Before She Knew Him(51)

He turned the engine off and got out of the car. It was a bright, blustery day, the parking lot littered with fallen leaves that skittered in the wind.

He pushed through the front door of the Winner’s Circle. There were two middle-aged women at the bar and no one in the booths. Football highlights played on all the televisions. He walked up to the bar, trying to seem casual, and asked for a ginger ale with a lime wedge. He paid and brought the drink back with him to the booth in the far corner, and sat so that he could watch the doors.

One of the women from the bar slid off her stool and went to the jukebox, inserting a bill, then punching several numbers. The first song to come on was a hard rock ballad he recognized, although he couldn’t remember the name of the band that performed it. He thought the song was called “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” and the chorus confirmed that he was right. The woman who chose the song kept peeking over at Matthew as it played, maybe looking for validation. He glanced down at his drink. The wedge of lime that floated on top of the ginger ale was dotted with dark brown spots.

The outside door opened, and Hen entered, ushering in with her a brisk gust of wind that Matthew could feel all the way at the back of the bar. He began to stand up to greet her, but she went straight to the bar without meeting his eye, so he stayed put. She brought her draft beer over to the booth and slid in across from him. She was wearing the same sweater she’d worn the previous day when she’d invited him to this bar. A thick, rust-colored turtleneck that had started to pill a little.

“Hello,” she said.

“I’m going to have to pat you down, you realize that?” Those were the words he’d been planning on saying first. He was surprised that she looked surprised.

“Oh,” she said.

“Otherwise, we can’t have this conversation. You understand that, don’t you?”

“You’re looking for a wire?” she said, and made a quizzical expression. “I’m not wearing one.”

“I believe you, but I have to check.”

“Okay, how?”

“I’ll just slide in next to you for a minute. It will look like we’re hugging hello.”

“I don’t know,” Hen said.

“It’s up to you, of course, but I need to know for sure.”

“Okay,” she said.

Matthew slid out of his side of the booth. The woman who’d picked the music was now back at the bar with her friend. “Under My Thumb” by the Rolling Stones was playing. He slid in next to Hen and said, “Sorry about this,” as he ran his hands along the sides of her bulky sweater.

“What are you wearing under the sweater?” he asked.

“A flannel shirt.”

He put his hands under the sweater, thinking she’d object, but she lifted her arms, and he ran his hands along the soft flannel, up and down her sides, then along her back and briefly over her stomach. He felt nothing but her rib cage and the rapid movement of her lungs. Under the sweater she was wearing tight jeans, and he ran his hands down her legs as professionally as he could. He could feel the edges of her cell phone in her front pocket.

“Can I check your phone, make sure you’re not recording?”

“Okay,” she said, and showed him her phone, turning it on with her thumbprint, flicking through the different apps. Matthew didn’t exactly know what he was looking for, but he didn’t see anything suspicious. He hadn’t thought that she’d come wired, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Thank you,” he said, and returned to his side of the booth. He attempted a joke, saying, “Now that the awkward part is out of the way . . .”

She frowned at him. “Don’t try and be funny,” she said. “It doesn’t really suit you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You found the bar all right?” she asked.

“At least I’m not attempting small talk,” he said.

She smiled at this. “Right. Tell me why you killed Scott Doyle.”

“I thought you’d be more interested in Dustin Miller.”

“I think I already know why you murdered him. He’d raped someone, right, when he was at Sussex Hall?”

Matthew sipped at his drink, a little thrown off by Hen’s wording. “It wasn’t just a ‘someone,’” he said. “Her name was Courtney Cheigh.”

“I didn’t know that. I mean I didn’t know her name.”

“She was one of those students that stay after class and ask you more questions about what you’ve been teaching. She probably did it because she was too shy to ask the questions in class, but, still, she had a genuine intellectual curiosity.”

“Is she . . . dead?”

“Oh, no. Sorry. I think I always refer to my students in the past tense. No, she’s fine, as far as I know. She didn’t come back to the five-year reunion, but one of her friends said she’s in law school down in D.C. and doing well. I like to think she’ll become a prosecutor and go after men like Dustin Miller.”

“She won’t have to go after him, though. You took care of that.”

“Yes, I did. Right before he died I said Courtney’s name to him so that he would know why he was dying.” Saying those words out loud felt immensely satisfying, and Matthew worked to not let it show on his face. To not smile.