Friends Like These(27)

Bells jangle as I push open the door, and a damp, mossy smell, something just shy of mildew, greets me. There’s a thin white kid working the counter, an Adidas baseball hat pulled low, Budweiser tank top with a big American flag. He’s hunched on a stool, staring down. Not Bob Hoff. I don’t want to feel disappointed, but I am. Still, there are the questions to be asked, which is why I’m here anyway.

When the guy finally lifts his eyes to mine, his face is heavily lined, papery skin loose against his bony cheeks. The little bit of hair tufted out under his hat is the same cold gray as his eyes. Much older than I thought.

I flash my badge quickly, as I always do. I don’t want him reading my name. Scutt means one thing in town: the Scutt-Leigh murders. At least the podcast was called The River, for where Jane’s body was found. Bethany’s blood-soaked, shredded clothes were nearby in a gully of leaves, left behind when her body was dragged off. Black bears are all over the Catskills, too. For a long time I’d been envious of Bethany’s family, envious that they’d never had to know exactly what had been done to her— the smashed face, the dozens of deep, small stab wounds. What was left of the family was long gone from Kaaterskill now, but a few years after the murders, I saw Bethany’s mom in the grocery store. Once cheerful and warm, always quick with a smile and a big hug, she’d looked stunned, almost terrified, as she circled the grocery store, gripping an empty cart. Like she’d only just been told the news. Bethany’s family were very poor, her parents uneducated, but always joyful and warm. They were a wonderful family. At that time, Bethany’s dad hadn’t yet left, but he would soon, and her oldest two brothers— there had been seven children all together— would each spend time in prison. The unknown is its own kind of horror.

“Were you working here last night?” I ask the guy behind the counter, trying to refocus.

He peers at me. “Why?”

“There was an accident, down the road.”

“An accident?” He looks toward the windows. “What kind of accident?”

“Car accident. I’m wondering if maybe the occupants of the vehicle were in here beforehand.”

“Where?” He blinks at me. There’s a clouded look in his eyes.

“In here,” I say more loudly, tapping a finger on the counter. “I need to know if some people were in here.”

“No, no.” His eyes jump to life for a minute as he shakes his head hard. “Not in here.”

“How would you know?” I ask. “I haven’t even showed you their pictures yet.”

He squints slightly, registering his misstep. “Fine, show me.”

I hold up my phone, alternating between the two images I have— one of Derrick, one of Keith. “Two white men early thirties, around ten p.m. last night.”

He leans forward but still barely glances at the pictures. “Nope,” he says. “Not in here.”

“Take a closer look.”

He grunts, but looks at the pictures again. This time his eyes meet mine more forcefully.

“They weren’t in here. Like I said. And I’ve been on since eight p.m.” He checks the time on his phone. “I’m supposed to be off by now. Fucking morning guy is late again. Anyway, I knew every person who came through that door last night except a bunch of high school girls.”

“What about security footage?” I point to the video camera mounted over his head.

He snorts. “That shit’s just for show.”

“Great.”

There’s a sound then from the back— a door, footsteps. “You can ask Bob if you want.” A man emerges from the chips aisle, rubbing the back of his head. In a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans, he is fit, with dark brown skin and short hair, just slightly gray at the temples. The gray is the only sign he’s not in his twenties. I feel an irrational twitch of anger, seeing how well Bob Hoff has aged. All that time Jane hasn’t had.

“Yo, Bob, you see these two guys in here? Maybe when I was taking a piss.”

Hoff pulls up short at the sight of me. I get it— if I were him, I’d be worried about the cops around here, too. Also, I can feel myself glaring at him. Seems highly unlikely he’ll recognize me as Jane’s sister, though.

I hold up my phone, try to ignore how hard my heart is beating. “I’ve got pictures, if you don’t mind taking a look?”

“Sure,” Hoff says. He sounds nervous. Of course he is, after what happened the last time he said he saw something. He leans in, eyes creasing. “Didn’t see them.”

“Okay,” I say. And then to myself: Leave it. But I can’t. “Are you Bob Hoff?”

He exhales and shakes his head slightly as he stares down at the floor. “Listen, my mom is sick, cancer. She needed someone to take care of her during chemo. Otherwise, I’d never have come back. I don’t want any trouble with the cops. I don’t want any trouble with anyone. And for the ten thousandth time, I did not have anything to do with any dead girls.”

Dead girls. Like they were some stolen stereo equipment.

“One of those dead girls was my sister, you know.” It’s shot out of my mouth before I’ve thought it through. And I sound pissed. I feel pissed.

“You’re kidding me,” Bob Hoff whispers. “This is never going to fucking stop.”