one would know it. He’d known the type well at Aurelius. But there was something else that he couldn’t read, like a blurry line of text in an otherwise simple book. Alan cared too much about Audrey, for one thing, or maybe he cared for Kate. Either way, he cared about what Henry had to say, was hanging on every word. So Henry led him directly to Corbin, in the same way he’d led Kate to Corbin. He painted him as a psychopathic killer, and he painted himself as the unhinged boyfriend who was out for revenge.
Alan drank several beers, becoming more and more animated. Henry matched him, not just beer for beer, but also in his exuberance. They were like two college freshmen arguing philosophy in a dorm room. Alan kept sliding forward in the booth, one knee vibrating like a tuning fork. He feels too much, Henry thought, fascinated. And while they talked on, Henry formed an organized fantasy in his mind. He pictured Alan and himself killing a woman together, maybe Kate, maybe someone neither of them had met yet. And they were taking their time in killing her and arranging her. And they were splitting her down the middle. And no one ever would know why except the two of them. Corbin would know, though. Corbin would know exactly what was happening. Then the fantasy passed, and Henry felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of shame, as though those thoughts constituted not infidelity, exactly, but something like desperation. The need to take a singular experience and try and replay it with someone else.
“You okay?” Alan said.
“I am. Sorry,” Henry replied. “I get these moments when everything seems normal, the world exactly as it should be, then I realize that she’s not in it anymore. Audrey’s dead. And the world hasn’t stopped with her.”
Alan’s lips were pursed. He nodded his head in understanding. Henry straightened up, felt as though he was seeing Alan for the first time properly. He wasn’t another playmate. He was a patsy. The perfect patsy. “Sorry, man,” Henry said. “I keep talking about myself, and Audrey. What about you? You must have a girlfriend.”
Alan hesitated. Henry wondered if he was about to mention what he had done with Kate the night before. Instead, he said, “Nothing much to tell. I had a girlfriend. We lived together, and she moved out. But you don’t need to hear about that.”
“No, please. I want to hear about it. I want to just stop thinking about my situation for a moment. Please, tell me.”
Alan spoke while Henry thought. Maybe this guy really should be the patsy. All along, Henry had thought that he wanted Corbin arrested for the crime of murdering Audrey Marshall. Maybe not arrested, but suspected. It was all part of the game they were playing. But maybe he didn’t really want Corbin arrested. And it wasn’t just because Corbin would try and finger him for his part in the crimes. He could handle that. It wouldn’t be easy to track down Henry Wood these days. Not impossible, but not easy, not since he’d legally changed his name. It would sound as though Corbin were making up a bogeyman. But, no, Corbin in prison was not really what Henry wanted. It was more fun to play with something when it wasn’t in a cage.
Henry formed a plan, then turned his attention back to Alan, who was sputtering along about someone named Quinn. Their eyes met, and Alan suddenly stopped talking, as though embarrassed. He excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Henry moved fast. The bar was empty except for two men, both in button-down shirts, sitting at the bar and watching sports highlights on the television. He removed the knife, still in its plastic bag, from his backpack. It had been reckless to hold on to the murder weapon for so long, but now it was going to come in handy. He pulled it from the plastic bag, pinching the blade between the sides of his fingers so as not to leave prints. Alan had brought a leather bag with him, about the size of a briefcase. Henry opened it. Inside was a computer tablet, a book—The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle—and a thick wad of unopened envelopes, mail he hadn’t dealt with yet. Henry dug toward the bottom of the bag. A small, black umbrella nestled there, and Henry slid the knife underneath it, returning the bag back to the way it had been, just as Alan