head to the headrest. It was a handsome head, with blond floppy hair, the dimpled chin, the flawless skin. He was the worst kind of predator, one with the face of an angel.
Matthew turned the flashlight toward his own face, and when Dustin’s eyes had adjusted and showed what Matthew interpreted as a flash of recognition, he said, “This is for Courtney.” Then he pulled the bag over Dustin’s head, taped it around his neck, and watched him die.
Afterward, Matthew spent a little bit of time in Dustin’s apartment, looking for something to call his own. He’d already decided that it would make sense to take Dustin’s wallet, plus his laptop, just to make it look like a robbery. But those he’d get rid of right away, unload them in some dumpster or landfill many miles away. No, he wanted something for himself, something he could keep. In Dustin’s bedroom, he spotted it. A fencing trophy, sandwiched between a can of Axe body spray and a bottle of mouthwash. He lifted the dusty trophy and in the dim light was able to make out that it was actually from the trip he’d been on when he’d raped Courtney Cheigh. Just holding the trophy, Matthew knew he had to have it.
He left the way he’d come. It was a cold spring night and there was no one about. He got back into his car and drove to West Dartford, making sure he never exceeded the speed limit.
Somehow, thinking back to that almost magical night, Matthew finally started to relax. He spun onto his stomach and slid a hand down between his legs. It was how he liked to fall asleep; it was how he’d been falling asleep for as many years as he could remember, holding on to himself the way a climber might hold on to an outcropping of rock. Mira stirred next to him, mumbling words he couldn’t understand. He was glad she was leaving tomorrow. Maybe it was time to start a new project in earnest. It had been a while. At the very least he could maybe arrange to see his brother while Mira was away. That had been a while as well, and Matthew worried that Richard, who knew that Mira didn’t really like him, might think Matthew didn’t, either. He’d check in with him tomorrow, see if he was free. He’d make himself pork chops. Yes, he was kind of glad that Mira was leaving. He was always glad when she left, but he was always glad when she came back. And wasn’t that the definition of a happy marriage?
Chapter 5
She was under deadline—two new illustrations for a chapter book—but Hen spent Monday morning sitting on the west side of the house, sketching a little, but mostly looking out the window toward what she could see of the Dolamores’ place.
The driveway was empty, and Hen assumed that Matthew had taken his car to Sussex Hall to teach. What Hen was waiting to see was if she could spot Mira leaving in her own car, a car she probably kept in the garage, not visible from Hen’s vantage point. Mira had probably already left, even though Hen had been keeping an eye on her neighbors since about eight in the morning. Still, if Hen could actually see Mira drive away, then she would know with certainty that the house was empty. She could check and see if they’d locked their back door, the one that led directly into the kitchen. And if they hadn’t? Well, entering the house, going to look at the trophy—how long would that take? Thirty seconds at most. Maybe the trophy would be from 1953, and then Hen could take a big breath and forget the whole thing. But what if the trophy was from the year that Dustin Miller was a ranked Junior Olympian? Either way, she needed to know for sure.
Hen stood and did some stretching exercises. She was not a patient person—never had been, really—and the waiting was exhausting. What if she just went over there and knocked on the door? If there wasn’t any answer, and if she could see no sign of a second car, then she could test the doors. But what if Mira was home? What would she say to her? Well, she could always just tell her she was dropping by to thank her for having them over to dinner. It would be a weird thing to do, but it wouldn’t be suspicious, exactly,