The feeling had been almost as good in the aftermath of the classroom shooting when she’d arranged to have Madison killed. There had been attention, then, as well, everyone worried about PTSD and how she’d process the trauma of what had happened along with the tragedy of losing such a close friend. The problem then had been that she had to share the spotlight with all the other kids who’d been in that classroom, and some of the kids, like Missy Robertson, had totally fallen apart at the time. That girl had actually wound up hospitalized, which had probably all been bullshit because she was fine now, on one of the local news stations as a weatherperson, and the rumor was that she was writing a book about what it was like to survive a school shooting. No surprise there.
Sometimes Joan fantasized about what it would have been like if she’d talked Richard into convincing his psychotic friend James to kill everybody in that classroom except for her. It would have been easy for James. No one in that class was going to suddenly become a hero. Certainly not Mr. Kimball, who had frozen like a mannequin in a store window. She could picture it now. James shooting every kid, and then Mr. Kimball, and then leaving her alive while he put a bullet into his chest. She’d have been famous, of course. Nationally famous. The girl who lived.
So now she was a widow, and not just an average widow, but one whose husband was also a murderer. She had enjoyed it for a while, getting the stupid cards and the texts from friends with emojis of hearts, none of them even suspecting she’d had anything to do with all the tragedies that had peppered her life. She could only imagine what they said about her to one another, wondering how one person could withstand so much violence in her life. It felt good, but it also left her with a feeling of emptiness, that it was just so easy to fool the world. That was why Richard’s death hurt so much. It wasn’t just that he was her partner, it was that he was the only one who knew how smart she really was.
Without really remembering how she’d gotten there, she was suddenly on Storrow Drive, heading toward Boston Memorial Hospital. There were crew boats on the Charles River, and heavy winds were stripping trees of leaves. For a moment she thought about leaving Dartford, maybe moving to Boston now that she had the freedom. But she also knew that she’d established herself in her little corner of the world, doing just enough home decorating to feel as though it was a career. And the other truth, the one she knew down deep, was that she didn’t want to live anonymously in a city, that she wanted the notoriety of small-town life. She was the talented gymnast whose life had been full of tragedy. That was not an identity she wanted to give up.
She found a metered spot two blocks from the hospital and bought two hours’ worth of time. She had no idea what to expect when she asked after Henry at the front desk. If he was still in the ICU, she doubted very much that she would be allowed to see him. Still, she had to try. And maybe she’d be able to get crucial information about whether he was going to live or die.
She made her way through the revolving door, making sure not to touch either the glass or the metal push bars. She passed a patient in a wheelchair, a skull-like head bent over so that all Joan could see was sparse white hair and old mottled skin. She hated hospitals with a fervor that was almost a phobia. The thought of being so old that you couldn’t take care of yourself was horrifying to her, and always had been. At the age of six she’d refused to visit her mother’s dying father, screaming so hard that she was eventually allowed to wait in the car with her father while her mother and sister went inside to say their goodbyes.
At the front desk she told the receptionist that she was here to see Henry Kimball, if that was possible.
“Are you a family member?” the heavy, frowning woman said.
“I’m a very close friend. If I can’t see him, that’s okay. But I’d love to talk with someone about his condition.”
“Hold on one moment, okay?” she said, picking up a phone, then before dialing, asked, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Joan Whalen.”
“Uh-huh.” The woman got through to someone and spoke quietly enough that Joan couldn’t hear the words above the ambient noise of the busy hospital lobby. When she put the phone back down in its cradle, she looked at Joan, and said, “Someone will be right down.”
She thanked her and stepped back a few steps to wait. Two young women, both in hospital scrubs, jogged through the lobby, presumably to get to some emergency that was happening nearby. Joan walked over to a wall filled with pastel abstract art but kept her eye on the entryway behind the reception desk. She didn’t know what to expect. Was a doctor coming down to give her a report on Mr. Kimball’s condition? It seemed odd since she wasn’t a relative. It was more likely he’d died already, and someone was coming down to tell her that.
About five minutes after being told to wait a tall Black woman pushed her way through the double doors, her eyes hunting around the lobby. Joan floated forward a little toward the front desk, and the woman spotted her, smiled, and made her way over.
“Are you Joan Whalen?” she said.
“I am.”
“Oh, good. I’m Detective Roberta James of the Boston Police Department.” She showed Joan a badge clipped onto the belt of her pantsuit. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Chapter 31
Lily
I’d been in Henry’s apartment for an hour, when it occurred to me that I could stay there. Searching through his desk for anything else he might have written down about Joan Whalen, I found a spare set of apartment keys. There was nothing stopping me from coming and going now. If a neighbor questioned me, I’d tell them I was watching his cat. And if I was in the apartment when someone came up, I could either hide in a closet or slip out the kitchen window and go down the fire escape. It was a risk, of course, but preferable to checking into a hotel. I didn’t want to leave any traceable evidence that I’d come to this area if I didn’t have to.
At dusk I left the apartment building through the front door and went out to the street to retrieve my car. I drove to a nearby seafood restaurant called Summer Shack, parked in their big lot, then entered the restaurant and sat at the bar. I got a glass of pinot grigio and the fish chowder. As I ate, I thought about what I was doing here, and if I was making a big mistake. My place was in Connecticut, at Monk’s House, looking after my mother and father. At times, I thought that that property, with its crooked farmhouse, and the encroaching woods, was my true and proper home, where I was destined to live out the remainder of my life. Where I was destined to die.
I didn’t find such thoughts uncomforting. I’d learned a long time ago that, for whatever reason, I didn’t mix well with the world of humans. I’d gone to college, and fallen in love, and that experience had led to nothing but tragedy. I didn’t feel bad about what I’d done to Eric Washburn, who, before I killed him, was destined to spend the entirety of his life making other people miserable, but I realized that ending his life had caused reverberations that had left me vulnerable to the world. Henry Kimball, when he was a police detective, had seen me for what I am, had come after me, and I’d made the biggest mistake of my life, trying to protect myself. He hadn’t been deserving of that.