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The road is rough, full of potholes and wet spaces where the tires spin; the tree cover obscures the gray sky. And Harley tries to put himself there as he takes the drive. He takes a deep breath and wonders what each kid was thinking, feeling, wanting as they made their way up here for the party Evan Handy was throwing while his mother was away for the weekend.
Harley tries to sink into that space, access his teenage self. What would he be hoping for? A good time. Beer. Some girls. He’d be thinking about sex, of course. Was there any chance he would get laid? That’s what all boys were thinking about, all the time. But what was Maddie thinking? Steph? Ainsley and Sam? Why did they each come here that night?
Finally, the big stone house comes into view, gray with black shutters and a red door. Just like any other house that has sat empty for a decade—abandoned, lonely. The grounds have been kept; the house obviously cared for as nothing seems in disrepair.
Harley gets out and stares. Finally Chet pulls up behind him, climbs out to join him. Up in the trees somewhere a crow caws.
“Imagine having so much money that you have a house that just sits empty and you pay someone to take care of it but never live there,” says Chet.
That was a thing Harley knew now but hadn’t realized when he was younger and growing up working class, that some people had more money than you could ever imagine. Money accrued over generations, a pot that just grew and grew, and no matter what you bought—homes and yachts, planes and islands—the amount never diminished. In some of the cases he’d investigated, he’d run into such people. Almost to a one, their corruption and disconnection from reality was total. His father always said, “If you want to know how God feels about money, look at who he gives it to.” Which Harley always thought was bitterness after his hardscrabble life but now he understood.
“Crazy, right?” said Harley, shaking his head.
He wanted Chet to feel comfortable, relaxed. Because it wasn’t just the house and the property Harley wanted to see. Chet was, by some accounts, here that night, as well. He wasn’t supposed to be; he was the youngest of the bunch, sneaked up to the party even though he hadn’t been invited. Harley was wondering if Chet might have seen something that he hadn’t shared. And honestly everyone else in this town had closed ranks.
Madeline Martin had come to see him, but she clammed up quickly. Badger had made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t be talking to Harley, that in fact Harley could fuck right off, and by the way, what did he think he was playing at? Everyone knew, Badger went on, that Ainsley and Sam were dead and the only thing Harley or anyone should be doing is torturing that sick fuck Evan Handy to get him to say where the bodies are buried so that everyone could move on, finally. The rant continued: They were all just kids who broke some rules to go to a party thrown by some new rich asshole at school who everyone thought was the shit but who was really just a sadist. And they should have known because he’d already hurt someone. But there was just something about the guy that made girls go blind. Then Badger hung up.
Sheriff James Martin, Madeline’s father who’d run the investigation and kept at it long after the case was officially cold, he had had a stroke. If he had something to share, it was locked up inside him. And even Mrs. Wallace, who’d been the one to implore him to look into their case, was a person lost in memory and grief. She had a lot to say; it just didn’t further the investigation.
“So, it’s been empty since that night?” asks Harley now. He surreptitiously opens the voice recording app and puts the phone in his pocket. He does not tell Chet that he has done so. This was one of the thingsNew York Magazinesaid was unethical. But, you know what? Fuck ’em.
“Yeah,” says the kid, bobbing his head. There’s something about the other man’s face that keeps Harley glancing back at him—girlish eyes and defined cheekbones. The black wool beanie he has pulled down low on his forehead is pilled and fraying. Kind of adds to his look rather than detracts, though. Like he’s a grungy supermodel.
“I guess no one wants to rent or buy a house where such horrible things have happened.” Chet’s voice is soft and smokey.
“You were there that night?”
More head bobbing, a quick hand run over his crown. Chet is lean, muscular. Harley can see in his movements that he’s strong, in shape.
“Badger said you’d have questions,” he says after a moment. “That you’re some kind of reporter.”
“Just a writer,” Harley says easily. No one is threatened by writers. “I do a podcast, write books. I’m not looking to cause any trouble. I’m just trying to understand what happened here, see if I can’t help get some answers for Mrs. Wallace. She lost everything, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Chet agrees. There’s something childlike about him, sweet. “They were nice. A nice family.”
“Right,” says Harley easily. “Hey, you want to help me? I can pay you.”
Chet shakes his head slowly. “Badger doesn’t want me to talk to you.”
“You’re close to your brother.”
Silence, then, “He’s my best friend.”
“I get that,” says Harley. “My brother’s my best friend, too. But he’s older, so he always acts like he’s smarter than me. Tells me what to do. I love him but that’s kind of annoying.”
Chet snorts a little, gives a nod. Harley starts walking around the perimeter of the house; Chet follows.
That’s a lie. A complete and total lie. Harley is an only child. That’s the other thing Harley has been accused of—lying to get people to talk. But cops do it all the time; make themselves relatable, easy, nonjudgmental. Sometimes that means lying. Lying isn’t a crime.
“I wasn’t supposed to come here or see you. Badger wanted me to stay home,” Chet says when they get to the backyard.
Harley offers his most understanding nod. “When we were kids, my brother always treated me like a baby too. Still does. Even though he’s only two years older than I am.”
“Right?” says Chet. “He acts like he knows everything about—everything.”
Harley pushes out a little laugh. “They’re just trying to look out for us, I guess. But who’s looking out for them?”
That was it. That was the button to press. Chet seems almost startled for a second, then he starts to nod vigorously. “That’s what I always tell him.”
