relationship through games of low-grade deception, living a life of pure ambivalence, looking to all outside observers relatively happy. Pepin himself would realize no significant financial gain from his wife’s death—nor did he need it, he was such a successful game designer—so money had to be ruled out as a motive. Interestingly—Hastroll had discovered this after following up with Pepin’s next-door neighbors as well as the administration of Alice’s school—she’d just returned from a yearlong leave of absence from her job, during which she’d embarked on what appeared to be a nine-month trip around the world; she’d flown out of La Guardia on 13 September, bound for London, returning via Melbourne, Australia, on 13 June. She’d reconciled with her husband, living with him for two months, with indications of marital strife but nothing to suggest what had ultimately occurred.
What they had before them, Hastroll said, was one of those rare and horrible cases between husband and wife—an eruption of real oremotional violence during a moment of terrible privacy—the evidence as mysterious and impenetrable as a wormhole, only the survivor knowing the truth. He didn’t look at Sheppard when he said this.
Still, there were two nagging clues. The first was the staged burglary, which Hastroll couldn’t make heads or tails of. Second: Pepin had received multiple calls on his cell phone over the period of weeks leading up to Alice’s death that Hastroll had traced to a pay phone in the Time Warner building off Columbus Circle. Pepin’s neighbor, Rand Harper, had witnessed the last call Pepin had received from this number—there was apparently a heated exchange—and the next day Alice was dead.
Sometimes, Hastroll found himself growing accustomed to this new arrangement with Hannah. It was like the perfect marriage, at least from a man’s point of view. He woke up in the mornings in his bed next to hers, usually a few minutes before she did, then went to the kitchen and made them coffee. Since her self-imposed sentence, she’d started taking milk and sugar in it, and over five months Hastroll had noticed the level of the white granules sink like sands through an hourglass and imagined all that sweetness flowing through his wife’s body. He’d bring her the mug and wait for her to sit up and arrange her pillows, just like she used to when she didn’t live in bed, and they’d lay in their separate beds and talk for a while, and after an unspecified amount of time that depended on his day ahead, he’d excuse himself to shower. And instead of the hustle and bustle of their mornings before Hannah’s domestic incarceration—vying for time on the toilet and space before the mirror to shave or pluck eyebrows—Hastroll had the shower to himself, could mess up the sink, beat off, if he felt like it, and take as long and satisfying a dump as he cared to. Before he left for the station, he’d kiss Hannah on the forehead, bring her some breakfast and a pitcher of water and a ham and cheese sandwich for later. Then he’d leave for work. And when he came home, there she’d be with the TV on, her sandwich eaten, the water pitcher half-empty, the plates on the floor, Hannah still in bed.
He grew accustomed. And in fact there were many good things about the arrangement. Even Hannah would admit she had odd rules about things, certain kinds of personal limits that for years Hastroll had unconsciously worked around. Hannah needed her sleep—eight solid hours—and she protected it fiercely, was in a bad, bad way if it was interfered with; if she stayed up too late the deprivation wrote a check that irritability cashed the next day. So he took advantage and went to late showings of first-run films; Hannah only liked weekend matinees and insisted on pictures that weren’t violent.Now Hastroll saw
everything
and felt the satisfaction of having seen
all
the films on his list and a bevy of independents and even a few
What they had before them, Hastroll said, was one of those rare and horrible cases between husband and wife—an eruption of real oremotional violence during a moment of terrible privacy—the evidence as mysterious and impenetrable as a wormhole, only the survivor knowing the truth. He didn’t look at Sheppard when he said this.
Still, there were two nagging clues. The first was the staged burglary, which Hastroll couldn’t make heads or tails of. Second: Pepin had received multiple calls on his cell phone over the period of weeks leading up to Alice’s death that Hastroll had traced to a pay phone in the Time Warner building off Columbus Circle. Pepin’s neighbor, Rand Harper, had witnessed the last call Pepin had received from this number—there was apparently a heated exchange—and the next day Alice was dead.
Sometimes, Hastroll found himself growing accustomed to this new arrangement with Hannah. It was like the perfect marriage, at least from a man’s point of view. He woke up in the mornings in his bed next to hers, usually a few minutes before she did, then went to the kitchen and made them coffee. Since her self-imposed sentence, she’d started taking milk and sugar in it, and over five months Hastroll had noticed the level of the white granules sink like sands through an hourglass and imagined all that sweetness flowing through his wife’s body. He’d bring her the mug and wait for her to sit up and arrange her pillows, just like she used to when she didn’t live in bed, and they’d lay in their separate beds and talk for a while, and after an unspecified amount of time that depended on his day ahead, he’d excuse himself to shower. And instead of the hustle and bustle of their mornings before Hannah’s domestic incarceration—vying for time on the toilet and space before the mirror to shave or pluck eyebrows—Hastroll had the shower to himself, could mess up the sink, beat off, if he felt like it, and take as long and satisfying a dump as he cared to. Before he left for the station, he’d kiss Hannah on the forehead, bring her some breakfast and a pitcher of water and a ham and cheese sandwich for later. Then he’d leave for work. And when he came home, there she’d be with the TV on, her sandwich eaten, the water pitcher half-empty, the plates on the floor, Hannah still in bed.
He grew accustomed. And in fact there were many good things about the arrangement. Even Hannah would admit she had odd rules about things, certain kinds of personal limits that for years Hastroll had unconsciously worked around. Hannah needed her sleep—eight solid hours—and she protected it fiercely, was in a bad, bad way if it was interfered with; if she stayed up too late the deprivation wrote a check that irritability cashed the next day. So he took advantage and went to late showings of first-run films; Hannah only liked weekend matinees and insisted on pictures that weren’t violent.Now Hastroll saw
everything
and felt the satisfaction of having seen
all
the films on his list and a bevy of independents and even a few
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