Chapter 42

I forgot about inviting Bentley to the bar until he showed up at the house one morning after William left for work. I was still wearing my yoga clothes. In truth, I planned on staying in my yoga clothes the entire day. When the doorbell rang, I assumed it was a package.

"Bentley," I said when I saw him standing there.

"Do you still want to go to that bar?" he asked.

I paused for a moment.

"Yes."

I let him into the house. Bentley sat on the pristine white couches while I put on a dress and some makeup. My hand shook while I applied my eyeliner and I had to clean it off and start again.

"Ready," I announced as I walked into the living room.

"You look nice," Bentley said.

"Thank you."

I knew that it shouldn't feel like I was going on a date, but it did.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" I asked as we pulled onto the highway.

"I set my own schedule," Bentley said, and then glanced at me. "What about you? Aren't you supposed to be working on your novel?"

The way that he said "novel" made me blush, like I was filling in the pages of a children's coloring book.

"I'm allowed to take breaks," I replied.

There were several minutes of quiet and I wished that Bentley would turn some music on. I was too nervous to do it on my own for fear of being mocked for my choices.

Bentley broke the silence first.

"Tell me, Hannah. What have you learned about my brother?"

I knew that William would loathe that particular pathway of questioning, which didn't stop me from pulling out my notebook.

"Quite a bit. He cares about his body. He likes to eat well and stay fit, though he occasionally eats a fast-food hamburger and a milkshake as a treat. He talks about reading books more than he ever actually reads—I think he's quite insecure in some ways—and likes to watch dramas on TV. He's a good cook, but only in foods that he's been trained to make. William likes to stick to things that he's good at, which I guess is true of most of us. He's very tidy and it bothers him when things are out of place. He told me that he can't focus when there's clutter. He likes being a lawyer but wishes that he was at his own practice instead of working for your father."

I paused, flipping through the pages, trying to decide exactly how much I wanted to reveal.

"Oh, and he has a gun."

"I have a gun. Does that make me a murderer?" Bentley asked in his usual flirtatious manner. He was a faster driver than I was and weaved in and out of lanes as he passed slower vehicles.

I thought of Mark's office, his wall of guns. All of the men in the Thompson family had a penchant for weapons, it seemed.

"I mean, maybe. Have you killed anyone?" I replied, matching his tone.

Bentley laughed.

"Okay, so tell me more about this matchbook."

I bit my lip and looked out the window at the passing mile markers.

"You can't tell William about any of this. You have to promise. I do love him, you know," I said.

I worried that I'd already revealed too much. I was a ditchdigger rethinking the hole when I was already too deep in to ever climb back out again.

"Do you?" Bentley glanced at me again. "Can you love someone and think they're a murderer?"

"Keep your eyes on the road," I told him, refusing to answer the question.

Bentley smiled.

"Relax. I've made this drive a million times."

I took a deep breath.

"I looked through William's things when we first moved in together. He doesn't have a lot of personal stuff. It's kind of weird, like no knickknacks or anything. He's very utilitarian in that sense. Anyway, I found a box in his desk with a bunch of stuff in it."

I didn't mention the other things in the box or the notes that I'd found in the desk at their parents' house.

"And in the box, I found this matchbook. I didn't know what it meant at the time, but I took a picture of it in case it was important. Then one day I was on the forum—"

"The forum?"

"I'm on this forum that's investigating the murder of the women that William might've killed," I said reluctantly.

Bentley let out a deep-throated type of laugh that I'd never heard him do before. It was sincere laughter, the type that couldn't be faked.

"Let me get this straight. You're engaged to my brother and at the same time you're on an internet forum talking about how he's a serial killer?"

"Well, when you put it that way."

"How else would you have me put it?"

I didn't have a good response, so I continued.

"Anyway, someone posted a picture from the bar where Kelsey worked and I recognized the matchbook."

"Wow," he said.

"I know. Wow."

"Wasn't she killed while William was in jail though?" Bentley asked.

"That's what I can't figure out. How is he connected to her murder if there's no way that he killed her?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" Bentley said.

He pulled into a parking space directly in front of the bar. A sign warned that there was a two-hour time limit on the spot and for once, I was grateful for the parameter because it meant our outing had a set end time.

The building was brick with a green awning. The windows were covered by neon signs advertising different types of beer. It looked like the kind of place that Max would go to. Conversely, Bentley looked out of place. His shirt was too nice and he grew too much hair on his head compared to the regulars who lined the bar, a row of matching bald men with beer bellies.

