A Noise Downstairs(57)

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I just wondered. Don’t feel badly. I certainly knew.”

“You did?”

“Oh please,” she said. “I knew there was the odd one here and there. I knew what kind of man he was. Although, carrying on with two at the same time, that came as something of a surprise.”

“Yes, I suppose it did.”

She placed her palms on the table and straightened her spine, as though signaling a change in the conversation’s direction. “Kenneth spoke of you often. In fact, he still does.”

Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

She nodded. “I visit him every couple of weeks. The man does feel, whether we choose to believe it or not, remorseful. I think he feels especially bad about you. You were a good friend.”

“I don’t know which I’m more surprised by. That he would mention me, or that you visit him in prison.”

“He’s still my husband.”

“You’ve never—forgive me, this is probably none of my business—but you’ve never taken any steps to end the marriage? The affairs alone would be cause for divorce, but since Kenneth did what he did . . .”

As Paul asked the question, it struck him where, exactly, he was sitting.

He was in the kitchen of the Hoffman home. This was where it had happened. His eyes wandered down to the table. Could this be the same one? Was this where the typewriter had sat? Was the chair he was sitting in the one Jill Foster had been bound to? Or Catherine Lamb?

What must it have taken to clean this place up after he’d slit their throats? Was there still blood buried in the grains of this wooden table’s surface? Was this where two women pleaded for their lives, where they hoped that a couple of typewritten apologies might save them?

“Paul?” Gabriella asked.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It looked as though I’d lost you there.”

“My mind, it drifted there for a second. What did you say?”

“You were the one talking. You were wondering why I haven’t divorced Kenneth.”

“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

She smiled. “As difficult as it may be to imagine, he’s a victim, too. A victim of his own impulses. Since he’s been in prison . . . he’s tried to take his own life. At least once that I know of. Kenneth is my husband. For better or for worse. That was the vow I took. Vows mean something, you know.”

“Kenneth took those same vows. About being faithful and forsaking all others.”

Gabriella smiled sadly. “He wasn’t very good at sticking to those, was he?”

Paul felt a shiver.

“What about the house,” he said. “Have you thought of selling it, moving away from Milford?”

“Good luck with that,” she said. “Your wife, she works in real estate, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“She’d probably know all about how hard it is to sell a house where something horrific has happened. In time, maybe, but what Kenneth did, it’s far too fresh in people’s minds.” She paused. “For me, it always will be.”

She took a sip of her coffee, set down the mug. “So what was so important that you needed to see me?”

Best to come right out with it.

“I’d like to see Kenneth.”

“Oh?”

“I thought it might help if you spoke to him, paved the way, had him put me on a list of accepted visitors.”

She considered the request for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose that would be a problem, but I have to ask. Why?”

“At first, I wanted to see him just”—he shrugged—“to talk to him. These past eight months—and I know they’ve been very difficult for you—but they have been pretty hard on me. I guess what I have is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve had recurring nightmares, bouts of memory loss. Even . . . moments where I may be perceiving things I believe are real, but they’re not.”

Gabriella eyed him with sympathetic wonder. “Oh my, that’s awful, but do you think seeing him will help you with any of that?”

“I do. I might be totally wrong, but I do. I think coming face-to-face with him, of turning him back into an actual person, instead of some kind of demon that comes to me in the night, may help.”

If she was offended by having her husband referred to as a demon, she didn’t show it.

“I’m writing about what happened to me. I don’t know what it’ll turn into. A memoir, a novel, or maybe just something I write for myself that’ll never be read by another living soul. But I think the process is helping me come to terms with what happened. I’ve been talking to the others touched by Kenneth’s actions.”

Gabriella put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You mean, like Harold and—”

“Yes.”

She appeared to be deflating. “What have they said to you? How—no, don’t tell me. I don’t think I’m ready to hear it.”

“I understand.”

Gabriella took a second to collect herself. “You’re seeing a therapist, I presume.”

“I am.”

“Does he think it’s a good idea?”