Before She Knew Him Page 15

  I keep reading articles about the death of Scott Doyle. In the last one I read it mentioned that he’d been dating a teacher from Sussex Hall, where Matthew works. And now I really do wonder if he had anything to do with Scott Doyle’s death. The teacher’s name is Michelle Brine, and she doesn’t have Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter, but there’s a picture of her on a LinkedIn page. A thin face and thin brown hair, and the kind of lips that have no color whatsoever, just the color of her flesh, but she has a long, slender neck, and it would be just like my brother to think he was saving her from the big bad wolf. She looks like she needs saving.

  So I don’t go to yoga and meet Haley Petersen and I don’t send an email to the HuNgRy girl from Billerica, and I decide to devote all my energy and resources to finding out what I can about Michelle Brine. She’s more of a challenge, a girl like that, someone who doesn’t put herself out there. Someone who doesn’t think anyone is looking.

  I could just ask my brother about her, but I don’t think I’ll do that. He’ll get defensive, the way he does.

  Besides, he hasn’t called me in a while even though I know Mira is away again. Maybe I’ll drop in. He can’t hide from me forever.

  Part 2

  From the Living to the Dead

  Chapter 23

  “I suppose I want you to know the truth,” Matthew said, his heart beating in his chest louder than it had when he’d killed Scott Doyle.

  Hen’s forehead creased, and then she laughed. “Please leave,” she said again.

  “Okay,” Matthew said, taking two steps backward so that he was standing just inside the open door of her basement studio. “If you change your mind, I just want to talk with you sometime.”

  She kept her eyes on him. He realized that stepping back had been the right move.

  “Why’d you kill Scott Doyle?” she asked.

  Matthew shrugged. “He was a creep. He deserved it. I know his girlfriend and she’s a good person. He wasn’t.” It wasn’t just what he did; it was that he was so pleased with himself. I killed him because he was a smug, arrogant fox face, and I would do it again.

  Now Hen really laughed. “What makes you think I won’t go straight to the police after this conversation?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll deny it.”

  “You’re in a public space. Someone will have seen you come in here.”

  “I won’t deny I came here. I’ll tell them I came to have a reasonable conversation with you, to ask why you’ve decided to persecute me, to ask you to please respect the protective order. I’ll say that’s all we talked about. Who are they going to believe?”

  He watched her think about it. “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “When you’re like me . . . when you have needs like mine . . .” His heart was beating fast again, like he was on a date that wasn’t going well. “You realize I can’t talk with anyone, not even a therapist—”

  “I am not your fucking therapist.”

  “God, no. I wasn’t suggesting. I’m just trying to explain the special nature of our relationship. I can tell you anything, and you can’t do anything about it. It could go both ways, too. That girl in college that you attacked. Was she really after you?”

  “Daphne Myers? No, she wasn’t. I was mentally unwell and paranoid. Look, I’m so happy that you think we have some kind of special relationship, but we don’t. I know who you are, and the police will know soon, too. Now leave before I call them.”

  Matthew saw her glance over to a cloth bag that probably contained her cell phone.

  “Okay,” he said. “But if you change your mind, I think it will be worth it to you. You will never be in any danger. I don’t kill women. I would never hurt you. Even if I was threatened by you.”

  Matthew turned and left, walking straight down the low-lit, whitewashed corridor, then up the metal stairs and back into the dark afternoon. It had stopped raining, but the rutted parking lot of the studio was filled with rippling puddles, and the trees were still dripping rain and shedding wet leaves. Matthew took a deep breath of the cool, damp air, and it was almost as if he were drinking it in. His mouth was dry, and his back was tight. He got into his car, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned toward Dartford Center. He’d told Mira that he was going to the library to pick up a book he’d reserved, which was true. He asked her if she’d like to come along for the ride and was relieved when she said she’d rather stay home and get ready for her next trip. She was going to Wichita for a regional conference that would last the week.

  As he’d been getting ready to leave, she’d said, “It’s Open Studios this weekend, you know.”

  “Do you wish we’d gone?”

  “We couldn’t have, could we? Not with her there.” Mira had taken to referring to Hen as “her” or sometimes “that woman.”

  “We could have gone and just avoided her studio.”

  “I know, but she could have been walking around, or Lloyd might’ve been there. I just couldn’t . . .”

  “I get it. I didn’t want to go, either.”

  It was starting to rain again when Matthew pulled up alongside the library, parking under the horse chestnut tree on Munroe Street. Outside of the car, he briefly paused to look along the ground for fallen chestnuts. He pushed his foot down on one of the spiny pods, half split already, and a chestnut, hard and shiny, rolled free. He picked it up and slid it into his jeans pocket.

