Before She Knew Him(74)
“Yo, bro,” Richard said.
“Jesus, finally.”
“I’ve been busy. Also, I know exactly what you’re going to say to me.”
“I’m not sure you do, Richard. They’re coming for you. The police are coming. I just talked with one of them.”
“If they’re coming for me, then they’re coming for you, too. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why we need to get our stories straight; that’s why I need to talk with you. I’m not calling because of what you’ve done. I just need to know. Did anyone see you there? How careful were you?”
“See me where? What are you talking about?”
“We don’t have time for this, Richard.”
“Maybe we should meet and talk about this face-to-face. I’d feel more comfortable.”
“We don’t have time for that. Are they going to find evidence at Michelle’s apartment? They’re there now, you know, picking through every fiber, looking at every blood spatter.”
Richard was quiet for a moment, finally saying, “You were there, too.”
“How do you know that?”
“I watched you. How did it make you feel to see all that blood?”
“You know how it made me feel. It was sickening. What you did was sickening. She didn’t deserve to die, and you know that.”
“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, you know. It isn’t fair. And besides, just because you’ve killed a bunch of sleazy guys doesn’t give you the moral high ground. You’re like Mom that way. She thought her shit didn’t stink because her husband was worse than she was, but that’s not how it works, you know. Not in the real world. In the real world, you’re as sick and perverted as I am.”
“You’re right, Richard. I agree with everything you’re saying, now answer the question. What are they going to find in the apartment?”
Richard sighed. “We share the same DNA, you know. If I need to make a run for it, so do you.”
“I think that’s what you should do. I think you should run away. And do it soon, okay? I’m not going to help you if they come for you. I can’t. You’ll be on your own.”
“Thank you, my brother. I expected nothing more.”
“You killed Michelle!” Matthew screamed the words in a strange keening voice he didn’t even recognize as belonging to himself. “You killed Michelle,” he said again quietly. Then he waited for Richard’s response, but none came. “Richard?” he said. “You there, Richard?”
But Richard was gone, and Matthew had the feeling—the terrible, reassuring feeling—that maybe his brother would do what he’d been threatening to do for years: to leave Dartford for good, to leave the past behind.
Matthew realized that he was in the living room, standing in front of the window that looked toward his neighbors’ house, still no car in the driveway. It occurred to him that he could actually drive over to Blackberry Lane, to the house he’d grown up in, to the house where Richard still lived, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He hadn’t been there for years, and the last time he’d been there he’d been shocked to see how much rot had settled into the house. Richard lived there, but he did nothing to maintain it. He hadn’t cleaned it or changed any of the furnishings for years. All the furniture, the shelves, the windowsills, were covered with a black film of accumulated dust. The upstairs rooms, including Matthew’s old bedroom, still with its single bed and its strange beige wallpaper with patterns of ferns, were infested with animal droppings, the walls dotted with black mold. No, he didn’t think he could bring himself to go back there. He’d done all he could, having warned Richard. Now he needed to protect himself. He needed—
He heard a click from upstairs. It was faint, but he heard it clearly, and it wasn’t one of the sounds the house occasionally made, the gas heat turning on, the icemaker in the refrigerator, the walls settling on the foundation. No, it sounded like a door shutting. He walked slowly and quietly to the base of the stairs. From there he could see up into the second-floor landing, see that two of the doors, the ones to Mira’s and his bedroom and the one to the upstairs bathroom, were both wide open. He began to quietly climb the stairs, then realized how that sounded and sped up, trying to walk casually, a man just heading up the stairs of his own house. At the top of the stairs, he turned left and walked into the master bedroom, his eyes quickly going to the closet door, that door open as well, although it was tight against the doorjamb. Could the click he heard have been a door opening up? It was possible, he told himself, and walked, casually again, toward the closet, swinging the door open wide and stepping inside, between Mira’s clothes on the right and his on the left. There was no one in there. He reached a hand up to the shelf above his hanging clothes, pushed aside a shoe box, and his fingers found the billy club made from hickory, one of the few items he’d brought with him from his parents’ and the only weapon he kept in the house.
With the billy club in his hand, he walked steadily from the bedroom closet back out to the landing. The other two doors on the floor—the one to the guest room and the one to Mira’s sewing room—were both open as well, but each had closets. He went into the guest room first. The closet door was closed. He walked to it, put his hand around the doorknob, and twisted, pulling the door open and taking a step backward, expecting . . . what, exactly? Hen looking for the fencing trophy? Lloyd waiting for him, eager to continue their fight from this morning? The closet was empty, and for the first time since he’d heard the click, he considered that it might have been nothing, maybe a branch striking one of the upstairs windows, or maybe just one of those phantom sounds that all houses make.