benefits of the electroconvulsive therapy was that her memory of the whole episode was hazy at best, and some of it was completely gone. She and Lloyd, who had always considered having children, made a final decision to not have any. Instead, they agreed to move out of Cambridge and find a larger house somewhere in the country.
Hen finished her coffee, grown cold in the mug. Now that she’d reacquainted herself with the Dustin Miller case, she was more convinced than she’d been the night before that her new neighbor was Dustin’s killer. Most of what she’d read was old news, but there had been a large Boston Globe feature on the unsolved murder that had run in July, back when Hen was orchestrating the exhausting move (“We’re never moving again, you realize that?” Lloyd had said), and she’d somehow missed it. There wasn’t a whole lot of new information in the feature, but it included some details about Dustin’s time at Sussex Hall, during which he’d been accused of sexually assaulting a fellow student. Either Hen had forgotten this detail or it was only being revealed now. No, she thought, there was no way she would’ve forgotten it. Not a chance. It made everything fall into place. The alleged sexual assault took place during that year’s Junior Olympics of fencing, held in St. Louis, Missouri. Her neighbor Matthew Dolamore, a teacher at Sussex Hall, obviously knew Dustin—he’d probably been one of his teachers. Maybe Matthew knew that the sexual assault—never proven—had actually happened. Five years later, he murdered Dustin out of revenge, or a sense of justice, and took the fencing trophy. It was ludicrous, somehow, but also entirely possible. Hen needed to see the trophy, however, and make sure it had the correct date and place. Then, and only then, she would call the police. It was her duty, right? Maybe she could even do it anonymously.
Hen shut down her computer and stepped out onto her screened front porch, glancing toward the Dolamores’ house next door. There was no car in the driveway, but, like their own house, there was a single-car garage at the end of the drive. Still, she remembered seeing a smallish, dark car there the night before. How was she going to find out the truth about the fencing trophy? She could try to sneak into the house while Matthew and Mira were away, or better yet, she could get herself invited over by Mira again. Maybe she’d send her an email, asking if she could take a look around their house again, to get some ideas about decorating. They had the same layout, after all.
It was warm outside, warmer than it was inside the house. Hen pulled off her sweater, sat on one of the rocking chairs, and tilted her face to the sun. She was in that position when Lloyd returned, dripping with sweat and breathing heavily from his run.
“I love it here,” he said, as he held on to the porch railing and stretched out his legs.
“This house or this town?” Hen said.
“Both,” he said. “How about you?”
“Both as well,” she said, and stood up. The warm breeze held the smell of someone’s cookout, and Hen was suddenly hungry.
Chapter 4
Mira rarely went into his office, but Matthew found her there on Sunday night. She was brushing her teeth, looking at the books on the shelf.
“I need something new to read,” she said, foam flying in specks off her lips. “Sorry,” she said, and left the office.
She came back, toothbrush discarded. Her hair was pushed back under a headband, and her skin was clean of makeup, still shiny from the moisturizer she put on her face every night.
“How about this one?” Matthew said, handing her The Pillars of the Earth.
“It’s so long,” she said. “Plus I need a paperback.”
“What time’s your flight?” Matthew asked. He’d just remembered she was leaving the next day for Charlotte.
“Not till three in the afternoon. I have the whole morning free.”
“Have you read The Daughter of Time?” Matthew handed her an old beat-up paperback; on the cover was a toppled chess piece, the king.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a mystery novel, but it’s about Richard the Third.”
“Okay,” Mira said. “I like it. It’s small.” She flipped open the front page. “Who’s Christine Truesdale?”
“I don’t know. I bought it used.”
Mira, reading the handwritten inscription, said, “‘Christine Truesdale. Finished March 17, 1999. Five stars.’ Well, she liked it, anyway.”