Page 84 of I Will Ruin You

Sources say Finster, an airport baggage handler, was shot at close range. Police are currently looking for his wife, Lucy Finster, 27, who is, police stressed, not a suspect, but someone they wish to speak to in a bid to gather more information. She hasn’t been seen since Monday afternoon.

I would like to say that the story came as a total shock to me, but it did not.

There was also a video clip from one of the local TV news stations. The item was shot earlier today out front of the Finster residence, which was still roped off with police tape. The woman standing with the microphone in her hand didn’t have much information beyond what was in the newspaper, but she did have an interview with a woman I recognized as the one who’d asked me to move my car off her lawn. At the bottom of the screen was her name: Dorothy Envers.

Christ, I had more to worry about than Billy’s texts to me. Would she tell police she’d seen someone watching the Finster house earlier in the day? And did she, or anyone else, see me when I returned several hours later?

I was hopeful I’d left no trace of my presence there. Recently, I’d read something about “touch DNA,” where a sample can be obtained if someone does nothing more than touch a surface. The good news there was, I hadn’t touched a thing except for the handle of the door into the garage, and I’d wiped that down with the sleeve of my jacket when I’d left. And that would mean I was in the clear with fingerprints, too. I’d seen no surveillance cameras, and if there had been any, chances were the police would have been at my door by now.

But there was the issue of footprints.

When I’d run across the yard to the garage, I’d passed through grass damp with evening dew, and I supposed it was possible my shoes could have left an imprint on the garage floor. So this morning I’d taken those shoes—an old pair of Asics I’d been wearing for about four years—and dropped them into a trash bin out back of a fast-food joint out on Boston Post Road.

I knew how that looked.

But I didn’t want anyone knowing I’d been there last night. How would I persuade anyone I wasn’t a suspect if they knew the game he’d been trying to run on me?

Well, he wasn’t going to be running it anymore.

I’d heard nothing from Bonnie all day. No call, no text. But then again, I hadn’t been in touch with her, either. Maybe tonight we could sit down. Clear the air.

I might even find the strength to tell her what I’d done.

As I was heading to my car at the end of the school day, I nearly bumped into Herb Willow as he was coming out of his classroom.

“Excuse me,” I said.

We hadn’t spoken since I’d let him have it the other day. If he was still holding a grudge, it wasn’t evident by the smile on his face when he saw me.

“Richard,” he said amiably. “How are you today?”

“Fine, Herb,” I said, and would have continued on my way but he wasn’t done.

“I hear the townsfolk are gathering their pitchforks and torches for a meeting with you tonight.”

So that hadn’t been an amiable smile. More like a devilish one.

“Once these book-banners are convinced something’s unacceptable, it’s hard to win them over,” Herb said. “They just zero in on the objectionable part and won’t consider it in a larger context.”

“There some kind of point you’re trying to make here?”

“I should think it would be obvious. You don’t see the parallels?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You got parents judging what you give their kids to read based on one small excerpt, and you’ve got the whole goddamn school judging me based on one small thing said by a crazy person who wanted to kill us all.”

I couldn’t see what was to be gained, debating a worm.

“I wonder why I see your hand in this meeting,” I said.

Herb feigned offense. “How could you say that? How unprofessional would it be to cause problems for a colleague?”

I turned and walked away.

When I got home, I walked over to Mrs. Tibaldi’s to pick up Rachel. I figured the trip back to the house would give us a chance to get caught up. I’d been so consumed with my own problems that it was easy to forget that it wasn’t all about me.

“How’s Mrs. Tibaldi?” I asked.