Bentley was unfazed and strode up to the bar and ordered us each a Jack and Coke.

"You like whiskey, if I remember correctly," he said.

The invocation of our previous drunken nights together made me queasy. It might've been a mistake entering a situation in which Bentley was my only way home. I spotted the fishbowl of matchbooks and took one of my own. A memento of my investigation.

We sat at a small table.

"So," he said. "What are we looking for?"

I frowned.

"I don't know," I said.

"You're taking the lead here, Detective Hannah."

It was difficult to tell if Bentley was taking the situation seriously. There was a perpetual grin on his face that mocked me.

"How's Virginia?" I asked, changing the subject.

"She's okay. She's having pretty bad morning sickness."

"I can't imagine that's fun."

Bentley's face wrinkled.

"The whole thing is sort of unpleasant, actually."

"You're not looking forward to being a father again?"

"I thought that we were finally going to get a chance to breathe. You know, with things in our personal lives settling down and the boys getting big enough to be more independent."

"I have to admit that I was surprised when Virginia made the announcement. I was under the impression that things have been a little rough between the two of you," I said.

"Virginia's convinced that a new baby is what we need to make our family ‘complete,'?" Bentley replied, his tone making it clear that he didn't agree with her.

"Do you need another drink?" I asked. He still had some liquid in his cup, whereas I'd already drained mine.

The smile returned to his face.

"You're such a fish," he said. "Put it on my tab."

The bartender on duty was a middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and large breasts. She looked like someone who had always been behind a bar, who was born for the industry that she found herself in. Kelsey was still young and beautiful when she died, but twenty years down the line she might've turned into the woman who had replaced her.

"Two more," I said.

I noticed a small, framed picture of Kelsey Jenkins on the wall behind her. The frame had a plaque that read FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS. I appreciated the memorial to the woman whose death had altered my life so profoundly.

I pulled up a picture of William on my phone, one of us together at a sushi restaurant that we'd had a server take. William looked characteristically handsome and I, regrettably, had blinked at the exact wrong time.

"Do you know this man?" I asked when she returned with the drinks.

She squinted at my phone and shrugged.

"Not that I can recall," she said. "It's hard to say though. We get a lot of people in here. Why? Did he cheat on you or something?"

I wanted to scream. How did she not recognize the acquitted serial killer William Thompson? If society really wanted to punish those accused of being monsters, they would've made them walk around wearing Halloween masks that depicted the crimes they'd committed.

"No, no, nothing like that," I said. "Thank you."

I returned to the table, where Bentley was typing something on his phone. He put it facedown when I returned.

"You look good, Hannah," he said. He looked at me in a way that made me blush.

"Thank you."

"No, really. I mean it. I think it's been good for you—for all of us, really—to get away from the trial environment. People aren't supposed to live like that for long."

When I thought of who I'd been during the trial, I could only picture a jellyfish floating helplessly through the ocean. What a pathetic person I'd been then.

"Yeah, you're right. I think I didn't realize how on edge I was until it was over."

"How is your novel coming along?"

I snorted.

"It's not. I only have two sentences. You know, I always thought that my problem was that I didn't have enough time. Now it's like I have too much time. I can't focus."

"Does William know? He talks about you like you're Charles Dickens."

"No. I don't want to disappoint him. He's been so supportive."

"And look how you've returned the favor," Bentley said, a comment that I resented.

More people began to filter into the bar as it got later in the afternoon. The clientele expanded beyond bar regulars to people getting off work, dressed like professionals. Bentley got us another round of drinks. I began to feel warm as the liquor spread through my veins.

"Why did you kiss me?" I asked Bentley.

It was a question that had been in the back of my mouth since the kiss had happened. In truth, it was maybe why I had asked Bentley to the bar in the first place. I wanted to investigate the matchbook, yes, but I also wanted to be alone with Bentley somewhere that William wouldn't see us. The thing that everyone forgot when they talked about killing two birds with one stone is that the birds had to die.

I knew what I wanted him to say. I wanted him to describe me as irresistible. To tell me that he had never done anything like that before. I wanted to be special.

Instead, he shrugged.

"Sometimes you just need an outlet," he said.

The response burned.

"Is that something you make a habit of? Kissing women that aren't your wife?"

"Says the woman who makes a habit of trying to reveal her fiancé as a murderer."

I glared at him.

Thankfully, our conversation was interrupted by a guy wearing a T-shirt from a local brewery and carrying three shot glasses full of a clear liquid.

