Friends Like These(5)

“I don’t know,” Jonathan said. “Forever?”

“We all loved her,” Stephanie went on. “And we all feel awful about what happened, but there has to be a line somewhere.”

“Yeah, but Keith was in love with her,” I offered. “Kind of makes sense that he’s in the worst place.”

“And is Alice our excuse for enabling him?” Stephanie asked. “We feel so guilty that we’re killing Keith with kindness?”

We all stayed quiet for a long time.

“Rehab,” I said decisively. “We just need to get him in, and then we can let the professionals take over. This time it’ll take.”

And I truly believed it might. The last time we talked Keith into it— or I talked Keith into it— was probably too soon. It was only about a year after graduation, eighteen months after the car Alice was driving had been spotted abandoned near the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge. Sixteen months after her death was officially declared a suicide, though her body had not been found. I pictured it now, a skeleton, bright white and worn smooth, wedged forever between boulders at the bottom of the Hudson River. I shuddered.

“Maeve is right,” Jonathan said. “We just need to get Keith into Bright Horizons. That’s all. And we can do that. I know we can.”

The sunset was streaking the sky orange as Jonathan slowed the car at a tall, perfectly manicured hedge. Beyond it were the tops of dozens of towering trees. It wasn’t until we turned down the gravel driveway that the house itself finally came into view: a stunning Queen Anne, complete with spindle-topped turrets, second-floor balconies, and a massive wraparound porch. Four perfect wooden rocking chairs sat on either side of the hunter-green front door. My breath caught.

As we drove closer, I could see that the windows looked especially grand for that kind of older home, as though the remodel had involved enlarging them. The house’s sharp, clean edges— the perfectly squared-off roof, the precisely rectangular front steps— gave it an unexpectedly modern feel. Some lights were already on inside, warm and inviting in the quickly vanishing light. Peter had arranged to have the place ready for our arrival, Jonathan had told us on the drive. Peter might not have been perfect, but he was good at taking care of Jonathan.

“I’m so glad you and Peter found each other,” I said. “What you have together— it’s . . .”

Enviable. But Jonathan was my friend. I was happy for him.

“He’s lucky to have you, Jonathan. We all are.” Stephanie reached forward and hugged Jonathan fiercely from behind. That was how Stephanie always got you— without warning, she’d shed her armor. “True love— at least one of us has found it.”

“Come on, Derrick has Beth,” Jonathan deadpanned.

And for the first time since we left the city, we all started to laugh.





DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT


SUNDAY, 4:32 A.M.

Officer Nick Fields is in the entryway, hand already on his gun as I step inside the house. For Christ’s sake. Fields should never be on a door. Old for a patrol officer, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and heavy gut, he’s too jumpy for the field.

I meet his eyes. “Where are they?”

“Through there.” He hooks a chubby thumb over his shoulder toward the open doorway. “Seem pretty shaken up.”

“Understandable.” One of their friends is dead, another missing, and we don’t even know yet who is who. I nod at Fields as I pass. “Don’t shoot anyone.”

As I walk through the parlor area, I take in the expensive rugs, the just-right coffee-table books. One wall is covered in bold blue-striped wallpaper; a brightly upholstered antique armchair sits along a narrow side table. Everything is perfectly mismatched in the way rich people seem to love— smart, but homey. And expensive as hell.

Most locals would resent these people for every square inch of it. I get that. But I also know that having money doesn’t make people monsters, necessarily. That’s because I left Hudson, where I grew up— across the river and slightly bigger than Kaaterskill— for college at UCLA, then a year of working at a tech start-up in San Francisco. I only did all that for my mom. I’ve always known I was going to be a police officer— here, in Kaaterskill. When I came home to enroll in the academy, my mom demanded to know why I’d take such a dangerous, low-paying job when I had endless options. Of course we both knew the answer to that question. We were just good at pretending otherwise.

And just like that my mind is headed there. To the whole thing. Dammit. Lately, my brain has a hair trigger. It’s that stupid podcast. Last episode just aired a couple weeks ago, and there’s been a lot of talk about it around town. It’s hard to avoid. But I’ll be damned if someone else’s sick idea of entertainment is going to turn me inside out after all this time. I’ve been fine. I am fine. And I intend to stay that way.

I walk into a large living room. There are two red leather couches facing each other, two females— one white, one Black— and an East Asian male seated close together, late twenties, early thirties. They’re attractive and well put together, glamorous, even— their clothes, their affect. But visibly upset, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. I glance up at Officers Tarzian and Cartright standing on the far side of the room, nod in their direction.

I turn back to the three on the couch. “Detective Julia Scutt.”