Page 77 of I Will Ruin You

Then they found Billy Finster.

Not twenty minutes later, Marta was in that garage, slip-ons over her shoes, latex gloves over her hands, taking in the scene. The victim was white, mid-twenties, about two hundred pounds. Given the amount of blood on the floor, she was guessing gunshot or knife wound, but she’d know more once the body was turned over and the medical examiner had done her work.

Marta took note of the open locker filled with electronics and tools still in their original packaging. There was a spot on one of the upper shelves, about three feet wide, that was conspicuously empty. There was a box of untouched chicken wings from a place called Paulie’s. Marta wondered whether someone, possibly the dead man, had picked the wings up, or had them delivered. Maybe someone from Uber Eats or DoorDash had seen what had happened here.

Marta, continuing to step carefully, walked around the car and knelt down to get a peek under it. The front end was raised, the wheels on blocks. She spent another five minutes in there, studying the scene, before stepping outside.

The night was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights. Four police cars, an ambulance, all lit up like Christmas trees. A couple of uniformed officers—the ones who’d responded to the original call—had strung yellow police tape around the property’s perimeter. They’d been talking to neighbors, learned that the deceased was married, but there was no sign of the wife. Was she their killer? Was she on the run from whoever had murdered her spouse? Was she dead, too?

Marta put on a new pair of slip-on booties and went into the house. What a mess. Someone had been hunting frantically for something. Living room, kitchen, bedrooms, the basement, all in total disarray. The frenzied way in which items had been thrown about suggested to Marta the search was rushed, not meticulous.

When she went back outside, she noticed a woman intently watching the proceedings from the other side of the police tape. Mid-seventies, wearing a housecoat to protect her from the cool night air. Looked to Marta like she was wearing pajamas under her robe. She approached.

“Ma’am?” she said, displaying the badge clipped to her belt.

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?”

“Dorothy. Dorothy Envers.”

“Which house is yours?”

The woman pointed to the closest one.

“You know the people who live here?”

She nodded. “Lucy and Billy. What’s happened? They’re saying something happened to Billy.”

“Lucy would be Billy’s wife?”

“That’s right.”

“You seen her around lately?”

“Her car was here earlier today. She could be at work, although she doesn’t usually have shifts this late.”

Dorothy told Marta that Lucy worked in the cafeteria at a hospital in Bridgeport. Marta asked which hospital, got a description of Lucy’s car.

“You see anything out of the ordinary tonight? Cars you didn’t recognize coming by?”

The woman shook her head, but then thought of something. “Someone was watching the house at one point, in the afternoon. Parked right on my lawn.”

“Tell me about that,” Marta said.

Thirty-Seven

Richard

I should have called in sick Tuesday.

Sleep had eluded me. I tossed and turned all night, spent much of the time staring at the ceiling. I wasn’t the only one. Bonnie, beside me, was awake, too, but neither of us would acknowledge that we weren’t sound asleep.

We barely spoke at breakfast. Moved around each other in the kitchen like well-choreographed but silent dancers who could execute their moves without tripping over each other. Rachel looked dismayed. For a day or two there, she’d had reason to believe her parents were working through their differences. Attentive to one another. Chatting. But now a frost had settled in again. Mom and Dad not saying any more to each other than they absolutely had to. Rachel had kept her nose to her iPad through breakfast, reading about some disgusting bug or other, disappearing into her new interest.

I was in a brain fog. I couldn’t focus on the lessons I had to teach, and when any of my students asked me anything, I often didn’t register hearing my own name. Like I said, I should have called in sick, but was worried that doing so had the potential, later, to make me look suspicious.

I did have to field a few questions, from students as well as colleagues, about how I’d earned that bruise on my right temple and cheek. I was sticking with the story about getting hit with a basketball, and more than a few looked skeptical, some pressing to know who’d thrown the ball. I sidestepped, said I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble.