A Noise Downstairs(51)

Paul didn’t see the point in avoiding the obvious. “It hit you hard,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“Catherine.”

Gilford studied him for a moment, stone-faced, then looked away. “Yeah, well.” His gaze drifted, as though he could see through the wall to the outdoors. “I guess the guilt kind of ate away at me.”

Paul felt a chill. “The guilt?”

“I loved that woman more than anything in the world. I truly did.”

Softly, Paul said, “I’m sure. But I don’t understand the guilt part. It wasn’t your fault, Gil.”

He focused on Paul and said, “Wasn’t it? I sure as hell think it was.”

“It was Kenneth’s fault.”

“Kenneth,” Gil said softly.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Maybe he’s the one who slit her throat, but I’m the one who put her there with him,” Gil said. “I drove her away. I was . . . I don’t know. I’d become distant. I took her for granted. I hadn’t remembered her birthday in six years. I know that sounds like I didn’t love her, but I did. I just . . . I’d just stopped being attentive in any way whatsoever. I was living in my own world. I see that now, how I sent her into the arms of another man. And not just any man, but a homicidal maniac.”

“No one saw it coming,” Paul offered. “No one knew Kenneth was capable of something like that.”

Gilford shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. So tell me this. What brought you to my door this afternoon? I saw you looking around when you walked in here. I know I look like some kind of deranged hermit, but I’m not so far gone that I don’t know when someone is lying to me. You weren’t just driving by and decided to say hello.”

“That’s true.”

“So what’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Kenneth lately.”

“I’ve never stopped.”

“I’m sure. I can’t really explain this, but some things that have happened lately have prompted me to look for answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“To what made him do it.”

“What sort of things?”

Paul hesitated. How did you tell a man his dead wife was sending you messages? He decided to take a chance with Gilford, to at least touch on the more recent developments involving Hoffman.

“Do you think it’s possible,” Paul asked slowly, “for the things that we use in our everyday lives, for them to—how do I put this— hold some kind of energy, to retain something of us in them?”

Gilford said, “What?”

“I’m not putting this well. But let’s say you had something of your grandmother’s. Like a mirror. Do you think that mirror possesses some of her soul?”

Gilford drank from his can of Bud Light. “Where might you be going with this, Paul?”

“What if I told you that I’ve come into possession of something, something that has a particularly dark history, and that individuals who used this item, somehow, in a way that I can’t begin to imagine, are trying to communicate with me?”

“I guess I’d say, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story how it all came to be, but I think I have the typewriter.”

Gilford squinted. “The what?”

“The typewriter. The one Kenneth . . . the one he made Catherine and Jill write their apologies on.”

Gilford studied him. “You don’t say.”

Paul nodded.

“That’d be quite something.”

“Yeah,” Paul said.

“And what makes you think this typewriter you’ve got is that very typewriter?”

Paul licked his lips, which had gone very dry. “Well, to begin with, it’s the same kind. And Kenneth’s typewriter was never found by the police. So it’s at least possible that this is the same one.” He paused. “I’ve been finding messages in it. Words on sheets of paper that I’ve left rolled in. Asking why Kenneth did it.”

Gilford leaned forward. “And who’s doing the asking?”

“Catherine and Jill.”

“Well,” Gilford said. “That’s nothing short of amazing.”

Paul waited to see whether he had more to add. When it appeared he did not, Paul asked, “You have any thoughts or questions?”

He nodded very slowly. “I do.”

Paul edged forward in his seat. “Okay.”

“All you have to do is look around here and you can tell I’m not doing so well. I’m not like one of those nutcases you see on an episode of Hoarders who seems oblivious to their surroundings. I know this is a pigsty. I am aware that I’m living in a hellhole. The thing is, I don’t give a flying fuck. I haven’t given a shit about anything since that son of a bitch took Catherine away from me. I know the clock is running out on me before I drink myself to death one night or leave something on the stove and burn this place down or maybe one night I just take out that gun I’ve got in the bedroom dresser and blow my brains out, which is something I give some thought to every single fucking day. It would certainly spare me the humiliation of being that crazy person you see wandering the street pushing a shopping cart full of everything they own.”