A Noise Downstairs(56)

Quietly, Charlotte said, “Long.”

“Exactly. Incalculably long. But it’s a lot more believable if it was somehow preordained. What if there were some sort of force leading you to it?”

“Jesus, Paul. What force? Whose plan?”

“I don’t know. Did you find out whose house it was?”

“I told you, I’ve made calls but haven’t heard back yet.”

“Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Maybe we’re not meant to know. The typewriter just is. It has no history other than what Hoffman made them write on it. It lives in that moment.”

“It’s like a Twilight Zone episode.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh at that. “No shit. But I think I’m meant, for whatever reason, to pursue this. And that means talking to Gabriella, and ultimately, Kenneth, who can—”

“Wait, hold it. Kenneth?”

“In prison. I want to talk to him in prison. Maybe Gabriella could expedite that process, if she’s willing.”

“Why would she?”

“Maybe she won’t. But it’s worth a try.” He took hold of Charlotte’s shoulders. “Who knows. Maybe she’s as desperate for answers as we are.”

“I’ll come with you.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I think this is something I have to do alone.”

Charlotte looked less sure. “I’m worried about you. Out there, asking questions that seem . . .”

“Insane.”

She sighed with resignation. They crossed the garage to the door that would take them back into the house. As Paul closed it, he took one final look at the blanket box, then turned off the light.





Thirty-Five

I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t want to see me,” Paul said to Gabriella Hoffman.

“Not at all,” she said, opening the door for him. “It would seem the least I can do.”

Instead of dropping in as he had done with the others he’d wanted to talk to about Kenneth, Paul phoned Gabriella first. She had not asked what it was about, which led Paul to wonder whether she’d always expected he would call, someday.

While Paul and Kenneth had been colleagues, Paul had never been in the Hoffman home. It was a stately two-story in north Milford, set back from the road. Paul was expecting some level of inattention, not necessarily along the lines of Gilford Lamb’s place, but when tragedy strikes a household, sometimes other things slide.

But the yard was beautifully maintained. Blooming flower gardens, perfectly trimmed shrubs. He parked alongside a black Toyota RAV4, rang the bell, and was admitted.

Gabriella, tall, thin, with silvery hair that came down to her shoulders, was described as forty-nine years old in the Gwen Stainton article, but she looked older. Despite that, she looked fit, and held her chin high, as though she had nothing in the world to be ashamed about.

She said they’d be more comfortable talking in the kitchen, and led him there. She offered coffee from a half-full carafe and set two mugs on the table. They sat across from each other.

“Many times, I’ve thought about getting in touch with you,” she said.

“You have?”

She nodded. “When you discover you’ve been married to a monster, you can’t help but feel responsible for some of the monstrous things he’s done.”

“I’m not blaming you. It’s never occurred to me to do that.”

Gabriella smiled and touched his hand. “That’s kind of you. The truth is, I never found the courage to approach you. And as much as I’ve wanted to offer condolences, something, anything, to Harold or Gilford, I have to admit that I haven’t the courage there, either. What would I say? Can I make it all up to them by bringing over a dozen home-baked muffins? I think not. Several times I’ve tried to write letters to them, and to you, but every time I end up tossing them into the garbage.”

Paul did not know what to say.

Gabriella continued, “I was reading one time about a case in Canada. A respected military man who turned out to be a serial killer, and his wife had absolutely no idea. I think about her, and wonder, how does she get up every day, knowing she lived with someone like that, that she didn’t see it, and that if she had, maybe she could have done something about it?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“What Kenneth did wasn’t quite as horrific as that, but my God, it came pretty close. If there is anything to be grateful for, it’s that you survived.”

“Well,” Paul said, “I guess there’s that.”

She put a hand on his arm. “I think we met a few times at faculty events.”

“We did.”

“Did you know?”

Paul felt a jolt. “Did I know what?”

“That Kenneth was sleeping with anyone who’d let him into her pants?”

The bluntness threw him for a second. He was ashamed by the answer he was to give. “Yes.” He paused.

“I suppose everyone did.”

“I can’t speak for everyone, but I think it’s likely,” he said. “Now, sitting here, I feel somehow complicit, too. It’s not in my nature to be judgmental, but maybe if I’d called Kenneth out on what he was doing, it might have made a difference.”