Before She Knew Him(28)

“Even if he did have a fencing trophy, it could have—”

“It’s not just that,” Hen said, pushing her foot against the office door to make sure it was completely closed. “I know he did it. I followed him the other night, and he was stalking someone else. Hunting him.”

“When was this?” the detective said.

Hen told him the whole story, about following Matthew while he followed the couple in the car.

“What makes you think that that behavior had anything to do with what happened with Dustin Miller?” the detective asked after she’d finished her story.

“I think it proves he’s some kind of serial killer, or at least a serial stalker. There’s something wrong with him. He’s creepy.”

“Trust me when I tell you that there are many creepy people out there. But most of them are not murderers.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Hen said, “but some of them are murderers, right?”

There was a lengthy pause, and for a moment, Hen thought the detective had hung up. Then he said, “There are many reasons he could have been following someone, very few of which would have anything to do with Dustin Miller.”

“Yes, I know. But it was suspicious.”

Another pause, and then, “Can I ask you to do me a favor, Hen?”

“Sure,” she said, knowing what it would be.

“Let us take it from here, okay? If your neighbor is guilty of murder, then we’ll get him, but it’s not going to be helpful to us if you’re following him around. And it could be dangerous for you.”

“Sure,” Hen said. “I understand.”

“You promise, then?”

Hen laughed. “I pinkie-swear promise.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “It’s not just for your safety, but it could compromise the investigation. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Hen said. She nearly added his name—it was Iggy, wasn’t it?—but it just didn’t feel right.

“Okay,” the detective said. “Thanks. And feel free to call me anytime if you think of anything else. I’ll keep you updated as well if anything comes up.”

“Thanks,” Hen said.

Back downstairs, Lloyd asked, “Who was on the phone?”

“I told you. My agent. My original contract for the Lore book called for eight illustrations plus the cover, and now it’s up to twelve illustrations.”

“Have you done them all?”

“Almost.”

“Are they paying you more?”

“They are. It’s more to do with the time commitment. I’m supposed to have started on book two already, and I haven’t even read it. How was your day?”

“Pretty good,” he said, his standard response.

She got herself a glass of wine and pulled out chicken breasts, plus a head of broccoli, for dinner.

“Have you thought any more about Columbus Day weekend?” Lloyd asked, and for a moment Hen panicked, trying to recall their previous conversation. Then she remembered.

“Rob’s party,” she said.

“Right.”

“Um, probably not, Lloyd, if that’s okay?” she said.

Rob was Lloyd’s best friend from college. He lived just over the Massachusetts–New York state line, about two and a half hours away, and he had a bonfire party every Columbus Day weekend. Hen had been many times in the past. She’d even had fun a few of those times, but Rob was a professional pothead and Hen had quit smoking ten years earlier. She occasionally missed the way her brain exploded with new ideas when she smoked, but she certainly didn’t miss the crushing paranoia. Or the stupid conversations.

“That’s okay,” Lloyd said.

“You’ll spend the night, right?” Hen asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’ll go next year.”

“You don’t have to. I know he’s not your favorite person.”

“I don’t have anything against Rob. I just don’t really have anything to say to him. And I miss Joanna.”

Joanna had been Rob’s longtime girlfriend, a funnier, smarter, more sarcastic version of Rob. Hen hadn’t been surprised when she’d moved out of their drafty farmhouse and gotten her own place in the Pioneer Valley, but, still, she missed her presence. Without her there, Lloyd and Rob quickly morphed back to their college personalities, and Hen felt like she was standing just outside of their pocket of pot smoke and dumb jokes, looking in.

“We all miss Joanna,” Lloyd said. “Do you need me to do anything?”

Hen slid the slightly rubbery broccoli his way and asked him to cut it up.

After dinner, while Lloyd watched the Red Sox game, Hen went to her laptop and looked up the website for the C-Beams again. She was now somewhat convinced that the lead singer for that band—they’d been playing at the Owl’s Head on the night she followed Matthew—was the bearded man whom Matthew had been following. It would make perfect sense. He’d clearly been part of the band—she’d witnessed him helping the drummer load up his van—or, at the very least, associated with them. Hen was now assuming that Matthew had gone to the Owl’s Head to watch the C-Beams play, and then he went home, got his car, and came back to follow the lead singer, one of the last to leave the bar. The question, of course, was why?