To not even remember the crime was unthinkable. What else had he done over the last few years when his drinking was at its worst? On more than one occasion he’d found unexplainable cuts or bruises on his hands and his legs after a hard night out. There were other things, too: missing clothes, wallets, phones. He couldn’t stop the most far-fetched and ridiculous thoughts. How many others were out there? How many others had he murdered and forgotten about? Maybe he was a serial killer. He would never even know.

Most days, during the first few months of sobriety, the nag came like clockwork, at happy hour. He’d sit on their balcony slowly breathing in the mountain air. The view usually calmed him. Their condo was modest but full of sunlight. Southern exposure. To fill the hours previously spent drinking, he’d been buying all kinds of plants. The green of their leaves, the pureness of the oxygen they gave off, reinforced a sense of calm. He’d focus on his new relationship with objects, with nature, how the spring trees looked like film negatives, their trunks and branches skeletally white. But soon, he knew, the leaves would come, the transformation already in the works.

Henry was also noticing how efficient and involved Claudine was in everything. While he’d been drunk, she’d worked hard; now the business was poised, ready for its first major undertaking. He’d been a terrible business partner. He could see that now. And through it all she had stood by his side. Believed in his talent. In their future. While he stewed in self-pity, unable to let her affair with Steve go, she’d doubled down.

When he thought back and tried to remember—how dark the blood must have looked as it was first coming out of Miller’s head; the confused look in the young man’s eye that must have been there—none of it came back to him. All he could see were flashes of driving to the house, pulling up out front, going to the door. Did he even remember going to the door? As soon as he mentally placed himself inside the cabin, all he could think about was blood. There must have been so much blood.

Then one day it was final.

“Henry. It’s ours.” A huge smile on her face.

“What’s ours?”

“The property. It officially belongs to Calhoun + Calhoun.”

He did not ask how. Claudine had covered up a murder. Two murders. After that, nothing she did would surprise him.

“I have a present for you,” she said.

She led him into the living room and there, near the window, was a vintage oak drafting table wrapped with a bright red ribbon. He understood. It was time.

He sat down and unrolled the designs, and they never talked about any of it again.

Part Five

THE PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

Claudine

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.