Before She Knew Him Read online

  “No. We spent the whole night together at an inn in Portsmouth. Whatever it is you think he did, he didn’t do it.”

  Mira went to the police station, where, after she’d waited close to two hours, Sanjiv finally emerged with Matthew, looking very calm for someone who’d been accused of murder, as it turned out. He told her all about their neighbor Hen, that she had accused him of a crime, and that there was nothing to worry about because the police didn’t believe her. She had a history of this sort of thing.

  Still, why’d he get you so drunk?

  Mira pushed the thought away. She knew where it would lead, and she wasn’t going to think about all that. Not right now with too many other things going on. There were things about her husband—about Matthew—that made him different. How could he not be with the childhood he’d had, the family he’d been part of? Considering what they’d been like, he was unbelievably normal, really, just a regular guy with a solid job who had always been good to her. More than good. He’d been her savior. He’d saved her from a lifetime of abuse at the hands of Jay Saravan.

  How exactly did he save you, Mira?

  She shut the voice out, telling herself he’d saved her only by being there when Jay died, being there to sweep up all the pieces and put her back together. That was all there was to it.

  What if that wasn’t all there was?

  Then he still saved me, Mira thought. He still saved me, and—

  A truck rumbled by on Sycamore Street. Mira stood and went to the window. All the yards were hazy with early morning mist.

  “You’re up early.” It was Matthew, at the foot of the stairs, dressed already but in his stocking feet, otherwise she’d have heard him come down.

  “I woke up and couldn’t fall back to sleep,” Mira said after turning toward him.

  “Yesterday was a little crazy,” he said.

  “A little?”

  “Smells like you made coffee?”

  “Yes, and I made a full pot. I figured we might need it.”

  Mira followed Matthew into the kitchen, and before she lost her nerve, she asked him the question she’d wanted to ask the night before. “Was there something about the fencing trophy, the night that Hen and her husband came to dinner?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That night, when I was giving the tour, Hen acted strange when she saw the fencing trophy. I thought it might have something to do with what happened to the student from Sussex Hall who got murdered?”

  “Apparently,” Matthew said, stretching the word a little, “Dustin Miller was accused of raping another Sussex Hall student while they were on a trip to a fencing tournament. That’s how she made the connection, I guess.”

  “What connection?”

  “I guess that’s how she first decided that I’d had something to do with Dustin Miller’s death. Maybe she saw the trophy and that triggered her memory of the story, and then she somehow connected me to it. I don’t really know how her brain works.”

  “Maybe she thought that the trophy belonged to Dustin Miller, that you took it when you killed him?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

  “But you got rid of that trophy?” Mira asked, trying to sound casual.

  Matthew had finished adding cream and sugar to his coffee and took a sip. “I did.”

  “Why?” Mira asked.

  Matthew took a deep breath. “The thing is . . . the thing is, I never really wanted our neighbors to come over for dinner—”

  “Why didn’t you—”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal, I just . . . you know me. I’m happy with our lives the way they are now. And they came over, and it was totally fine, but then I knew that something strange had happened when Hen was in the office. I saw how she looked at the trophy. I mean, we all saw it, right? She looked like she was about to faint. I had no idea why she reacted that way, but I noticed it and it bugged me. I guess I never even wanted them to look inside my office. I consider it a sacred space, in a way. So, the next day, when I was getting rid of a bunch of stuff, I decided to get rid of the trophy as well. It was just a whim.”

  “Where’d you put it?” Mira asked.

  Matthew looked up at the ceiling, as though thinking, and said that he put it in the dumpster at Sussex Hall. “That was the day I brought back a bunch of old textbooks, and I just grabbed a few old things from here to get rid of as well. You don’t think I—”

  “No, it just occurred to me that it’s something you might get questioned about. If Hen thinks the fencing trophy belonged to Dustin Miller, then the police could get a search warrant, and—”

  “That won’t happen. I don’t think they’re going to trust anything she says at all. She’s done this sort of thing before.”

  “I just feel so helpless. There she is, right next to us, and she can say anything she wants about us. It’s horrible. Maybe we should get some sort of restraining order.”

  “It wouldn’t stop her from saying things.”

  “No, I know. But maybe it would stop her from coming onto our property, from approaching us. I don’t know if it would help, but it couldn’t hurt.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said. “Who knows, maybe they’ll just leave and things can go back to normal.”

  “Let’s hope,” Mira said.

  “Yes, let’s hope,” Matthew echoed, as he opened the refrigerator door to return the cream to its shelf.

  Chapter 20

  “You let him go?” Hen said, trying to keep the anger out of her voice.

  “He has an alibi.” The name of this detective was Shaheen, a woman somewhere in her thirties with thin lips and humorless eyes.

  “I’m telling you, it was him,” Hen said. She’d gone over the details of the previous night at least seven times. She’d also given details about the night she followed Matthew back to the Owl’s Head, the night he’d been stalking his next victim. She’d decided to tell the truth about everything, even though she knew it made her seem slightly crazy.

  “You’re one hundred percent sure it was him?”

  “I am. We looked right at each other.”

  “It was pretty dark out behind the bar. Other witnesses said it was hard to make anything out.”

  “It was dark, but not dark enough that I couldn’t see his eyes. What other witnesses, by the way?”

  “Not witnesses to the crime, but other people we’ve interviewed who were at the back of the bar last night. The other members of the C-Beams. Gillian Donovan.”

  Hen had learned that Gillian Donovan was the girl in the tight dress, Scott Doyle’s girlfriend.

  “There was moonlight,” Hen said.

  The door to the conference room swung open. Hen had been interviewed in three different rooms. First, in an interrogation room with a camera filming her, then later in Detective Whitney’s office. He seemed to be the lead detective on the case, although he also seemed too old to still be working. He had very little hair on his head and a pure white goatee. In every conversation with Hen, she thought he seemed exhausted.

  And now she was in a conference room that looked like it hadn’t been used for several months. Hen had peered into a mug that had been left on the wooden conference table and seen a black circle of petrified coffee covered with small white dots of mold.

  “I’d like to change the subject, briefly, Mrs. Mazur, and ask you about something else.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “What can you tell me about your freshman year at Camden College?”

  Hen wasn’t surprised to hear the question—she’d been expecting it—but the words still made her feel like she’d been punched in the chest.

  “You’re referring to my being arrested for assault?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m bipolar, and I had my first manic episode my freshman year at Camden College. I was not myself.”

  “But you accused a fellow student of attempted murder, didn’t you?”

  “I did, yes.”

 
“And then you attacked that student yourself?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t well at the time. That incident has absolutely nothing to do with what’s happening now.”

  “But . . . you still are bipolar, yes?”

  Hen told herself to make sure her words were calm and measured. “I am—I always will be—but my meds are working. I’m not having a manic episode. I’m not imagining anything about Matthew Dolamore.”

  The detective put her hand flat on the table, about an inch from where Hen’s hand was. “I believe you, Mrs. Mazur, but I also need to look at every possibility.”

  “I get it. But it’s different this time. It’s entirely different.”

  “But if you were experiencing an episode of bipolar psychosis right now, you wouldn’t necessarily know it,” the detective said, leaning back a little in her chair. “That’s one of the hallmarks of being divorced from reality, right?”

  Hen thought that the detective had either done some research right before engaging in this conversation or had some personal experience with someone with mental illness.

  “Sure,” Hen said, and decided to not say anything else. She was aware that the more she protested, the worse it sounded.

  They sat in silence for a moment, and then Detective Shaheen stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Mazur,” she said. “Your husband’s here, by the way.”

  Hen hadn’t called Lloyd to let him know what had happened until just after noon. She wanted to give him a morning of peace after what was probably a very late bonfire party. And she was worried about his reaction, worried that, like the police, he’d think she was having some kind of mental breakdown.

  It didn’t help that when she followed Detective Sheehan out to the Dartford Police Department waiting room, the look on Lloyd’s face was one of concern, almost pity.

  “How are you?” he asked after they hugged. He was wearing the clothes he’d probably been wearing the night before at the party and smelled of stale sweat and too much deodorant.

  “I’m fine, Lloyd, but we’re living next to a fucking murderer.”

  “Let’s talk about it in the car, okay?”

  Even though she was tired of telling the story, she recounted every detail to Lloyd, starting in the car and finishing at home. He listened patiently, hardly speaking. She thought he looked tired from his trip, dark circles under his eyes, and his skin an unhealthy pallor. When she was done, she asked, “Do you believe me? And tell the truth.”

  He paused, and she almost hoped he’d say he didn’t believe her. She thought she’d rather be doubted than condescended to.

  “Apparently, he has a solid alibi. He wasn’t there.”

  “You think I’m making it up?”

  “No, I think you think you saw him, but it was someone else.”

  “Explain to me how it’s possible that the person I think might get killed by our neighbor gets killed by someone else. What are the chances?”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “I saw Matthew stalking this guy—this Scott Doyle. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it at the time, but I knew how worried you’d be. And that’s why I went last night to see his band. I wanted to see if Matthew was there as well.”

  “The police said you were intoxicated.”

  “Yes, I kind of was. I admit that. But, still, think for a moment. What are the chances that Scott Doyle just happens to get killed by someone else, by someone other than our neighbor?”

  “But . . . according to the police, he was.”

  Hen clenched her teeth and took a large sip of water. “Do you think I’m manic?”

  “I guess I do, Hen, I’m sorry. You’re acting like you did last time. You’re obsessive.”

  “So I seem manic to you?”

  Lloyd thought for a moment. “No, actually, you don’t. You seem fine, but your actions . . . I don’t know what to think. I’m worried, Hen.”

  By the time they’d finally gotten into bed, Hen had agreed to move up her annual appointment with her psychopharmacologist in order to check her blood levels, and Lloyd agreed to consider the possibility that Hen was 100 percent right about everything.

