It was easier to see that from the bottom of the pool.
The light filtered through in solid beams, made the water a cathedral.
I wanted to breathe, but I didn’t want to rise to the surface. I wanted to breathe in water, to discover that I had gills.
I’d watched video of Jasmine Wilde’s Washington Square Park piece, the one where people brought her the things she subsisted on. When no one brought her food, she didn’t eat. When no one brought her water, she didn’t drink. At one point, deliriously sick and dehydrated, she’d pulled up clumps of grass to chew on. “There’s life in here,” she said to the camera, or whoever was holding it. “The roots hold a lot of water. Sometimes you have to take.”
I had no idea what it meant. Wasn’t this the problem, all along? All we did was take from each other and from the earth and from ourselves. Maybe her point was that we couldn’t help it. Right now, I needed to take from Beth, who didn’t deserve it; and from Robbie, who did.
My survival instincts kicked in, and without deciding to I rose to the surface, gulped in oxygen for every cell of my body.
My phone, on the side of the pool, showed a voicemail alert from an unknown number.
I dried my finger on my towel so I could hit play, and Beth’s small voice filled the room. She said, “I still can’t believe you drove all the way to Stowe.” And then she kept talking, but it was there in her voice from the beginning, in her tone of relieved resignation: That she would do this, she would talk to Amy. That she had realized she’d been waiting for decades.
32
A full day passed.
Across from Aroma Mocha, where I sat with my laptop and a latte, across a street that had been a street since it was cobblestones and dirt, was a soft-serve ice cream place. Robbie and Jen Serenho were unmistakable, Robbie in a dark blue parka, Jen in her maroon coat, the kids bouncing like rabbits.
I was waiting for Amy March, who—after my ridiculously long voicemail—had stalled all day in court, taking far longer than needed to examine the second State Police detective. （She practically asked his shoe size, Geoff texted. She’s like, can you read this entire ten-page document aloud?） And I was waiting for Beth. They were both due here at 4:30, once Amy was done for the day. It would be just the start of a bunch of dominos falling. Rather than wait and recall Beth after the state presented its case, they could use Beth’s husband’s upcoming surgery and petition the judge to let her be recalled out of order. That way, by the time Robbie took the stand—although he’d know what was coming—Amy could ask him directly about Beth’s testimony.
I watched as, across the street, Robbie picked the youngest up, swung her by the armpits, set her down.
The universe stood still. I wondered if I could at least jump off.
Here was the person I’d been looking for, all these years. A person I couldn’t wait to destroy. Here was the person living the life Omar deserved. The life Thalia deserved.
Here, also, was someone with young children who loved him, with a wife who loved him. （I know, I know. I know.）
It was the kids I thought about. Even if Robbie was never put on trial himself （the chances were slim）， even if he kept his job, even if he kept his marriage together, his children would grow up in overwhelming shadow.
Not like my kids, who might or might not fully become aware that someone had made an art piece about their father, might dismiss it or embrace it, might accuse or defend him.
This was murder, it was strangulation and assault. He had bashed in her head and left her to drown. This was an abuse of privilege that the world would eat up: a boy at a fancy boarding school, an athlete and star, a stock character. For a reason. A guy we’d seen before because we’d seen this guy before.
To be absolutely clear: I’m not saying What a fine young man, let’s not ruin his future. I’m saying, I looked at him and knew I was looking at, among other things, a murderer. And the chill I felt, I expected it. But I didn’t expect to feel like a killer myself, like someone reaching out to end something.
Not a single cell of his body was the same as it had been in 1995. But he was still himself, just as I was still, despite everything, my teenage self. I had grown over her like rings around the core of a tree, but she was still there.
Robbie’s daughter had a pink swirl, maybe strawberry. One son had chocolate, one son had vanilla. He swung the little girl again: left, right, left, right.
33
I was wrong about you, too, Mr. Bloch, but I still don’t feel that wrong.
To put it another way: I was mistaken, but I wasn’t incorrect.
At freshman orientation, they had us do that embarrassing game where someone pretends to be a machine part, and someone else joins, making a different motion, a different noise, then someone else, someone else, till we were all one big hormonal machine in the middle of the hockey field.
My point is, you were a part of the machine: an arm, a leg. You drove the getaway car. You threw bricks through the window and someone else grabbed the jewelry. You distracted the feds while the spies got away. You held her down while someone else beat her. You shot the deer and wounded it; when the second hunter came along, the deer could no longer run.
34
Dane Rubra stares into the camera a long moment, blinking. His eyes are bloodshot, but the irises remain a reptilian amber.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “and others. I am—I don’t even know what to say. As you’ve doubtless heard, we had the kind of bombshell today that could upend this whole hearing.
“I’m speaking to you from my hotel room on the evening of Wednesday, March sixteenth. Here’s what we know so far. Today, the defense was able to recall their witness Elizabeth Docherty, who testified that Robbie Serenho was not provably at the mattresses until 9:59 p.m., and that Thalia Keith confided with her on more than one occasion that Serenho had physically assaulted her. To which I say: whooooo, boy.
“I’m happy that my gut instincts were right, my very first instincts. If you’re wondering how Denny Bloch fits into all this—and if you haven’t watched Episode 46, please give it a moment of your time—what I recently discovered is not irrelevant. Robbie Serenho did this thing. Dennis Bloch was the motivation. Ms. Docherty spoke about Bloch today in court, and it seems the defense will use that in some way going forward. Thalia sleeping with her music teacher, that’s a death penalty offense according to young Mr. Serenho. We now have means, motive, and opportunity for Serenho. That makes him a viable suspect, a more than viable suspect.”
Dane stops here, takes a long sip of water from a fingerprint-smudged glass.
“Serenho is entitled to get himself legal representation, which, duh, he will. He’s on the docket for tomorrow morning, which should be incredibly interesting.
“I have seen Robbie Serenho in town with his family. At the time I sighted them, I was more interested in the new information about Dennis Bloch; otherwise I might have been tempted to confront him. One of many reasons I’ll be staying in Kern a while is to see if I can find him before he leaves.”
Dane leans in to stop the recording, his nose too close to the camera.
Geoff, watching the video with me Wednesday night, had already filled me in on the day. He’d told me how Mike Stiles had raced out of the courtroom right after Beth’s testimony, before the cross-examination. Presumably to tell Robbie everything that had happened.