“Like I said, I wasn’t well at the time. That incident has absolutely nothing to do with what’s happening now.”
“But . . . you still are bipolar, yes?”
Hen told herself to make sure her words were calm and measured. “I am—I always will be—but my meds are working. I’m not having a manic episode. I’m not imagining anything about Matthew Dolamore.”
The detective put her hand flat on the table, about an inch from where Hen’s hand was. “I believe you, Mrs. Mazur, but I also need to look at every possibility.”
“I get it. But it’s different this time. It’s entirely different.”
“But if you were experiencing an episode of bipolar psychosis right now, you wouldn’t necessarily know it,” the detective said, leaning back a little in her chair. “That’s one of the hallmarks of being divorced from reality, right?”
Hen thought that the detective had either done some research right before engaging in this conversation or had some personal experience with someone with mental illness.
“Sure,” Hen said, and decided to not say anything else. She was aware that the more she protested, the worse it sounded.
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Detective Shaheen stood up. “Thank you, Mrs. Mazur,” she said. “Your husband’s here, by the way.”
Hen hadn’t called Lloyd to let him know what had happened until just after noon. She wanted to give him a morning of peace after what was probably a very late bonfire party. And she was worried about his reaction, worried that, like the police, he’d think she was having some kind of mental breakdown.
It didn’t help that when she followed Detective Sheehan out to the Dartford Police Department waiting room, the look on Lloyd’s face was one of concern, almost pity.
“How are you?” he asked after they hugged. He was wearing the clothes he’d probably been wearing the night before at the party and smelled of stale sweat and too much deodorant.
“I’m fine, Lloyd, but we’re living next to a fucking murderer.”
“Let’s talk about it in the car, okay?”
Even though she was tired of telling the story, she recounted every detail to Lloyd, starting in the car and finishing at home. He listened patiently, hardly speaking. She thought he looked tired from his trip, dark circles under his eyes, and his skin an unhealthy pallor. When she was done, she asked, “Do you believe me? And tell the truth.”
He paused, and she almost hoped he’d say he didn’t believe her. She thought she’d rather be doubted than condescended to.
“Apparently, he has a solid alibi. He wasn’t there.”
“You think I’m making it up?”
“No, I think you think you saw him, but it was someone else.”
“Explain to me how it’s possible that the person I think might get killed by our neighbor gets killed by someone else. What are the chances?”
“I’m not following you.”
“I saw Matthew stalking this guy—this Scott Doyle. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it at the time, but I knew how worried you’d be. And that’s why I went last night to see his band. I wanted to see if Matthew was there as well.”
“The police said you were intoxicated.”
“Yes, I kind of was. I admit that. But, still, think for a moment. What are the chances that Scott Doyle just happens to get killed by someone else, by someone other than our neighbor?”
“But . . . according to the police, he was.”
Hen clenched her teeth and took a large sip of water. “Do you think I’m manic?”
“I guess I do, Hen, I’m sorry. You’re acting like you did last time. You’re obsessive.”
“So I seem manic to you?”
Lloyd thought for a moment. “No, actually, you don’t. You seem fine, but your actions . . . I don’t know what to think. I’m worried, Hen.”
By the time they’d finally gotten into bed, Hen had agreed to move up her annual appointment with her psychopharmacologist in order to check her blood levels, and Lloyd agreed to consider the possibility that Hen was 100 percent right about everything.
“What would you do if you totally believed me?”
“What do you mean, what would I do?”
“Would you confront Matthew Dolamore? Would you decide to move out of this house?”
“I guess I’d lay low and hope the police got to the truth.”
“Mira must know everything.”
“Who?”
“The wife, Mira. She must know, otherwise she wouldn’t have given him an alibi.”
“You can’t get involved. You’ve told the police everything you know. Just leave it at that.”