Before She Knew Him(65)
It wasn’t quite eleven at night, but Matthew knew it was time to drive to Michelle’s apartment to discover the truth. He changed out of his chinos and sweater into his oldest pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that he only ever wore to do work around the house. He found one of Mira’s fleece ski caps, pulled it on over his hair. If he did get spotted at the apartment, at least he wouldn’t look too much like himself.
He drove to Country Squire, parking again in one of the visitor spots. Michelle drove a gray Honda Civic, and Matthew almost went to look for her car first, but decided against it. Whether her car was here wouldn’t make any difference—he’d still need to see what was in the apartment. The rain had stopped, but the parking lot glistened. The sky was dark purple and starless. The complex comprised two separate L-shaped buildings around a large rectangular pool; it was quiet, most of the windows dark. Any light that leaked from the inside world to the outside world came through curtains or blinds, and most of the light was flickering and erratic, the light from televisions. Walking between the buildings with their cheap stucco siding, Matthew felt drawn to the entrance farther from him, a glass door illuminated by a dim light, a single moth battering dumbly against its side. A console by the side of the door had buzzers for apartment numbers 33 through 64. Matthew pulled the set of two keys from his jeans pocket. Neither had a number on it, but Michelle had told him on the phone to visit her in 41. He nearly pressed the buzzer now, but something stopped him. He needed to know if the keys that Richard had left for him were the keys to this complex. If they were he would have to prepare himself for the worst possible outcome.
The first key he tried on the outside door slid easily into the lock but didn’t turn. Matthew felt a small burst of relief. But the second key, sliding in just as easily, turned and the bolt clicked open. Matthew pushed the door inward and stepped into the carpeted interior, the feeling of dread now at a fever pitch. He stood for a moment listening to the building’s silence, his eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent glare of the overhead lighting, then he took two steps forward and turned left down a long hallway, the walls newly painted in an inoffensive beige, the carpeting showing dirt even through its elaborate red-and-gold pattern. The numbers started at 33, and about three-quarters of the way down the hallway Matthew came to 41. He pressed his ear against the wooden door but could hear nothing. He almost knocked but used the key instead, knowing somehow that if Michelle was still in the apartment she’d be dead. His only hope now was that she wasn’t there, that she’d left with all her things, that she was safe at her parents’ home, and Richard was not a murderer.
He swung the door inward. The apartment was dark but the window blinds were up, and Matthew could see a furnished living room area. A ceiling fan slowly spun, making a barely discernible clicking sound on each rotation. He quietly shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, breathing through his nostrils. There was a smell in the apartment, sweet and coppery, and Matthew almost decided to turn around right there. The smell was enough to tell him the worst had happened, but he told himself he had to see. He had to witness what his brother had done. He stepped quickly across the uncarpeted living room floor, noting the stack of boxes in the kitchen alcove. The bedroom door was cracked open, and Matthew pushed it inward with the toe of his shoe. The smell was more intense, and for a brief moment, before his eyes fully adjusted, he thought he was looking at a tapestry pinned up on the wall above the queen-sized bed. But it wasn’t a tapestry; it was a high arc of blood, two arcs, dark and dripping.
Michelle was on the bed, lying in a puddle of even more blood, black and shiny in the light from outside.
Chapter 31
Hen lay in bed and watched the dawn fill the bedroom with light. Lloyd was downstairs on the couch. It was where she’d prefer to be, really, if she had a choice, but after he’d admitted to the one-year affair with Joanna, it didn’t seem right to let him sleep in their shared bed while she took the couch.
It had been a long and draining night. As soon as she’d accused him of having an affair, his face had crumpled, and he’d begun to cry. Well, cry was not the best verb for what he had done. He’d doubled over and begun to sob, producing long rasping gasps of breath that only served to annoy Hen, who had to wait about ten minutes before they could start to talk. She told him she wanted the entire truth, and he nodded repeatedly, his face streaked with tears and snot. They sat in the living room, and Lloyd began by saying, “It’s over, by the way. That’s where I was last weekend when I said I was at Rob’s party. I was with her in Northampton, and we both agreed . . . we both knew it was a huge mistake. She feels bad, too, terrible, but I promise you that it’s finished.”
“I’m not interested in how it finished, Lloyd, I’m wondering why it started.”
So he told her the story, how it had begun a year earlier when Joanna had showed up at Rob’s bonfire party and Lloyd was there by himself. They had hooked up that night (“it was just a stupid, drunken kiss”), but afterward they had begun to email back and forth, then talk on the phone, and things led to things. Lloyd said repeatedly that it was much more of an emotional affair than a physical one, that they had just found it easy to talk with each other.
“You talked about me, about us?” Hen asked.
“We did, yes.”
“What did you talk about? Remember that you’re telling me everything.”