Page 15 of A Talent for Murder

“It is.”

“Not my favorite time of year.”

“No?”

“When I was younger I didn’t mind things ending, and I liked the beginnings of things, but these days I prefer the middle of things. Maybe I’m just old.”

“You liked the poem, then?”

“It kept my attention,” he said.

The next morning I decided that I would spend the day finding out what I could about Josie Nixon and her suicide. Alan’s next conference was about a week away. It gave us some time, but not much. As Martha had pointed out, if Alan attacked another woman on one of his trips while we were taking our time trying to figure out what to do, then we would be partly responsible. I had a sudden vision of the dead women that we were now responsible for—Josie Nixon, the sex worker from Atlanta, the bartender from Fort Myers, the receptionist in Chicago, the masseuse in San Diego. I could picture them standing in a line, watching me from some other place, no expressions on their faces, but with eyes that were telling me, telling Martha and me, not to let it happen again. I read their names from the photographs on my phone. Josie Nixon, Kelli Baldwin, Bianca Muranos, Nora Johnson, Mikaela Sager. They stared at me some more through eyes I was only imagining, asking the questions I suspect that the dead always ask: Why me? Why now?

Chapter8

Alan was arriving at Manchester Airport at five, which meant that he’d be home not much later than six thirty. Martha texted to let him know that she’d be making dinner that night.

She was roasting a chicken, hoping that a familiar task would stop her mind from spinning. And it was one of their favorite meals, Martha loving the way it made the house smell. In the past she had found it a calming smell, a reminder that for the time being she was home safe and there was food in the oven and the world outside could wait. But now, with the oven timer ticking down, the house beginning to darken while clouds gathered outside, Martha felt a deep sense of fear, manifesting itself as a hard knot at the center of her chest. It was one thing to believe that your husband was some kind of monster who preyed on women, but she had spoken it out loud, told Lily about him, set the wheels in motion. And now all she could think was that when he came through the front door he’d take one look at her face and know exactly what had happened.

But when he finally did come through the door, wet with rain, he left his bag in the foyer, quickly crossed the living room to the open kitchen, kissed Martha, and asked if he had time for a hot shower.

“Of course,” she said, waiting for him to really look at her and know what had happened. Waiting for him to see that pulsing knot at the center of her chest or her trembling hands.

But all he said was, “It smells amazing in here. I’ll be right back.”

While he showered, Martha drank a third glass of wine. It didn’t relax her, but it made the room shimmer with unnatural light, so she made herself eat two pieces of the soft baguette she’d bought, spreading camembert on top. She wasn’t hungry, but the act of chewing and swallowing did calm her a little bit. She took the chicken out of the oven, checked the small red potatoes—they still needed time—and added the sheet of asparagus where the chicken had been. Her glasses were steamed up and she took them off for a moment. Alan didn’t know what she had done that morning. Even if he was a monster, he wasn’t someone who could peer inside of people to read their innermost thoughts. Just as she couldn’t read his thoughts. She took a sip of her wine and then went to their stereo system, flipping it on, pairing it with her phone, then picking a mix called “Dinnertime Jazz.”

“Ooh, romantic,” Alan said, sneaking up behind her in the kitchen. She jumped, making one of the strange sounds that came out of her when she was frightened. Alan laughed, one of his loud cocktail-party laughs, then apologized.

“Sorry, I’m jittery, for some reason,” she said. “Maybe it’s the weather.”

“Flying in, we could see lightning out along the coast. The woman next to me was praying, I think.”

“How was the conference?”

“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. But it was fine. Can I help with dinner?”

Martha pulled the potatoes and asparagus out of the oven while Alan carved the chicken. Then they brought everything to the table and started to eat.

When he finished the food on his plate, Alan leaned back and said, “Have you thought some more about a trip to England this summer?”

“I have,” Martha said. “It sounds perfect.” An image went through Martha’s mind: Alan and her at a country pub, the moors in the distance. She suddenly longed to be there, not because it would be a nice trip, but because if they were there together it would mean that her husband was innocent, that the nightmare she was in would have come to some kind of benign end.

“You okay?” Alan said.

“Oh, sorry. Daydreaming already about our trip. I think it would be great. You said you’d thought of a possible week already?”

“Sometime in August. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. All I have energy for is maybe some television and then straight to bed.”

A small ripple of relief went through her that he didn’t want to have sex. He often did when he was back from one of his trips, but he usually let her know he was in the mood first. Sometimes he did it jokingly, saying something like, “Shall we make it an early night?” while raising and lowering his eyebrows, but sometimes he was a little more direct, pushing up against her while she was doing the dishes, sliding a hand down between her legs. And, just as he always let her know ahead of time if he wanted sex, he usually let her know if he didn’t, saying something like what he had just said about being so tired, or that he could sleep for a week if given a chance.

After the dishes were done and they were watching The Great British Baking Show together, she began to wonder if there was some correlation between what had happened on a trip and whether he wanted sex or not when he came back. Maybe his exhaustion meant that he’d found and killed a woman down in Chapel Hill. The taste of roasted garlic hovered at the back of Martha’s throat and for a moment she thought she might be sick. She took a deep and quiet breath. Maybe it was just the opposite. Maybe when her husband came home, his hands all over her, dying to get her into the bedroom and strip her clothing off, it was because he’d killed a woman just hours before. Maybe it was a celebration.

“You okay over there?” Alan said.

“Oh, fine,” Martha said, wondering what had made him ask. “A little acid reflux, if I’m honest.”

“Take something.”

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