  “What would you do if you totally believed me?”

  “What do you mean, what would I do?”

  “Would you confront Matthew Dolamore? Would you decide to move out of this house?”

  “I guess I’d lay low and hope the police got to the truth.”

  “Mira must know everything.”

  “Who?”

  “The wife, Mira. She must know, otherwise she wouldn’t have given him an alibi.”

  “You can’t get involved. You’ve told the police everything you know. Just leave it at that.”

  After Lloyd fell asleep, Hen slipped quietly out of the bed and went downstairs. She knew that her chance of sleeping that night was close to zero. She considered taking a sleeping pill but decided against it. She wanted to stay sharp.

  In the living room, she peered across at the Dolamore house. Hen heard the tapping footsteps as Vinegar came around the corner, then stopped, sat, and stared at Hen. Hen stared back, directly into the cat’s round eyes. Sometimes she thought Vinegar looked more like an owl than a cat. Wind buffeted the house, and Vinegar turned toward the rattling window. Hen moved to the couch, stretched out, and stared at the ceiling. Do nothing, she told herself. Keep telling the truth when asked, but do nothing. Otherwise, it will make things worse.

  Around dawn she pulled a blanket tight around her body, curled onto her side, and fell asleep.

  She was woken by the doorbell. In her dream it was a bell at the top of a tower that Hen had climbed. Wind was picking at the tower’s brickwork, bricks scattering like leaves from a tree. Dustin Miller was at the top of the tower as well; he was speaking but the words were picked away by the wind. Hen reached toward him. I forgot how beautiful you are, she thought, and the bell rang again, and Hen was suddenly awake, then standing. Lloyd was coming down the stairs, looking as though the doorbell had woken him as well.

  “Who is it?” he asked Hen as she went to the door.

  It was two police officers, both uniformed: one who looked like a college football player, the other a pretty woman in her thirties with icy-blond hair and a gap between her front teeth. The policewoman asked Hen if she had a moment to talk.

  “Okay,” she said, not moving from the door.

  “Inside?”

  “Sure.”

  They all sat in the living room. Hen had raced upstairs to change into jeans and a sweater. When she got back, she could smell coffee beginning to brew and took a seat across from the two officers.

  “This is a courtesy call, more than anything,” the policewoman, who gave her name as Officer Rowland, said. “I wanted to let you know that Matthew and Mira Dolamore have filed an official complaint of harassment against you this morning, and they will be seeking a protective order.”

  “Harassment?” Hen said, and Lloyd put a hand on her leg and shushed her.

  “What does that mean, a protective order? Is that a restraining order?” Lloyd asked.

  “It’s essentially the same thing. As far as we know, they will not be asking for you to vacate your premises, but they are asking you to stop any contact. To not go near their premises—”

  “We live right next door,” Hen said.

  “—and to not spy on them or follow them.”

  “Is this an official request?” Lloyd asked.

  “As Officer Rowland explained,” the policeman (Hen didn’t catch his name) said, “this is a courtesy call. Ideally, this issue would be solved without having to resort to issuing a protective order. We are hoping you’ll agree to comply with their request. I’ve personally found that most disputes between neighbors can be resolved peacefully.”

  Hen slid to the front of the sofa, and Lloyd took his hand off her leg. “It’s not a dispute between neighbors. I witnessed Matthew Dolamore commit a murder. I’m not going to change my story because of a restraining ord
er.”

  The policeman put both his hands, palms out, toward Hen. “I understand completely. We’re not here to discuss the homicide case. We are just here to inform you that your neighbors have begun the process of applying for a protective order.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Lloyd said. “How long will that take? For the order?”

  “A judge usually has twenty-four hours to review the paperwork, but it’s often approved before the end of that period. It could be served as early as today.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks for giving us a heads-up.”

  “As of this morning, the Dolamores had not officially filed all the necessary paperwork. We are hoping that this conversation—”

  “Fuck that,” Hen said. “Let them file it. I don’t give a shit.”

  Lloyd moved his hand toward Hen’s back, and she stood up.

  “Thank you, Officers, for doing your job.”

  After they had left, Lloyd said, “Jesus, Hen.”

  “What? I said what I meant. They can get all the restraining orders they want, but it doesn’t change what I saw.”

  “Let’s have some coffee and talk about this some more.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I know you don’t believe me. I don’t know how to change your mind on that.”

  “I believe you. I just think that you probably made some kind of mistake. Will you admit that that’s a possibility?”

  “No, I will not admit that that’s a possibility. I’ll admit that everything I saw up until Saturday night was my opinion. Maybe the fencing trophy didn’t belong to Dustin Miller. Maybe Matthew Dolamore had some other reason for following people around in the middle of the night. But I saw him at the scene of the crime. With my own eyes.”

  “You were drunk.”

  “I wasn’t that drunk.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “I talked to one of the detectives. Yesterday, before we drove home. He told me that you were extremely intoxicated.”

  “I wasn’t. I’d been drinking, but . . .”