Before She Knew Him(47)

Matthew turned and left, walking straight down the low-lit, whitewashed corridor, then up the metal stairs and back into the dark afternoon. It had stopped raining, but the rutted parking lot of the studio was filled with rippling puddles, and the trees were still dripping rain and shedding wet leaves. Matthew took a deep breath of the cool, damp air, and it was almost as if he were drinking it in. His mouth was dry, and his back was tight. He got into his car, pulled out of the parking lot, and turned toward Dartford Center. He’d told Mira that he was going to the library to pick up a book he’d reserved, which was true. He asked her if she’d like to come along for the ride and was relieved when she said she’d rather stay home and get ready for her next trip. She was going to Wichita for a regional conference that would last the week.

As he’d been getting ready to leave, she’d said, “It’s Open Studios this weekend, you know.”

“Do you wish we’d gone?”

“God, no. We couldn’t have, could we? Not with her there.” Mira had taken to referring to Hen as “her” or sometimes “that woman.”

“We could have gone and just avoided her studio.”

“I know, but she could have been walking around, or Lloyd might’ve been there. I just couldn’t . . .”

“I get it. I didn’t want to go, either.”

It was starting to rain again when Matthew pulled up alongside the library, parking under the horse chestnut tree on Munroe Street. Outside of the car, he briefly paused to look along the ground for fallen chestnuts. He pushed his foot down on one of the spiny pods, half split already, and a chestnut, hard and shiny, rolled free. He picked it up and slid it into his jeans pocket.

In the library he retrieved the book he’d reserved, The Haunted Wood, about Soviet espionage in cold war America, then took it to one of the padded leather chairs in the reading room. He wanted to sit for a moment and think about his conversation with Hen, go over every word. It had actually gone better than he’d expected. He’d imagined showing up in her studio and Hen panicking, bolting from the room, going straight to the police. She’d been nervous when she’d seen him, but not too nervous. He knew that down deep she believed she was safe with him, and he hoped that that feeling would allow her to get to know him. The thought thrilled him in a way he hadn’t felt for years.

He only hoped that she wouldn’t tell her husband about the encounter, although she probably would. He could picture Lloyd storming over to the house, demanding that he leave his wife alone. Well, if that happened, he’d just give up on the idea of getting to know Hen. But it wasn’t going to change anything with the police. They were never going to believe her, not with her history, and especially not now that he’d learned how drunk she’d been the night of the killing. Detective Whitney had told him that—“she was feeling no pain that night, so who knows what she even saw”—and the words had further convinced Matthew that he was safe, that he’d gotten away with it again, even with an eyewitness on the scene.

He riffled the pages of the book in his lap, then pictured Lloyd storming across to the house, shouting threats, and realized that he should be there if it happened, that it wasn’t fair to Mira if she were there alone.

He drove home, coasting through stop signs, and entered the house to find Mira supine on the couch, watching an episode of The Bachelorette.

“You caught me,” she said guiltily.

“Keep watching. I’m going to start reading my book in the office.”

“How is it out there?”

“Cold and rainy. I don’t recommend going outside.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Mira said.

In his office, with the door shut, he considered telling Mira in advance that he’d gone to see Hen. The only reason to do that would be as a preemptive strike, just in case Hen did file a complaint with the police or Lloyd did come banging on the door. But he decided to risk it. For some reason, he didn’t think Hen was going to tell anyone. He actually thought she just might take him up on his offer. He’d seen her artwork, knew how her mind worked. She had a morbid curiosity. He was offering her so much. He was offering himself to her.

Instead of looking at his new book, Matthew went on the internet. He looked again at some of Hen’s art, and then, because he hadn’t done it yet, he looked up Hen’s husband, Lloyd Harding. There wasn’t much about him online. His name was listed on his company’ website. There was a LinkedIn profile. He did, however, find an old blog that hadn’t been updated for five years. It was called Documenting Lloyd and was a list of short, mostly snarky reviews of documentary features. On the About page, Lloyd referred to himself as an aspiring documentary filmmaker. Matthew wondered what had happened to that dream. He didn’t like Lloyd, hadn’t liked him the night he’d been over for dinner. He seemed soft and lazy and could barely hide his boredom at having to sit through dinner at his neighbors’ house. Matthew had also thought that he hadn’t been remotely complimentary enough of Mira’s cooking. Hen said several times how much she loved the food, while her husband merely shook his head minutely in agreement, made an affirmative grunting sound. Matthew remembered looking across the table at Lloyd and imagining how he’d look with plastic wrap across his face.

Matthew made a decision to find out what he could about Lloyd Harding. There was probably nothing, but you never could tell.