“Was it suicide? How dreadful.” Joyce paused, appearing to think. “But at least it will bring you some closure.”
“No, no, nothing that…” Susan appeared to struggle for the word. “That simple. She was murdered.” Susan stopped walking and turned to face Joyce. “And they want to know where I was yesterday. I need to account for my whereabouts.”
Joyce played dumb. “But why would they need that?”
“They need to rule me out as a suspect for this woman’s murder! They think it might have been a revenge killing, for what she did to Dermot. And that’s just it. I met with you, after getting my nails done at the salon. And then I went to the police station, gave my statement, and headed back to my hotel room. After that I was alone for the rest of the day.”
“Did you talk to your family? Your husband or children?”
“Yes, we had a call to say goodnight around 8:30pm.”
“Any room service? Did you go down to the front desk for anything?” They’d begun walking again.
“No, I wasn’t very hungry.” Susan turned her head as a flock of starlings spilled off a nearby tree and into the sky. “Look, I appreciate your help in trying to poke holes in the police’s questions for me, but what I really need is something else.”
“Of course.” Joyce didn’t dare look at her in the moment. “You need an alibi.”
“And I don’t know anyone in this town, besides the nail-salon ladies and the police.”
“What will you say? We need to get our story straight.”
“It’s not so much what I will say, as what I’ve already told them.”
Joyce felt a sharp bristling in her chest. “All right.” She fought hard to unclench her jaw.
“Can you take me back to your house? I told them we were together, talking for most of the afternoon and then had dinner together at your place.”
“Well, that might work. There’s just one thing,” Joyce replied.
“Please, Joyce. I don’t have any other options.”
Joyce led them to a park bench and Susan obligingly sat down, turning to face Joyce. Susan looked at her as though she were falling down a long, dark hole.
Joyce reached out and held her hand. Her fingers were cold.
“There’s just one problem. I was talking to the police yesterday.”
“Why?” It wasn’t clear if Susan was talking to Joyce or asking the universe.
“Because my husband was nearly killed yesterday afternoon.”
Susan let out a heavy sigh. “Death seems to follow you, Joyce.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT SIMON
The police ended their interrogation of him after an officer arrived in their interview room, whispering something in Bechdel’s ear that she nodded solemnly to. He drove home, each turn and traffic light happening as if in slow motion.
He’d forgotten about the numbness, how it came over you like a fog. He knew, intellectually, that this was simply the body’s way of surviving trauma. Shut down the thinking part of the brain, then reduce the feeling part to only the emotions which will help you stay alive. Fear, anger, defensiveness. But sadness, horror, terror—those were all blunted. Which is why he was able to stand in front of the stove at his home, just hours after watching a man die violently, learning that a woman dear to him was murdered, and make an omelet. And not just make it, but make it perfectly, with a lovely browning and perfectly fluffy interior. He’d shredded some Gruyère before cracking the eggs, and now he sprinkled the cheese over the midline of the omelet to melt before he plated it.
Joyce was not home. A small kindness, he felt. He could eat in peace, thinking through his next steps.
He’d set the table with a napkin, plate, silverware, and the small crystal salt and pepper shakers they’d been gifted for their wedding. Simon placed a tumbler of Scotch next to his plate at the head of the table.
The omelet finished cooking and Simon settled himself at his seat. The scent of cheese floated up into the air, mixed with the slight buttery hint of the eggs. Simon’s stomach growled, all the physical systems of the body working in spite of the maelstrom he’d found himself in.
It only took him a few minutes to eat. He tried to savor the flavors and textures, as it would be the last decent meal he’d have in his home. He dabbed the napkin at the corners of his mouth, took the dirty plates into the sink, and put them away after washing them. He left the kitchen as though he’d never been there.
The house was quiet, no Clara moving through the house, straightening and cleaning. Simon sat down by the fireplace, which was empty and cold, in one of the large wingback chairs. It’d started to rain a wintry mix outside, and the thrum of the weather on the roof lulled Simon into a desperate sleep, his body clawing towards respite from the fatigue it was managing.
He woke perhaps an hour later, disoriented and with a dry mouth. His shoulders ached straight down to his core, like a string pulling through his body until it was tight.
The sleet had stopped and darkness filled the windows, such that he could only see his reflection in the glass. He looked at his hands, not able to tolerate even a blurry version of his face.
It was time, and he knew it. It took him just a few minutes to drive out to the station. He had to take a parking ticket in order to park in the lot, and he thought about how he should really get a sort of frequent visitor parking pass, given how much he had been spending time there.
Although now it wouldn’t matter.
He sat in the parking lot, thinking about what he was about to do but not questioning it. Just working it through his mind, like water flowing over a stone, already smoothed from the passage of time.
This remained the best option. He was certain of it. If he kept choosing himself, just like he had his entire life, and especially this last year, then those he loved would be hurt even more. Joyce had suffered enough, and yet stuck by him.
The long days and even longer nights, his episodes that left him derelict to the world, and the drinking that helped him manage the difficulties of life. The obsessions and transgressions, his heart opening up when she wasn’t around and closing itself off whenever she tried to get closer to him.
She deserved better. She deserved a second chance. This is what he repeated to himself when that part of his brain—the thinking part—threatened to turn on again.
He’d hidden his true self long enough.
The station was empty, except for a single officer at the main desk, sitting behind a guard of clear plastic.
“You’re back,” she announced, not unkindly.
“I need to speak to Detective Kirkpatrick or Detective Bechdel,” he told the uniformed officer. She wore her hair in a tight braid, and when Simon glanced down he noticed she was doing a crossword puzzle.
The mundanity of her afternoon slammed into him, and he thought he might vomit his perfectly made omelet onto the laminate surface of the processing desk. He pulled his hand to his mouth and turned his back, swallowing down the bile that had risen in his throat.
“Let me see if they’re available,” she said to his back.
Simon took a seat in the formed plastic chairs lining the room. His eye automatically skimmed the titles of the magazines strewn over the end table. Guns & Ammo. Family Circle. Newsweek.
It was Detective Bechdel who appeared at the swinging wooden door separating the waiting area from the working police officers behind the plastic partition.
“Dr. Morgan.” She nodded and turned, expecting Simon to follow.
They walked through the station, down the right hallway to the interview room Simon was getting to know rather intimately.
“I’m very glad you’re here, despite everything you’ve been through recently.” Bechdel looked at him with a curious expression on her face, as though she wasn’t certain whether to pity him or antagonize him. “We were going to call you, but you’ve preceded us.”
“We?” Simon asked, looking around for Detective Kirkpatrick.
