Matt nodded. Nothing Ganesh would say—nothing anyone could say—would make one bit of difference.
Ganesh leaned forward and lifted a tall cylindrical bong from the coffee table. Lighter in one hand, bong in the other, he gestured to Matt, offering the first hit.
Matt held up a hand to decline. He was never one for weed. And he always found it strange how Ganesh, a law-and-order Republican, used the drug as a crutch. But he supposed that was the enigma of his roommate from freshman year. Ganesh was finishing his four-year degree in three, and had already been accepted to med school to specialize in neuroscience. Fitting—Ganesh’s own brain could provide years of study. He was a conservative who chose to attend liberal NYU. He was an immigrant who loved to chant “Build the wall.” He was sophisticated, yet highly susceptible to cable news conspiracy theories. He grew up in a ten-million-dollar penthouse in Mumbai, yet chose to live in a shithole apartment on the outskirts of the East Village.
Ganesh blew out a lungful of smoke and aimed the remote at the television. “That douche RA was on TV talking about you. So was your girl.”
“Ex-girl,” Matt corrected.
“I DVR’d it,” Ganesh said. He scrolled through the recordings displayed on the screen, and clicked on one for the local news. Up popped Phillip’s preppy face.
“We’re all heartbroken,” Phillip said.
“You and Matt Pine are close?” said the blond reporter holding the microphone.
“Oh yeah. I’m not just the dorm’s RA. We’re like family.”
Ganesh barked out a cough of smoke at that.
Next up was Jane, her long hair flowing like she’d just had a blowout, her eyes wet and glistening.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pine were so wonderful. They treated me like one of the family. And Matthew’s sister, Margaret, was such a special girl—she was the family rock, and was going to MIT in the fall. And Tommy”—Jane’s voice cracked—“he was just a sweet little boy.”
The emotion was real. Just yesterday, Jane had told Matt that she loved him but he couldn’t give her what she needed. Whatever that was. Jane dumping him shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Yet for such a supposedly observant guy, he sure hadn’t seen it coming. She was from old money, raised in a breathtaking apartment on the Upper West Side, destined to marry one of those guys from Stern who wore business suits and carried briefcases to class. Matt sometimes suspected that Jane dated him—a film student and scholarship kid—just to piss off her parents.
The screen jumped to an image of Danny from the documentary. Matt reached for the remote and turned off the set.
He and Ganesh sat quietly for a long while, Matt lost in his head, Ganesh stoned, chomping on more salt-and-vinegar potato chips, not cluttering up the conversation with platitudes. This was one of the things Matt liked most about Ganesh. He never littered conversations. When the documentary had come out during Matt’s freshman year, Ganesh kept him sane during the chaos. “Don’t stress, bro,” he’d said. “Let’s make lemonade out of it, and use the show to get some girls.” It hadn’t been the worst advice.
Now Ganesh said, “There’s a party in Brooklyn I was gonna hit up if you wanna come?”
“I think I’ll just hang out. You mind if I stay here tonight?”
“Of course, man, as long as you need. It’ll be like the old days,” Ganesh said, as if their freshman year had been a lifetime ago. In many ways, it was.
“I can skip the party,” Ganesh said. “If you want some company, I can—”
“No, you should go. It’s been a long day. I’m just gonna get some sleep.”
“Cool, cool, cool,” Ganesh said. He disappeared into the bedroom and came out wearing a hoodie and smelling of Axe body spray.
“Your ex keeps texting me looking for you. So is everybody else. You want me to—”
“Hold off telling them where I am. I wanna be alone for a bit. I’ll reach out to everyone in the morning.”
Ganesh nodded. “You sure you don’t wanna come? Take your mind off things?”
Matt shook his head. This wasn’t one where he could just make lemonade out of it. “You go, have fun.”
Ganesh stuffed his hoodie pocket with what was left of the bag of weed on the coffee table and headed out.
Finally alone, Matt balled up on Ganesh’s sofa, and he wept.
CHAPTER 7
SARAH KELLER
Agent Keller slid the key into the door of the small ranch-style house, moths circling the porch light above her. Readington, New Jersey, wasn’t a fancy neighborhood, which was just as well. That would’ve been cost prohibitive, given her FBI salary. But it was safe, filled with working-class families and young couples in starter homes.