Before She Knew Him(69)
If I act like nothing happened—if I brush my teeth and wash my face and tuck myself into bed—then maybe nothing did happen.
It didn’t work. Matthew lay in bed and thought about what was coming next. The police would discover Michelle’s body, and because of her relationship with Scott Doyle, they’d instantly think the two murders were connected. It’s possible they wouldn’t, the murders being so different—but, no, that was just wishful thinking. They would. They’d link Scott’s and Michelle’s deaths together, and once they did that, then they’d remember that one of the first suspects brought in after Scott Doyle’s murder had been Matthew Dolamore, who worked with Michelle Brine. Not just in the same school, but in the same department. Matthew could hear Dylan Hembree’s voice: “Oh, they were always talking. Some people thought there might be something going on there. Plus, I remember a weird conversation when Matthew invited her to go to a bar with him, maybe it was even some night Scott was playing in the C-Beams.” Of course the police would come back to him, and he wouldn’t have an alibi this time. Not for Michelle’s murder, anyway. And then the police would talk with Hen again, and maybe this time they’d believe her. She’d even tell them that he mentioned Michelle to her. And the closer they got to him, the closer they got to Richard.
Matthew could imagine one other scenario. What if he could convince the police that Henrietta Mazur killed Scott Doyle and Michelle Brine, that she did it to frame him for the murders, that it was all part of her weird obsessive fixation with seeing murderers everywhere, that she wanted to be right just one time. He thought it could work, but he’d never be able to do it, never be able to do that to her. She didn’t deserve it. But what about Lloyd? What if he managed to get some evidence—a single hair, for example—and sneak back and leave it at the scene of the crime? It would be like killing two birds with one stone. Even if it turned out that Lloyd was never convicted, it would confuse the police, throw them off the track. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea.
An hour before school began, Matthew got out of his bed. He hadn’t slept at all, and all the muscles of his body ached. He worried for a moment that he was sick and touched his fingers to his forehead, but thought that he’d probably just been tensing his body so much that he’d exhausted it. In the shower, he slowly rotated his head as far back as it would go, his neck joint crackling and sending darts of satisfying pain down his back. He needed to sleep and let his body heal, but he also knew that he needed to go to work, that he couldn’t do anything out of the ordinary now.
It was cold outside, the front lawn wet with dew. Half the sky was gray with clouds, and half was a milky blue. He got into his car and turned on the engine, flipping through radio stations until he found a classical music station far to the left of the dial. He couldn’t listen to normal human voices this morning talking about the weather or politics or postseason baseball. The windshield was fogged on the outside, and he flicked his wipers on, then rolled down his passenger-side window. He allowed himself one quick glance toward the neighbors’ house and saw a figure in the window move away just as he was turning his head. That’s Lloyd, he told himself. Hen told him everything, about our meetings and what I said, and now he really does believe her, and he’s keeping an eye on me. That’s okay. If he comes after me he won’t know what hit him.
Matthew drove slowly out of the driveway, turned left on Sycamore Street. There were two ways he drove to Sussex Hall. The fastest was along Route 2, but he often took back roads, picking up Littleton Road in Dartford Center. Today he headed to Route 2, moving slowly, keeping his eyes on his rearview mirror. It was when he was halfway to school, having just gone through the Concord rotary, that he spotted the light gray Golf about three cars behind him. It didn’t necessarily belong to Lloyd—this part of the world was full of Volkswagens—but Matthew knew that it did. He turned off on the exit that would take him to school. The Golf did as well. He wondered what Lloyd was planning on doing. Was he just following him to see where he went? No, Matthew decided, Lloyd was going to confront him in the school parking lot. He could picture it already, Lloyd sputtering out, “Stay away from my wife or I’ll fucking kill you,” or something like that, while other teachers and students gawked. So instead of driving through the main entrance like he normally did, Matthew went through the second entrance, the driveway that looped around toward the back of the school. He was hoping the back lot would be empty and it almost was, just a few cars parked there, probably belonging to the custodial staff. Matthew pulled up next to the loading dock, waited thirty seconds, then watched as Lloyd’s Golf rounded the corner tentatively, pulling in two spaces away.
Matthew got out of his car, leaving his briefcase behind, and walked toward the Golf as Lloyd got out, underdressed in just a pair of jeans and a ratty T-shirt.
“Hi, Lloyd,” Matthew said, trying not to smile nervously.
Lloyd looked suddenly surprised, as though he wasn’t adequately prepared for what he wanted to say. He shut the car door behind him and said, “Stay away from my wife.”
Matthew couldn’t stop himself from smiling, the words exactly what he had expected.
“What the fuck you smiling about?” Lloyd said. His face was flushed.
“I’m smiling because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”