matthew pulled his Fiat into the driveway. Hen watched him, wondering if he’d seen her on the porch when he drove by. He got out of the car, reached back in to get his briefcase, then turned and looked toward Hen. Through the porch’s screen and the now steady rain, she couldn’t make out his face, but she waved toward him, and he waved back. He went into his house, and Hen wondered if she should go over and talk with him, but then he was coming back outside, wearing a crewneck sweater instead of a tweed blazer. He walked the short distance to the steps that led to Hen’s porch, then stopped.

  “Can I come up?” he asked, and Hen thought of vampires, how they needed to be invited in.

  He sat across from her, on the old wooden rocker that had come with the house. He looked different today, paler, almost frightened. Maybe it was his hair, damp and pushed off his face, revealing a sharp widow’s peak. Hen thought of vampires again.

  “Why did you say what you said about Lloyd?” she asked.

  He looked confused for a moment, then said, “So he is cheating on you.”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I’m just wondering why you think he is.” Hen felt a sudden lurch in her stomach, that maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Lloyd at all. Had she just confirmed to Matthew what he already thought?

  “I didn’t know. I guessed. He has that look.”

  “What look, exactly, is that?”

  He pushed his lips together, thinking. “He looks like a man,” he finally said, and smiled, almost sheepishly.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that,” Hen said.

  “It means that every woman he meets—every woman he sees, really—he instantly decides whether he’d have sex with her or not. He strips them naked in his mind. He wonders if they’re thinking the same thing. I’ll bet that the night after the dinner party your husband concocted an elaborate fantasy in his mind about my wife, wondering what would happen if I was out of town at the same time that you were out of town. Maybe they’d have dinner together, decide to have sex, promise to never tell another soul. He imagined every detail. Specific details. He pictured what my wife’s breasts looked like, what her vagina—”

  “Okay, I get the point.”

  “Well, that’s what men do.” He sounded a little defensive.

  “That’s what you do, you mean,” Hen said.

  Matthew rocked forward in his chair. “No, I don’t, actually. I’m different.”

  “Then how do you know that men do it?”

  “I just do. I had a very bad father. He was a . . . a sexual predator, and a sadist. And my brother, now, he’s just like my father except for the fact that he doesn’t have a wife. He doesn’t have anyo
ne to torture, but if he did, then . . .”

  Hen placed her feet on the painted wood floor of the porch and leaned forward. “But still, that doesn’t mean that every man—”

  “That every man is the same? No, but it’s a spectrum and every man is on it. Your husband is probably statistically average, not a bad man, but when he looks at a woman he just sees what he wants to do to her.”

  “So where are you on this spectrum?”

  “I’m not on it.”

  “You don’t objectify women? At all?”

  “No.”

  “What did you think when you first looked at your wife, before you ever talked with her?”

  “I thought she was beautiful, of course, but I didn’t think about . . . other things, her body, the way most men would.”

  “And that’s why you protect women, by killing all the bad men.” Hen realized how sarcastic her words sounded, but didn’t mind.

  “Yes,” he said. “If there’s a man who has badly hurt a woman, and who will probably do it again, I don’t mind killing him.”

  “You don’t mind it?” Hen laughed.

  “Right. It’s not that I like it. Well, I do like it sometimes after I’ve done it. But the initial impulse . . . what allows me to kill someone in the first place . . . is that I don’t mind it. It’s a big difference.”

  “Lloyd’s not a cheater,” Hen said.

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t want you to hurt him. Ever. Okay?”

  Matthew’s face was serious. He said, “I’m going to stop, actually. That’s what you want me to do, right? That’s why you agreed to meet me yesterday. You think that if you can’t convince the police to lock me up, then you can convince me to stop killing people.”

  “That was part of it,” Hen said. “I also just wanted to hear what you had to say. It’s a strange relationship, you being able to tell me what you want, and me unable to tell anyone.”

  “It is. It’s very strange. It’s liberating for me.”