another bite. One more drink, okay? But only if you have one.”
Matthew ordered a Rusty Nail for Mira and a second Guinness for himself. They were in the bar of the Portsmouth Arms, a four-story boutique inn on a pretty cobblestone street in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Columbus Day weekend had started with a cold, stinging rain coming off the Atlantic, but by four o’clock on Saturday the skies had cleared, and the sun had appeared briefly to paint the city in a mellow pink light. Matthew and Mira had taken a walk along the waterfront, then returned to the hotel for drinks and the restaurant’s signature clam dip. They’d split the prime rib special, a bottle of wine primarily finished by Mira, and now she was sipping a Rusty Nail.
“What’s in this? It’s good,” Mira asked, her voice slurry. She wasn’t much of a drinker, although, oddly, she loved the taste of alcohol. Two drinks was her regular limit.
“Scotch and Drambuie.” Matthew sipped at his beer as well, planning on dumping it into the nearby hanging plant if he got a chance. He was going to drive down to New Essex tonight, and he needed to stay sober.
“Okay, now I’m done,” Mira said, finishing her drink, ice clicking against her teeth.
“Me, too.” Matthew slid both of the glasses toward the bartender and asked for the check. Mira didn’t notice that his beer glass was more than half full.
In their hotel room, she pulled her jeans down around her ankles and sat heavily on the made-up bed. “The room’s spinning,” she said.
Matthew helped remove the rest of her clothes and tucked her in under the covers, making sure to pull the sheets loose at the bottom of the bed. He didn’t think there really was a chance of Mira’s waking up, but if anything was going to wake her, it would be so that she could kick her feet free from the covers.
Matthew opened the window a little—the radiator in the room was hissing and crackling, and it was far too hot—then went to his suitcase and pulled out the few things he thought he might need: the stun gun, the telescopic baton, the jackknife, his vinyl gloves, and the fleece cap that would cover all his hair. Just touching each object was making his heart race. Slow down, he told himself. It might not happen tonight. It probably won’t. But he knew that if the opportunity arose, if he managed to be alone with Scott Doyle . . . he did a silent dance, crouching and pumping his fist repeatedly, just to expel some of his nervous energy. Then he breathed in through his nostrils and put his coat on.
Before leaving, he bent down to Mira and whispered in her ear. “I’m taking a walk, honey,” he said. “Can’t sleep.” She responded with a throaty sound, more annoyance than a reply. He thought of waking her and telling her again, but decided he didn’t need to do it. His only worry was that she’d need to pee, and that would force her out of bed. Should he leave a note just in case? The desk in the room had a pad of paper and a pen, both embossed with the name of the inn, and he scrawled a note to say he was on a walk and he’d be back soon. He put a water glass on top of the note, covering some of the words, so that he’d know, when he returned, whether she’d read it.
He left the hotel room, taking the back stairwell that led into the rear parking lot of the hotel. He stepped outside into the cold night and pulled his gloves on. There was no one visible in the parking lot, but in the distance he could hear the whoops of a group of people out on the street, going from one bar to another.
He got into his Fiat and began the drive to New Essex. On the way, he thought of Mira, safe in bed, in a locked hotel room. No one could hurt her, even if they wanted to. And then he thought of Michelle, visiting her dying father while her boyfriend fucked a waitress on the side. A wave of almost suffocating rage surged through Matthew. If you gave a man just the smallest amount of power—a handsome face, the ability to sing, a little money—the first thing he’d do is destroy a woman, or two if he could. He allowed himself