Before She Knew Him(38)

Hen hadn’t called Lloyd to let him know what had happened until just after noon. She wanted to give him a morning of peace after what was probably a very late bonfire party. And she was worried about his reaction, worried that, like the police, he’d think she was having some kind of mental breakdown.

It didn’t help that when she followed Detective Sheehan out to the Dartford Police Department waiting room, the look on Lloyd’s face was one of concern, almost pity.

“How are you?” he asked after they hugged. He was wearing the clothes he’d probably been wearing the night before at the party and smelled of stale sweat and too much deodorant.

“I’m fine, Lloyd, but we’re living next to a fucking murderer.”

“Let’s talk about it in the car, okay?”

Even though she was tired of telling the story, she recounted every detail to Lloyd, starting in the car and finishing at home. He listened patiently, hardly speaking. She thought he looked tired from his trip, dark circles under his eyes, and his skin an unhealthy pallor. When she was done, she asked, “Do you believe me? And tell the truth.”

He paused, and she almost hoped he’d say he didn’t believe her. She thought she’d rather be doubted than condescended to.

“Apparently, he has a solid alibi. He wasn’t there.”

“You think I’m making it up?”

“No, I think you think you saw him, but it was someone else.”

“Explain to me how it’s possible that the person I think might get killed by our neighbor gets killed by someone else. What are the chances?”

“I’m not following you.”

“I saw Matthew stalking this guy—this Scott Doyle. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it at the time, but I knew how worried you’d be. And that’s why I went last night to see his band. I wanted to see if Matthew was there as well.”

“The police said you were intoxicated.”

“Yes, I kind of was. I admit that. But, still, think for a moment. What are the chances that Scott Doyle just happens to get killed by someone else, by someone other than our neighbor?”

“But . . . according to the police, he was.”

Hen clenched her teeth and took a large sip of water. “Do you think I’m manic?”

“I guess I do, Hen, I’m sorry. You’re acting like you did last time. You’re obsessive.”

“So I seem manic to you?”

Lloyd thought for a moment. “No, actually, you don’t. You seem fine, but your actions . . . I don’t know what to think. I’m worried, Hen.”

By the time they’d finally gotten into bed, Hen had agreed to move up her annual appointment with her psychopharmacologist in order to check her blood levels, and Lloyd agreed to consider the possibility that Hen was 100 percent right about everything.

“What would you do if you totally believed me?”

“What do you mean, what would I do?”

“Would you confront Matthew Dolamore? Would you decide to move out of this house?”

“I guess I’d lay low and hope the police got to the truth.”

“Mira must know everything.”

“Who?”

“The wife, Mira. She must know, otherwise she wouldn’t have given him an alibi.”

“You can’t get involved. You’ve told the police everything you know. Just leave it at that.”

After Lloyd fell asleep, Hen slipped quietly out of the bed and went downstairs. She knew that her chance of sleeping that night was close to zero. She considered taking a sleeping pill but decided against it. She wanted to stay sharp.

In the living room, she peered across at the Dolamore house. Hen heard the tapping footsteps as Vinegar came around the corner, then stopped, sat, and stared at Hen. Hen stared back, directly into the cat’s round eyes. Sometimes she thought Vinegar looked more like an owl than a cat. Wind buffeted the house, and Vinegar turned toward the rattling window. Hen moved to the couch, stretched out, and stared at the ceiling. Do nothing, she told herself. Keep telling the truth when asked, but do nothing. Otherwise, it will make things worse.

Around dawn she pulled a blanket tight around her body, curled onto her side, and fell asleep.

She was woken by the doorbell. In her dream it was a bell at the top of a tower that Hen had climbed. Wind was picking at the tower’s brickwork, bricks scattering like leaves from a tree. Dustin Miller was at the top of the tower as well; he was speaking but the words were picked away by the wind. Hen reached toward him. I forgot how beautiful you are, she thought, and the bell rang again, and Hen was suddenly awake, then standing. Lloyd was coming down the stairs, looking as though the doorbell had woken him as well.

“Who is it?” he asked Hen as she went to the door.

It was two police officers, both uniformed: one who looked like a college football player, the other a pretty woman in her thirties with icy-blond hair and a gap between her front teeth. The policewoman asked Hen if she had a moment to talk.

“Okay,” she said, not moving from the door.

“Inside?”

“Sure.”

They all sat in the living room. Hen had raced upstairs to change into jeans and a sweater. When she got back, she could smell coffee beginning to brew and took a seat across from the two officers.