Before She Knew Him(49)
“Michelle Brine. I work with her. She told me she got a creepy email from a Richard.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” Matthew said. Richard sounded convincing, but he always sounded convincing.
“Who is she? Another of your girlfriends that you hide from Mira?”
“No.”
“Why is she telling you about the emails she gets?”
“She’s a friend from work. Not a girlfriend. You know I’m faithful to Mira.”
“You’re not really, you know, Matthew. Just because you don’t fuck these women you become friends with doesn’t mean you’re faithful. Let me guess: this Michelle tells you all about her personal life, and sometimes you give her a hug, and sometimes it goes on a little too long—”
“I’m not in the mood, Richard.”
“Fine. Fuck you, and fuck Michelle Brine as well. Someone ought to do it.”
Matthew lay in bed that night wondering if talking with Richard had been a mistake.
Chapter 24
Hen kept thinking about Matthew Dolamore.
She hadn’t yet told Lloyd about his visit to her during Open Studios. She couldn’t tell Lloyd, not really, because telling him was a lose-lose situation. He’d either confront Matthew himself—and what would that accomplish?—or make Hen go to the police and tell them everything, and that would only make Hen look more unhinged. Matthew was right about that—anything she said about him now would look like a lie. And that was the other reason she wasn’t telling Lloyd about the encounter. Because what if her own husband didn’t believe her? What if he thought she was making the whole thing up? He’d want to hospitalize her, wouldn’t he? Change her meds, at least. That’s what she might consider if the positions were reversed.
And because she couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened, she kept thinking about Matthew. He was the one person who now believed her. The thought was funny, in a grotesque sort of way. She and he were the only two people who knew the entire truth. Matthew would never tell anyone, because if he did he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. And she couldn’t tell anyone, because no one would believe her, because everyone would decide she was having another manic episode.
Maybe I should meet with him.
That same thought kept crossing her mind, even though the very idea of it terrified her. Maybe I should hear what he has to say.
In her mind she kept playing it out. She was thinking that it would have to be in a semipublic place, a place where he couldn’t hurt her. They could meet at the Burlington Mall, grab a couple of Cinnabons, and stroll past the storefronts, Matthew telling her about his life as a psychotic killer. She supposed they could also meet closer to home, go grab a drink some afternoon at the Owl’s Head Tavern, get a cozy table. The problem with that scenario was that it would look like they were having an affair. Another neighbor might see them. She supposed they could go to another bar altogether, something in another town.
You could go to his house. Sit in his office. He kept one souvenir—the fencing trophy—so maybe he kept more. It could be like show-and-tell.
The truth was that Hen mostly believed Matthew when he told her that he would never hurt her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but she did. When he came to her at her studio it wasn’t to threaten her or scare her. He seemed to genuinely want someone to talk with. And if that was true, then wasn’t the right thing, the moral thing, to do to listen to his story? He might give something away, tell her a detail that would allow her to go to the police. She might also be able to help him, get him to realize that he needed to turn himself in. The more she thought about this line of reasoning, the more she became convinced that it really was her moral duty to sit and talk with Matthew Dolamore. There was no other option. She knew that he was dangerous, but there was no way to convince the police (or her goddamn husband) of that fact.
In the afternoon she returned to the studio, taking the car because the rain that had begun on Sunday had crept into Monday as a steady, cold drizzle. It was quiet on the basement level, and Hen was glad that the exterior door was locked, unlike yesterday. Back in the studio, she tidied up, trying hard not to think too much about Matthew’s visit the day before. She’d hoped to be able to get a little bit of work done—put down some preliminary sketches based on the outline she’d received for the next Lore Warriors book, tentatively titled The School for Lore Warriors: Scary Godmothers—but she found herself still thinking about meeting with Matthew, wondering if there was more to it than just trying to do a good deed, trying to stop a criminal. Was there a part of her that was a little bit interested in hearing the details of what he’d done? She was, after all, being offered something that most people were never offered: A look inside someone’s mind. A look inside a monster’s mind. Of course anybody would be interested. It was why people watched true-crime shows and read books about serial killers. It was why people liked her artwork. She was well aware that the more disturbing her etchings, the more interest they received.
She was about to leave the studio when Lloyd texted her: Slow day. Coming home early.
Hen knew that it probably wasn’t that slow—nothing at his company was slow—and that he was more likely coming home early because he was worried about her. She wrote back, See you soon, and then added a smiling emoji face.