“Wait, hold it. Kenneth?”
“In prison. I want to talk to him in prison. Maybe Gabriella could expedite that process, if she’s willing.”
“Why would she?”
“Maybe she won’t. But it’s worth a try.” He took hold of Charlotte’s shoulders. “Who knows. Maybe she’s as desperate for answers as we are.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I think this is something I have to do alone.”
Charlotte looked less sure. “I’m worried about you. Out there, asking questions that seem . . .”
“Insane.”
She sighed with resignation. They crossed the garage to the door that would take them back into the house. As Paul closed it, he took one final look at the blanket box, then turned off the light.
Thirty-Five
I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t want to see me,” Paul said to Gabriella Hoffman.
“Not at all,” she said, opening the door for him. “It would seem the least I can do.”
Instead of dropping in as he had done with the others he’d wanted to talk to about Kenneth, Paul phoned Gabriella first. She had not asked what it was about, which led Paul to wonder whether she’d always expected he would call, someday.
While Paul and Kenneth had been colleagues, Paul had never been in the Hoffman home. It was a stately two-story in north Milford, set back from the road. Paul was expecting some level of inattention, not necessarily along the lines of Gilford Lamb’s place, but when tragedy strikes a household, sometimes other things slide.
But the yard was beautifully maintained. Blooming flower gardens, perfectly trimmed shrubs. He parked alongside a black Toyota RAV4, rang the bell, and was admitted.
Gabriella, tall, thin, with silvery hair that came down to her shoulders, was described as forty-nine years old in the Gwen Stainton article, but she looked older. Despite that, she looked fit, and held her chin high, as though she had nothing in the world to be ashamed about.
She said they’d be more comfortable talking in the kitchen, and led him there. She offered coffee from a half-full carafe and set two mugs on the table. They sat across from each other.
“Many times, I’ve thought about getting in touch with you,” she said.
“You have?”
She nodded. “When you discover you’ve been married to a monster, you can’t help but feel responsible for some of the monstrous things he’s done.”
“I’m not blaming you. It’s never occurred to me to do that.”
Gabriella smiled and touched his hand. “That’s kind of you. The truth is, I never found the courage to approach you. And as much as I’ve wanted to offer condolences, something, anything, to Harold or Gilford, I have to admit that I haven’t the courage there, either. What would I say? Can I make it all up to them by bringing over a dozen home-baked muffins? I think not. Several times I’ve tried to write letters to them, and to you, but every time I end up tossing them into the garbage.”
Paul did not know what to say.
Gabriella continued, “I was reading one time about a case in Canada. A respected military man who turned out to be a serial killer, and his wife had absolutely no idea. I think about her, and wonder, how does she get up every day, knowing she lived with someone like that, that she didn’t see it, and that if she had, maybe she could have done something about it?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“What Kenneth did wasn’t quite as horrific as that, but my God, it came pretty close. If there is anything to be grateful for, it’s that you survived.”
“Well,” Paul said, “I guess there’s that.”
She put a hand on his arm. “I think we met a few times at faculty events.”
“We did.”
“Did you know?”
Paul felt a jolt. “Did I know what?”
“That Kenneth was sleeping with anyone who’d let him into her pants?”
The bluntness threw him for a second. He was ashamed by the answer he was to give. “Yes.” He paused.
“I suppose everyone did.”
“I can’t speak for everyone, but I think it’s likely,” he said. “Now, sitting here, I feel somehow complicit, too. It’s not in my nature to be judgmental, but maybe if I’d called Kenneth out on what he was doing, it might have made a difference.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I just wondered. Don’t feel badly. I certainly knew.”
“You did?”
“Oh please,” she said. “I knew there was the odd one here and there. I knew what kind of man he was. Although, carrying on with two at the same time, that came as something of a surprise.”
“Yes, I suppose it did.”
She placed her palms on the table and straightened her spine, as though signaling a change in the conversation’s direction. “Kenneth spoke of you often. In fact, he still does.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
She nodded. “I visit him every couple of weeks. The man does feel, whether we choose to believe it or not, remorseful. I think he feels especially bad about you. You were a good friend.”
“I don’t know which I’m more surprised by. That he would mention me, or that you visit him in prison.”
“He’s still my husband.”
“You’ve never—forgive me, this is probably none of my business—but you’ve never taken any steps to end the marriage? The affairs alone would be cause for divorce, but since Kenneth did what he did . . .”
As Paul asked the question, it struck him where, exactly, he was sitting.
He was in the kitchen of the Hoffman home. This was where it had happened. His eyes wandered down to the table. Could this be the same one? Was this where the typewriter had sat? Was the chair he was sitting in the one Jill Foster had been bound to? Or Catherine Lamb?
What must it have taken to clean this place up after he’d slit their throats? Was there still blood buried in the grains of this wooden table’s surface? Was this where two women pleaded for their lives, where they hoped that a couple of typewritten apologies might save them?
“Paul?” Gabriella asked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“It looked as though I’d lost you there.”
“My mind, it drifted there for a second. What did you say?”
“You were the one talking. You were wondering why I haven’t divorced Kenneth.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
She smiled. “As difficult as it may be to imagine, he’s a victim, too. A victim of his own impulses. Since he’s been in prison . . . he’s tried to take his own life. At least once that I know of. Kenneth is my husband. For better or for worse. That was the vow I took. Vows mean something, you know.”
“Kenneth took those same vows. About being faithful and forsaking all others.”
Gabriella smiled sadly. “He wasn’t very good at sticking to those, was he?”
Paul felt a shiver.
“What about the house,” he said. “Have you thought of selling it, moving away from Milford?”
“Good luck with that,” she said. “Your wife, she works in real estate, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“She’d probably know all about how hard it is to sell a house where something horrific has happened. In time, maybe, but what Kenneth did, it’s far too fresh in people’s minds.” She paused. “For me, it always will be.”
She took a sip of her coffee, set down the mug. “So what was so important that you needed to see me?”
Best to come right out with it.
“I’d like to see Kenneth.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it might help if you spoke to him, paved the way, had him put me on a list of accepted visitors.”
She considered the request for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose that would be a problem, but I have to ask. Why?”
“At first, I wanted to see him just”—he shrugged—“to talk to him. These past eight months—and I know they’ve been very difficult for you—but they have been pretty hard on me. I guess what I have is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve had recurring nightmares, bouts of memory loss. Even . . . moments where I may be perceiving things I believe are real, but they’re not.”