"Hey, man," he said to Bentley. "It's been a while. Where have you been?"

He set the shots on the table.

"I brought these for you and your lady."

I thought he must've been mistaken. As far as I knew, Bentley had never been inside the bar before, or at least, he'd never mentioned it to me.

"Thanks, man," Bentley said. He wore a look that I'd never seen before. A scowl of irritation the man seemed unable to detect.

We clinked our shot glasses together and said, "Cheers," and I threw the liquid down my throat. I coughed with the burn of it, having lost the ability to rapidly consume alcohol after I turned thirty.

"Who was that?" I asked after the man returned to the bar.

"I have no idea," Bentley said.

"Have you been here before?" I asked.

"No. Why?"

"That man, he acted like he knew you."

"He was mistaken. I get that a lot. I've got that look. The everyman."

I peered at Bentley's face. I always thought of him as taking after Mark, but there were shades of Cindy within him too. He had the same penchant for plastering over his true feelings in favor of a transparent veil of lies. As hard as he tried to pass off the recognition like it was nothing, I could tell by the look on his face that he was perturbed. It occurred to me that Bentley had never told me his own motivations for accompanying me to the bar. It was possible that it was a protective impulse, and he wanted to make sure that I was safe during the course of my investigation. It seemed possible too that he wanted to kiss me again. I'd been too wrapped up in my considerations of how Bentley felt about me to stop and wonder why he would want to continue investigating his brother. Was Bentley as obsessed as I was with the women? Had he already been to the bar in order to investigate and that's why the man recognized him?

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

Bentley dropped any remaining pleasantness from his expression.

"You're asking me that? Hannah, you're the one that wanted to come here. Face it, you only fell in love with my brother because you thought that he might be a serial killer and you don't know what to do now that he might not actually be one after all."

"That's not true."

"It is. It's why you sought him out. Don't deny it. It's why you keep investigating even after he was acquitted. You don't care about those women. They're just abstractions to you. You have no idea what it feels like to lose someone close to you like that. Do you even want to marry him or are you just hoping that he kills you first?"

It was so close to the truth that it took my breath away.

"I love him."

"Oh, stop. You love serial killers. You're one of those women. You're a dime a dozen."

"But William loves me."

"Yeah, he loves how mad your hippy schtick makes our mother. He loves that you have nothing, no money, no career, and he can provide everything for you. He doesn't realize that it will never be enough because it's not really what you want from him."

Bentley laughed and shook his head.

"You're exactly what my brother deserves," he said.

"Fuck you," I said and stood up. The world spun beneath me. Shit.

"I'm leaving," I declared.

Bentley's rant was a reminder of why I didn't date men like him. They could be charming and handsome, but they always took a turn when women didn't behave the way that they wanted them to.

"Where are you going to go, Hannah? I'm your ride."

"I'll figure it out," I said and stormed off.

It was dark outside. I hadn't realized how late it was. A ticket flapped beneath the windshield wiper on Bentley's car and I was glad. It wasn't justice for the things that he'd said, but it was something.

I called William. I had no one else. When I spoke, I started to cry. I didn't mean for my tears to be manipulative, but that didn't stop them from being so.

"Will you come pick me up?" I said, my sobs loud and evident.

"Where are you?" William said, his voice panicked.

I gave him the name of the bar. If he was familiar with it, he didn't reveal that through the phone.

"I'll be right there," he said.

Unfortunately, "right there" was still an hour spent outside of a bar where a murdered woman used to work. I expected Bentley to come outside and apologize, but he didn't. I tried to wrap my head around what had happened. Things were fine, flirtatious even, and then a shift occurred. Though I hadn't learned anything more about the matchbook or how it had come into William's possession, I'd gotten a glimpse at the Bentley that William had described in his letters, the one that I'd never fully been able to see before.

I sat down on the sidewalk, not caring how dirty it was or who saw me. The summer heat had finally broken in late September and I might've been cold if I wasn't so drunk.

When William came, he found me with my head on my knees, trying to stop the world from spinning. He glanced at Bentley's car and I could tell by his face that he recognized it.

He held out his arm to pull me up.

"I'm sorry," I said, my tears starting anew.

"Let's get you home," he said. The statement should've been warm, but his voice was grim.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

I meant it to be a joke, though it was clear that William didn't find it funny.

He sighed and shook his head.

"Hannah—" he started to say with an edge to his voice.

Before he could say anything else, I barfed on his shoes.