Best to come right out with it.
“I’d like to see Kenneth.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it might help if you spoke to him, paved the way, had him put me on a list of accepted visitors.”
She considered the request for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose that would be a problem, but I have to ask. Why?”
“At first, I wanted to see him just” — he shrugged — “to talk to him. These past eight months — and I know they’ve been very difficult for you — but they have been pretty hard on me. I guess what I have is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve had recurring nightmares, bouts of memory loss. Even... moments where I may be perceiving things I believe are real, but they’re not.”
Gabriella eyed him with sympathetic wonder. “Oh my, that’s awful, but do you think seeing him will help you with any of that?”
“I do. I might be totally wrong, but I do. I think coming face-to-face with him, of turning him back into an actual person, instead of some kind of demon that comes to me in the night, may help.”
If she was offended by having her husband referred to as a demon, she didn’t show it.
“I’m writing about what happened to me. I don’t know what it’ll turn into. A memoir, a novel, or maybe just something I write for myself that’ll never be read by another living soul. But I think the process is helping me come to terms with what happened. I’ve been talking to the others touched by Kenneth’s actions.”
Gabriella put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You mean, like Harold and—”
“Yes.”
She appeared to be deflating. “What have they said to you? How — no, don’t tell me. I don’t think I’m ready to hear it.”
“I understand.”
Gabriella took a second to collect herself. “You’re seeing a therapist, I presume.”
“I am.”
“Does he think it’s a good idea?”
“She. She’s not convinced it’s a good idea, but she’s not stopping me. In fact, I want to take her with me, if I am able to get in to see Kenneth.”
“Well,” she said. “You said, at first. Is there another reason you want to see him?”
“Before I answer that, I want to ask you something else, something that may seem strange.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you ever feel... haunted by the women Kenneth killed?”
Her head cocked slightly, as though no one had ever asked her this before. “I suppose I do.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know... I guess sometimes, I can see them, at this table. Asking me why.”
Paul nodded. “Yes. When you see them, how real are they?”
“Far too real. I mean, even though I never saw what happened, I can imagine it, sadly.” Gabriella sharpened her focus on him. “Why do you ask?”
Here we go.
“I think it’s possible,” Paul said, “that I have the typewriter.”
Gabriella’s face froze.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I think I have it. The typewriter Kenneth made them write their apologies on.”
“That’s not possible. The typewriter was never found. How could you have it? Kenneth got rid of it the night of the murders. The police never found it. No, that’s simply not possible.”
Before he could tell her more, she asked: “What kind of typewriter is it? Describe it.”
“It’s an Underwood. Very old. Black metal. You know. An antique manual typewriter. My wife acquired it recently at a yard sale.”
She appeared to be trying to remember. “It’s funny, you see it sitting around the house every day, and now I’m trying to think, was it a Royal? A Remington? An Olympia? All names I remember from my childhood. But I think, yes, I think it’s possible our old typewriter was an Underwood. But there are millions of them. You can find one in almost any secondhand shop. What would make you think it was ours?”
Paul had thought about how he would answer. “That’s something I would be prepared to discuss with Kenneth.”
“You should tell me.” Her face darkened. “After all I’ve endured with that man, surely I’m entitled to know whatever you’re holding back.”
“I’d like to tell Kenneth first. If he wants to tell you what I’ve told him, I have no problem with that.”
She didn’t look pleased with that, but she didn’t fight him. She did appear ready to ask him something else, but they were interrupted by what sounded like a truck pulling up to the house.
“My son’s home,” she said.
“Can you get in touch with Kenneth and ask him if he’ll see me?”
Gabriella stood up, evidently eager to greet her son. “I’ll see what I can do. Sometimes these things can be arranged more easily than you think. And what’s the name of the person you want to take with you?”
Paul told her. She nodded and started walking toward the front door.
It opened before she got to it. Leonard Hoffman, still in his ice cream — stained apron, came into the house.
He looked at Paul and said, “You.”
Thirty-Six
“Hello, Leonard,” Paul said.
Gabriella was startled. “You know each other?”
“This is the bad man I told you about,” Leonard said.
“Wait, what?” she said.
“Leonard sells ice cream on our street quite often,” Paul said defensively. “Earlier today, I admit, I mentioned to him that there was, well, a connection.”
Gabriella looked as disappointed as she was angry. “Why would you do that? Why would you drag my son into this? Don’t you think he’s suffered enough from what his father has done?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“He called me saying some man asked about his father, but I had no idea it was you.”
Paul looked apologetically at Leonard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Leonard, why don’t you go in and have a snack while I see this man out.”
Leonard hesitated, not sure that he was ready to be dismissed. But finally he said, “Okay.” He glanced over his shoulder, adding, “Don’t come back here again.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
“Really, I’m sorry,” Paul said to Gabriella.
“Something we never got to,” she said, keeping her voice low, “was how hard this has been on Len.”
“I can well imagine that—”
“No, you can’t. Len’s not been the easiest boy in the world to raise. He’s got his share of difficulties, but say what you will about Kenneth, he loves his son and was always there for him.”
“What’s Leonard’s—”
“If you were going to say ‘problem,’ Leonard doesn’t have a problem. He was always just a little slower than the other kids, but there’s nothing wrong with him. He might not have been college material, but he’s got this job now driving that ice cream truck and that’s done the world for how he feels about himself. Can you imagine what it’s been like for him having a father go to jail for what he did? I just thank God he’s years out of school. The other kids would have tormented him to death.”
“I should go,” Paul said.
“Maybe you should.”
But Paul hadn’t moved toward the door, and Gabriella guessed why. “I’ll still do it for you. I’ll get in touch with Kenneth, and the prison.”
“Thank you. Can I give you my cell number?”
She went for a pen and a piece of paper. When she returned he gave it to her and she wrote it down.
“Okay,” she said.
“When I talked to Leonard,” Paul said hesitantly, “he said it was my fault.”
“What?”
“Because I came upon Kenneth. Because maybe if I hadn’t, Kenneth would have been gone by the time the police came.”