Eight Perfect Murders(71)

I left my car, stepping out into the cold, clear night. I’d departed my house so suddenly that I wasn’t properly dressed, just wearing an old jean jacket over a sweater and jeans. I buttoned the jacket up to my throat, tucked my hands into my pockets, and walked along the road to Atwell’s place. A small, discreet sign with the words black barn enterprises was posted next to the mailbox. I stood there for a moment, studying the house from a distance. There was the farmhouse, painted white, and looming beside it was an enormous barn. I’d seen it in the daytime, of course, and it wasn’t even painted black. It was more of a dark gray, but it had been modernized into a stylized workspace, its front doors replaced by solid glass, and the inside converted into an open-concept work studio, with modular desks and Ping-Pong tables.

Skirting along the edge of the property, I got close enough to the barn to see that even though it was lit by hanging industrial light fixtures, no one was inside. The party was happening inside the house. I went around the back of the barn to approach the house from the rear, and I was stunned for a moment by the view. It was close to a full moon and there were no clouds in the sky. Atwell’s property was on a slight ridge, and from where I stood, I could see across the sloping fields, all the way to a line of dark trees, all bathed in silver moonlight. I stared at it for a few moments, shivering in my thin jacket, until suddenly I could hear laughter and could smell cigarette smoke in the air. At the rear corner of the barn I could see the back deck, clearly an add-on to the farmhouse. A couple I didn’t recognize smoked cigarettes and laughed uproariously, the specifics of their conversation getting carried away by the bitter wind. I watched them finish their cigarettes then go back inside the house. After approaching the nearest window, I peered inside.

There are many things I’ll never forget about the night, but the image that I saw through the window is certainly one of them. About twenty people were milling about a large, well-furnished living room. At its center was an overstuffed leather couch, and that’s where I could see Claire, dressed in a short green corduroy skirt and a cream silk blouse I felt as though I’d never seen before. She was next to Atwell, their shoulders touching, and she held a champagne glass in her hand. The room was dimly lit but I could see that there was a small mound of white powder on the glass-topped coffee table, and one of the guests was kneeling on the carpeted floor cutting himself a line. Techno music, the kind you’d hear in a club, pounded from the house, and behind the couch three of the guests were dancing. But what I’ll never really forget was how Claire looked—not her clothes, and not even the way she was pressed up against Atwell, one of his hands touching her naked thigh, but the glow of her face. It was the drugs, but it was also something else, a gleam of pure animal joy. She kept laughing, her mouth opened wide in a way that seemed unnatural, her lips wet.

I walked back to my car, turned on the engine, and cranked the heat all the way up. I was shivering but I was also crying. And then I got angry, punching my fist repeatedly against the roof of the car. I was angry at Claire, of course, and Atwell, but I think I was angry at myself most of all. At least right then. Because what I planned on doing was driving back to Somerville and waiting for my wife, hoping she’d return safe and sound, and hoping one day she would return to just me.

The car warmed up, and I calmed down. From where I was parked, I could see Claire’s Subaru along the road, and I decided to wait. I knew from past experience that she would not spend the night, that she’d be back before morning came, even though it might be late. And I knew that I would forgive her, that I would do what my mother always did with my father. I’d wait for her to return to me. But the longer I sat in my car, the engine purring, heat pumping from the vents, the more I found myself growing livid at Claire. I knew she was a drug addict, and that on some level she could not help herself, but she’d also looked so happy in Atwell’s living room, so alive.

It was two thirty in the morning when I saw the two figures appear next to Claire’s car. In the moonlight I saw them come together, and kiss, then Claire opened the door—I could make out the hooded winter coat above the bare legs—and stepped inside while Atwell jogged back to his house. The brake lights came on, then she made a U-turn. Her headlights must have picked up my car in the shadow of a cluster of pine trees, but she must not have paid attention. She sped away down the street toward Route 2.

I followed her. She drove fast on the back roads, but once she was on the highway heading back toward Boston, she slowed down to the exact speed limit. It was New Year’s Eve, still, and police were probably out in force looking for drunk drivers. Something about that fact irked me, that despite whatever she’d ingested that night, and whatever she’d done, she was careful enough to avoid getting pulled over. In the same way I knew that when she got back to our shared apartment she’d quietly sneak in the door, not wanting to wake me. And that when we talked about what happened the following morning, she’d cry and say she was a terrible person and beg forgiveness. She wanted the double life, but she didn’t want the confrontation. It was the way she was. I remember thinking that I’d have more respect for her if she just left me, if she gave in to the fact that she’d rather be with Eric Atwell, that she’d rather be an addict. Then at least we could have it out.

There were a few other cars along the two-lane highway but not many. I stayed close behind her, not really worried that she’d notice. She hadn’t noticed me on the side of the street outside of Atwell’s house and she probably wouldn’t notice me now. I’d driven this route many times, and we were approaching an overpass. There was only a low guardrail along the edge. Suddenly I imagined Claire losing control of her car, plunging off the edge, and landing on the road below. Without thinking too much about it, I sped up, overtaking Claire in the passing lane. For a moment we were side by side, and I looked over at her, but all I could see was her profile in darkness. She might have turned toward me, but it was hard to tell. What would she have seen? My face in darkness, as well. Would she have recognized me?