“It was as if there was this pressure building inside of him. There were times when he’d seem more restless, more short-tempered, more—” She still struggles to say it. “More violent.”
“Did he hurt you often?” Elsie asks quietly.
“In some ways, yes.” She thinks about the scorching barbecue tongs, about hands around her throat, thumbs applying downward force during sex. “He seemed sofrustratedsometimes, almost hungry, like he was punishing me for not being able to give him what he so badly needed.”
Elsie nods calmly, encouragingly.
“Then sometimes it was like he wanted to keep me in a cage,makeme stay home. There was one time…Well…”
“Bev, we’re in this together,” Margot says. “Nothing you can say will shock us.”
Beverley swallows, continues reluctantly. “He told me to stay home one day. He basically ordered it. Looking back, I wonder if this was his way of trying to keep me safe—from him. But I couldn’t do it. My friend Sandie was in town for her father’s funeral, and I said I’d help her buy a dress. I figured Henry would understand that.”
“I’m guessing you figured wrong.”
“He followed us”—Beverley’s fists twist beside her—“in the car.Then, when he caught up with us”—she swallows—“he revved the engine, hard, and the car just came at us, straight up onto the sidewalk, like he’d lost control of the wheel.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Sandie broke a leg.” She shakes her head quickly. “She missed the funeral. Her own father’s funeral.”
“Did you go to the police?”
“Henry said it was an accident, that the gearshift stuck. He seemed really cut up about it at the time.”
“Poor sweetie.” Margot raises an eyebrow.
“Then, that night, he stayed out late. I figured he was drinking to calm his nerves. I was in bed when he got back. Must have been two, three o’clock in the morning. I thought I’d smell the drink on him, but all I smelled was soap. His hair was wet. He’d taken a shower.”
“That’ll do it.” Elsie smiles tightly.
“The next day, though,” Beverley continues, “he was like a different person: kissing me on the cheek, smiling, laughing. He seemed…lighter, satisfied, like he’d had an aching tooth that he’d finally had pulled.”
“He had killed that night, right?” Margot asks.
“Carol Waterford,” she answers. “She was just drinking with friends at a bar.”
There’s a stark silence.
“So, do you think this guy could be showing signs that he’s killing?” Margot asks. “You think someone close to him might be able to tell what he’s doing if they had the right information?”
“I think it’s possible.” Beverley nods. “A wife, a friend, a sister—they might be able to recognize these behaviors. Did you notice changes with Stephen? With Albert?” She looks between them.
“Stephen was a chameleon,” Margot answers. “We were alwayssurrounded by other people—at parties, rallies, whatever—so it was hard to spot. What about Albert?”
Elsie considers, frowning. “There was thislook,” she says, “this look he would get in his eyes from time to time. Glazed. Like his body was there but his mind was occupied with something else.”
“His work?”
“No. There was other stuff.” Elsie frowns. “I’d find these magazines stashed down the side of the bed.”
“Ah. Here we go,” Margot enthuses. “The dirty-magazine stage.”
“Not just dirty, though. Shocking. Violent. I can see that now, but back then I didn’t know what I was looking at. Albert was the only guy I ever…” She waves a hand. “I convinced myself it meant he needed more from me—you know, in the bedroom.”
“We know.” Margot nods.
