Chapter Thirty-two

Once Maura picks me up, I text Muse:

Sorry. I’ll explain later.

“So where are we going?” Maura asks.

“To visit Beth.”

“You found her?”

“Ellie did.”

I put the address Ellie texted me into my navigation app. It tells us the ride will take thirty-eight minutes. We start making our way out of the city and onto Route 78 heading west.

“Do you have a theory on how Beth Lashley fits into all this?” Maura asks.

“They were also there that night.” I say. “By the base. Rex, Hank, Beth.”

Maura nods. “Makes sense. So we all had a reason to run away.”

“Except the others didn’t. At least not at first. They finished high school. They went to college. Two of them, Rex and Beth, didn’t come back. They weren’t exactly hiding, but I think it’s clear they wanted no part of Westbridge. Hank, well, he was different. He would walk every day from the old base all the way across town to the railroad tracks. Like he was checking the route. Like he was trying to figure out how Leo and Diana ended up there. I think I get that now. He last saw them get shot by the base, like you.”

“I didn’t exactly see them get shot.”

“I know. But let’s say the Conspiracy Club were all there except for you—Leo, Diana, Hank, Beth, Rex. Let’s say they saw those spotlights and heard that gunfire and all ran. Maybe Hank and the others saw Leo and Diana get shot. Like you, they’re scared out of their minds. The next day, they find out the bodies were found all the way across town on the railroad tracks. That must have confused the hell out of them.”

Maura nods. “They probably would have guessed that the guys from the base moved them.”

“Right.”

“But they stayed in town.” Maura veers the car onto the highway. “So we have to assume that Reeves and the guys at the base didn’t know about Hank, Rex, and Beth. Maybe only Leo and Diana got close enough to the fence.”

That makes sense. “And my guess is, judging by Reeves’s reaction, he didn’t know about the tape either.”

“So they thought I was the only living witness,” she says, “until recently.”

“Right.”

“So what gave them away now? It’s been fifteen years.”

I think hard about this, and a possible answer comes to me. Looking out of the corners of her eyes, Maura sees it. “What?”

“The viral video.”

“What viral video?”

“Hank supposedly exposing himself.”

I explain to her about the video of Hank, about how it’d gone viral, how most people thought his murder was some kind of act of vigilantism. When I finish, Maura says, “So you think, what, someone from the base saw the video and maybe recognized Hank from that night?”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it? If they’d seen Hank that night—”

“They would have identified him earlier.”

We’re still missing something, but I can’t help but think it has something to do with that viral video. For fifteen years, the three of them are safe. Then that video of Hank on school grounds goes viral.

It’s related.

A brown sign featuring a red-clad equestrian reads WELCOME TO FAR HILLS. This isn’t farm country. Not really. This part of Somerset County is for the wealthy rural set, those who want a huge home on a large plot with nary a neighbor in sight. I know a philanthropist out here who has a three-hole golf course on his land. I know other guys who own horses or grow apples for cider or do some other form of what one might label gentlemen’s farming.

I look at Maura’s face again, and I feel that sense of being overwhelmed. I reach out and take her hand. Maura smiles at me, a smile that hits bone, that makes my blood hum, that jangles my nerves in the best way. She takes my hand, brings it to her lips, kisses the back of it.

“Maura?”

“Yes?”

“If you need to run again, I’ll go too.”

She puts my hand on her cheek. “I’m not leaving you, Nap. Just so you know. Stay, go, live, die, I’m not leaving you again.”

We don’t say anything more. We get it. We aren’t hormonal teenagers or star-crossed lovers. We are battle-scarred and wary warriors, and so we know what this means. No pretense, no holding back, no games.

Ellie is parked around the corner from Beth’s address. We pull up behind her car and step out. Ellie and Maura embrace. They haven’t seen each other in person in fifteen years, since Ellie hid Maura in her bedroom after that night in the woods. When they release the hug, we all move toward Ellie’s car. Ellie gets in the driver’s seat; I take shotgun, Maura goes into the back. We pull up to the closed gate blocking the driveway.

Ellie hits the buzzer by the intercom. No reply. She hits it again. Still nothing.

In the distance I see the white farmhouse. Like every other white farmhouse I’ve ever seen, it’s stunning and nostalgic and you can instantly imagine a simpler, happier life under that roof. I get out of the car and pull on the gate. No go.

There is no way I’m leaving now. I head to the picket fence off the driveway, hoist myself up, and drop down into the yard. I signal to Ellie and Maura to stay put. The farmhouse is probably two hundred yards down the flat driveway. There are no trees or anything like that to hide behind, so I don’t bother. I walk down the driveway in plain sight.

When I get closer to the house I can see a Volvo station wagon parked in the garage. I check the license plate. The car is from Michigan. Beth lives in Ann Arbor. You don’t have to be much of a detective to figure out the car is likely hers.

I don’t ring the doorbell quite yet. If Beth is inside, she knows already that we are here. I start to circle the house, peering in the windows. I start in the back.

When I look through the kitchen window, I see Beth. There is a near-empty bottle of Jameson on the table in front of her. The glass in front of her is half full.

There’s a rifle on her lap.

I watch her reach out, lift the glass with a shaking hand, drain it. I study her movements. They are slow and deliberate. Like I said, the bottle is near empty, and now so too is the glass. I debate how to play it, but again I’m not in the mood to stall. I creep over to the back door, raise my foot, and kick it in right above the knob. The wood of the door gives way like a brittle toothpick. I don’t hesitate. Using the momentum from the kick, I cover the few feet between the back door and the kitchen table in no more than a second or two.

Beth is slow to react. She’s just starting to lift the rifle to aim when I snatch it away from her in classic “taking candy from a baby” style.

She stares up at me for a moment. “Hello, Nap.”

“Hello, Beth.”

“So get it over with already,” she says. “Shoot me.”