Friends Like These(22)

However, the right explanation is almost always the simplest. A person in a car dead, another person missing? Missing person is the culprit. Weekender on weekender, exactly as Seldon wants.

“So what did Seldon say when he called you?” I ask.

Dan is quiet for a long minute. Finally, he exhales. “He said go down there and keep an eye on things.”

“Keep an eye on me.”

“Eye on her. I think that was the way he said it. You know, like you were a little kid or a knapsack,” Dan says. “Come on, Seldon’s a jerk. That’s not news. Anyway, one of the two punctures— weapon as yet to be determined— must have hit an artery, the ME says.”

“Still no sign of the driver?”

“With the rain, the dogs can’t seem to catch a scent. I called in a potential armed and dangerous as soon as we saw the blood. But the wounds are on the side. Could be they came from a third party, in the back seat. Left-handed then, would be my guess.”

“There was another guy with the group who supposedly went back to the city early,” I say. “Some sort of conflict. Uniforms are headed down to the train station to check for him.”

Dan glances at me then, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how to put it. In which case, I wish he wouldn’t say it at all. Meaning well has never kept Dan from being clumsy. “Listen, I just want you to know— I’m not going to get in the way here,” he says. “Seldon told me to come, so I came, because I’m not looking to get on his shit list. But this is your case. You’re in charge.”

I cross my arms. I’m not falling for Dan’s Mr. Nice Guy routine, even if it isn’t a routine. I meet his eyes. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

I head back to my car, running down potential angles to use with the group back at the house. They’re withholding information for sure. If there was a conflict between the driver and the passenger, I need to know about it. I need to know more about why this artist of Keith’s took off. Details about the drugs. A more aggressive approach usually backfires, it just puts people on the defensive, but maybe with this group—

“Excuse me!”

When I turn, an older woman with thinning gray hair and a light pink tracksuit is hustling my way. She’s panting. “Gracious me,” she says, the phrase sounding awkward coming out of her mouth— stilted, too delicate. Her rough edges don’t fit with the pink tracksuit either. She waves a hand, then puts it to her bony hip as she bends to catch her breath. “You move so damn fast.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say. She’s not a reporter, that’s obvious. Not that they belong here either. “This is an official investigation.”

She steps closer, then smiles like she feels sorry for me. “My, you look exactly the same.”

Her words send an uncomfortable prickle down my spine. “The same as what?” My fingers have moved to my neck, pushing down so hard on the ring that it digs into my collarbone.

“Your picture in the paper, back when”— she sucks in some air— “when you were running away from your house that night. In your nightgown.”

Like she owns some piece of me. Like she’s entitled to talk about what I wore to sleep as a little girl. It’s like the distant ringing of a very menacing bell. Blood is pounding at my temples.

I take a step toward her, imagine reaching out and giving her one quick shove. But she might break something if she went down. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Them?” She laughs. “What do you mean?”

Armchair sleuths have sprung up in the wake of The River. And they have no sense of common decency. They’ve got no sense, period. They email and call. One even showed up at the station to share a theory about the killer running a sex slave ring. These people think Jane and Bethany are just a puzzle to solve.

“This is an active investigation, not a game show. Get in your car right now and drive back to wherever the hell you came from.”

“Oh, I live in Hudson, right behind— ”

“I don’t care!” The actual reporters are looking my way. And that’s the last thing I need. “Just go, now.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, apologetic but a little excited still. “I didn’t mean to— I’m sure this is upsetting. I mean, especially with the— ” She grimaces, then motions to her face. “With the— you know.”

“No, I don’t know,” I say, motioning to my own very angry face.

“Well, I mean, the smashed faces? It’s like a signature, isn’t it?”

I clench my fists to avoid grabbing at her. “Get the fuck out of here,” I say, voice shaking. “Or I’ll arrest you for obstructing.”

But as I turn back to my car, she still hasn’t moved.

“You know, Bob Hoff is also back,” she says. I tense— I haven’t heard that name in a very long time. “Working at the Cumberland Farms, just like he used to. Like nothing ever happened.”

Cumberland Farms. Also the possible last stop for our victims. I don’t love that coincidence. Not that I ever thought Bob Hoff had anything to do with Jane. As far as I’m concerned, he’s an innocent victim, too.

Hoff reportedly told people at the time— bragged, some said— that he’d seen something the day Jane and Bethany were killed. But when the police interviewed him, he denied knowing anything. Got scared about telling whatever he knew, my parents suspected. Because he was a young, semi-employed Black man in a sea of white, the not-talking had turned him briefly into an unofficial suspect in town. Within a week, Bob Hoff was gone from Kaaterskill, which did nothing to make him seem more innocent to his neighbors.