Helen: Making comments he could laugh off as a joke.

Julia: And that’s the kind of thing that makes you wonder, why didn’t Michael pick up on the weirdness? There had to be a creepy factor.

Helen: Even if we allow for how charming a serial killer can be, you also have to wonder why Brady thought Michael might say yes. I mean, the other thing about serial killers is they’re supposedly good at reading people, right? Picking out likely victims. So why did Brady pick Michael as a potential murder buddy?

Julia: Do we have his testimony?

Helen: At first he didn’t say anything. Later he said Michael knew all along what he was doing and wanted to give it a try. But we also know Brady’s a lying liar.

Julia: We know what Michael says happened that night, but the video evidence only shows the center of the room. There’s no way to see the whole picture.

Helen: All those recordings are why the police knew there were more victims to find, why they knew Brady was guilty, but it’s also why they weren’t one hundred percent sure about Michael.

Julia: If I were his wife, I’d want to be more than one hundred percent sure.

CHAPTER

19

JUST BECAUSE I’D decided I needed answers didn’t mean I could get them from Michael. When he walked through the door after work, I asked, “How was your day?” Simple, innocuous, a question from the before time.

But he hesitated, bracing himself, his shoulders rising. “Fine. The project I’m on involves lots of computer time. And traffic was a bear.”

“Not on our street, though.”

At his uncomprehending look, I added, “We have a neighborhood constable. Apparently reporters are not approved by the HOA, so he cleared them out.”

Did he almost smile, or was that wistful thinking on my part? Suddenly, fiercely, I missed Michael, my best friend, the guy I looked forward to talking with at the end of every day, on the drive home from an event, after the credits rolled at the movie theater. “I also spackled some of those holes. Grace helped. How about you; did you talk to anyone?” Before, he would have told me who he’d seen, what they’d been working on, if they’d gone out to lunch.

Now he just shook his head. And I imagined Michael hunched over his computer, trying to lose himself in the familiar work, while all around him people wondered, maybe even whispered: Have you heard? Can you believe it? Could you imagine?

After a dinner neither of us actually ate, Michael went to the bedroom to lie down. Grace and I spent the evening alone. After I fed her and sang to her, I crept into bed beside him.

In the dark, I could hear his measured breathing, familiar and rhythmic. But was he asleep or just pretending? I couldn’t tell.