  In the library he retrieved the book he’d reserved, The Haunted Wood, about Soviet espionage in Cold War America, then took it to one of the padded leather chairs in the reading room. He wanted to sit for a moment and think about his conversation with Hen, go over every word. It had actually gone better than he’d expected. He’d imagined showing up in her studio and Hen panicking, bolting from the room, going straight to the police. She’d been nervous when she’d seen him, but not too nervous. He knew that down deep she believed she was safe with him, and he hoped that that feeling would allow her to get to know him. The thought thrilled him in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

  He only hoped that she wouldn’t tell her husband about the encounter, although she probably would. He could picture Lloyd storming over to the house, demanding that he leave his wife alone. Well, if that happened, he’d just give up on the idea of getting to know Hen. But it wasn’t going to change anything with the police. They were never going to believe her, not with her history, and especially not now that he’d learned how drunk she’d been the night of the killing. Detective Whitney had told him that—“she was feeling no pain that night, so who knows what she even saw”—and the words had further convinced Matthew that he was safe, that he’d gotten away with it again, even with an eyewitness on the scene.

  He riffled the pages of the book in his lap, then pictured Lloyd storming across to the house, shouting threats, and realized that he should be there if it happened, that it wasn’t fair to Mira if she were there alone.

  He drove home, coasting through stop signs, and entered the house to find Mira supine on the couch, watching an episode of The Bachelorette.

  “You caught me,” she said guiltily.

  “Keep watching. I’m going to start reading my book in the office.”

  “How is it out there?”

  “Cold and rainy. I don’t recommend going outside.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Mira said.

  In his office, with the door shut, he considered telling Mira in advance that he’d gone to see Hen. The only reason to do that would be as a preemptive strike, just in case Hen did file a complaint with the police or Lloyd did come banging on the door. But he decided to risk it. For some reason, he didn’t think Hen was going to tell anyone. He actually thought she just might take him up on his offer. He’d seen her artwork, knew how her mind worked. She had a morbid curiosity. He was offering her so much. He was offering himself to her.

  Instead of looking at his new book, Matthew went on the internet. He looked again at some of Hen’s art, and then,
because he hadn’t done it yet, he looked up Hen’s husband, Lloyd Harding. There wasn’t much about him online. His name was listed on his company’s website. There was a LinkedIn profile. He did, however, find an old blog that hadn’t been updated for five years. It was called Documenting Lloyd and was a list of short, mostly snarky reviews of documentary features. On the About page, Lloyd referred to himself as an aspiring documentary filmmaker. Matthew wondered what had happened to that dream. He didn’t like Lloyd, hadn’t liked him the night he’d been over for dinner. He seemed soft and lazy and could barely hide his boredom at having to sit through dinner at his neighbors’ house. Matthew had also thought that he hadn’t been remotely complimentary enough of Mira’s cooking. Hen said several times how much she loved the food, while her husband merely shook his head minutely in agreement, made an affirmative grunting sound. Matthew remembered looking across the table at Lloyd and imagining how he’d look with plastic wrap across his face.

  Matthew made a decision to find out what he could about Lloyd Harding. There was probably nothing, but you never could tell.

  After dinner that night—Mira’s amazing lentil soup—Matthew finally relaxed, realizing that if either the police or Lloyd were going to come knocking on the door, they’d have done it already. Hen hadn’t told anyone about his visit. That didn’t mean that she would agree to meet with him, but at least it meant she was keeping it to herself.

  They had a secret, the two of them, and there was no better way to start a friendship than with a secret.

  Matthew didn’t hear from Hen that evening or the next day. Mira left early Monday morning to catch her flight, and Matthew went to school.

  Michelle, after taking a week off from teaching, was returning to Sussex Hall. There was an early-morning all-staff meeting before she arrived, during which Donald Hoogheem, the head of the history department, told everyone that Michelle had indicated that she’d prefer to not talk about the death of her boyfriend. She’d rather spend her time catching up on the work she’d missed.

  Matthew assumed he was exempt from that particular request, especially since he and Michelle had already talked on the phone. He wasn’t surprised when Michelle came by his classroom at the end of the day, closing the door behind her after she entered.

  “What are people saying?” she asked.

  “Nothing, really. Donald got us all together this morning before you got here and told us not to bring it up with you.”

  Michelle rapidly shook her head, said, “Arrgh, I don’t know if that was the right choice. I just didn’t want to have to explain to everyone that we weren’t going out anymore, that I know nothing about what happened to him, that—”

  “What did happen to him? Have they made an arrest?”

  “I haven’t heard anything. They did question me, but it was for all of about fifteen minutes, just asking me about our relationship and if he had any enemies . . . I told you this already, didn’t I?”

  “You did, but that’s okay.”

  “Well, that’s the last I heard from them. My guess is he pissed off some guy at the bar by hitting on his girlfriend.”

  “He was a bad guy, you know that,” Matthew said, trying to make her feel better.

  Instead, she frowned, then her lower lip trembled and she started to cry. Matthew went to her, guided her to a chair, and they both sat.

  When she could finally talk, she said, “I know that he was bad for me, but I’m not sure that means he was a bad man.”

  “People are defined by their actions. What they do is who they are.”

  “I know. I’m glad he’s not going to be in my life, but I’m still upset about what happened to him. He was so young.”

  Matthew knew when to be quiet, and he didn’t say anything. After a moment, Michelle took a deep breath and said, “I think my students know what happened to me. No one—not even Ben Gimbel—gave me a hard time.”

  “Silver lining,” Matthew said, and Michelle smiled.

  “The other thing is that suddenly I have nothing to do in my life.” Michelle sat up straight. “When I was with Scott, then either I was with him, or else he was away and I was obsessing about him, wondering if he was cheating on me. And for the twenty-four hours after we’d broken up, before I heard he was dead, I was just as obsessed, wondering whether I did the right thing, if he missed me, if he was already with someone else. But now . . . now I have nothing. It’s a huge hole.”

  “You’ll meet someone else,” Matthew said.

  “Will I?”

  “Eventually.”

  She laughed, loudly this time. “The way you said that did not sound too convincing. I do have a stalker, though. That’s something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got an email last night from some guy saying how sorry he was about my loss, and how he saw a picture of me and was thinking of me. How creepy is that?”

  “Who was the guy?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy. Richard, he said his name was.”

  Matthew’s chest tightened, and he tried not to show it on his face. “Did you write him back?”

  “God, no. I ignored it.”

  “Did you tell the police about it?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he had something to do with what happened to Scott.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, I think he just read an article, and saw my name, and then googled me, and—”

  “How’d he get your email?”

  “It was my Sussex Hall email. If you google my name, it comes up that I work here. You okay, Matthew?”

  “Yes, sorry. I was just worrying, that’s all, that this guy would email you out of the blue.”

  “I’m a famous victim.” Michelle laughed. “The creepy men will all come calling. Maybe one of them will be husband material.”

  “Well, don’t write him back.”

  “I won’t,” she said, then added, “My protector,” and blushed.

  Matthew contacted his brother that night. He thought about asking him over sometime that week since Mira was away, but as soon as he heard his voice, he came out and asked him. “You didn’t by any chance write an email to Michelle Brine, did you?”

  “Who?” Richard said.

  “Michelle Brine. I work with her. She told me she got a creepy email from a Richard.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Okay,” Matthew said. Richard sounded convincing, but he always sounded convincing.

  “Who is she? Another of your girlfriends that you hide from Mira?”

  “No.”

  “Why is she telling you about the emails she gets?”

  “She’s a friend from work. Not a girlfriend. You know I’m faithful to Mira.”

  “You’re not really, you know, Matthew. Just because you don’t fuck these women you become friends with doesn’t mean you’re faithful. Let me guess: this Michelle tells you all about her personal life, and sometimes you give her a hug, and sometimes it goes on a little too long—”

  “I’m not in the mood, Richard.”

  “Fine. Fuck you, and fuck Michelle Brine as well. Someone ought to do it.”

  Matthew lay in bed that night wondering if talking with Richard had been a mistake.

  Chapter 24

  Hen kept thinking about Matthew Dolamore.

  She hadn’t yet told Lloyd about his visit to her during Open Studios. She couldn’t tell Lloyd, not really, because telling him was a lose-lose situation. He’d either confront Matthew himself—and what would that accomplish?—or make Hen go to the police and tell them everything, and that would only make Hen look more unhinged. Matthew was right about that—anything she said about him now would look like a lie. And that was the other reason she wasn’t telling Lloyd about the encounter. Because what if her own husband didn’t believe her? What if he thought she was making the whole thing up? He’d want to hospitalize her, wouldn’t he? Change her meds, at least. That’s what she might consi
der if the positions were reversed.

  And because she couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened, she kept thinking about Matthew. He was the one person who now believed her. The thought was funny, in a grotesque sort of way. She and he were the only two people who knew the entire truth. Matthew would never tell anyone, because if he did he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. And she couldn’t tell anyone, because no one would believe her, because everyone would decide she was having another manic episode.

  Maybe I should meet with him.

  That same thought kept crossing her mind, even though the very idea of it terrified her. Maybe I should hear what he has to say.

  In her mind she kept playing it out. She was thinking that it would have to be in a semipublic place, a place where he couldn’t hurt her. They could meet at the Burlington Mall, grab a couple of Cinnabons, and stroll past the storefronts, Matthew telling her about his life as a psychotic killer. She supposed they could also meet closer to home, go grab a drink some afternoon at the Owl’s Head Tavern, get a cozy table. The problem with that scenario was that it would look like they were having an affair. Another neighbor might see them. She supposed they could go to another bar altogether, something in another town.

  You could go to his house. Sit in his office. He kept one souvenir—the fencing trophy—so maybe he kept more. It could be like show-and-tell.

  The truth was that Hen mostly believed Matthew when he told her that he would never hurt her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but she did. When he came to her at her studio it wasn’t to threaten her or scare her. He seemed to genuinely want someone to talk with. And if that was true, then wasn’t the right thing, the moral thing, to do to listen to his story? He might give something away, tell her a detail that would allow her to go to the police. She might also be able to help him, get him to realize that he needed to turn himself in. The more she thought about this line of reasoning, the more she became convinced that it really was her moral duty to sit and talk with Matthew Dolamore. There was no other option. She knew that he was dangerous, but there was no way to convince the police (or her goddamn husband) of that fact.