He leaves us.
‘That was sweet of him to say,’ I say.
‘He’s a stand-up guy,’ says Violet.
‘I guess,’ I say. ‘Is it true he punched a hole in KT’s wall, though?’
She nods.
‘He ever get into trouble? I think I remember KT saying something about him one time. About his past.’
She looks around.
‘What?’ I say. ‘You can tell me. I was her twin, for God’s sake.’
‘There were some bullshit allegations from his boarding school, stuff that followed him here, but you send your kid to a mixed boarding school deep in the woods of Connecticut, what the hell do you expect?’
‘What kind of allegations?’
‘They were all dropped, Molly.’
‘Come on. I won’t tell a soul.’
‘I should never have said anything.’
‘What is it?’
‘Honestly, you’ll jump to the wrong conclusions. It’s from years back.’
‘KT must have known about it. So tell me.’
‘Ancient history.’
I stare at her.
She sighs and taps her forehead and says, ‘Two girls accused Scott of some rough play back in school. They were seventeen, he was sixteen. He’ll talk about it openly if you ask him. The whole thing was dropped.’
‘Rough play?’
‘They were fooling around. Some choking game or whatever, not my scene. One of the girls was scared, some kind of misunderstanding, but they sorted it out amicably, Scottie’s parents and her parents. All in the past now.’
Chapter 19
I walk back through the lower third of Central Park, trying to analyse what Violet shared with me.
There’s a skinny guy on a fold-out stool drawing a charcoal caricature of two young brothers. Not twins, just regular siblings. They clearly want to go play in the wide open spaces, kicking dry leaves and playing catch. Maybe twenty minutes ago they wanted their picture drawn but right now, in this moment, their parents are doing everything in their power to keep them sitting perched on the rock until the artist has finished his work.
After seeing them today, if anyone has a slightly obsessive vibe, an intensity that doesn’t feel altogether healthy, I’d say it’s Violet, not Scott. He’s so laid-back it’s like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I sit down on a bench, defeated. The cremation of my twin will take place tomorrow whether the police have someone in custody or not. The four of us – three living Ravens and one deceased – will fly back to England tomorrow night, come what may. And I worry that as soon as we’ve left United States air space the police here will slow their efforts, not out of any incompetence or lack of professionalism, but because relatives are no longer close by to hound them. There will be other homicide cases in New York; there are statistically around three hundred per annum. Many of those will have surviving relatives and communities in the Tri-state area. They’ll be pushing, and we’ll have fallen silent.
My parents need closure. We all need it.
Mum texts me to check I’m OK. I reply I’m fine and ask her if she’s OK. She’s a marvel, she really is. Grieving and out of her depth in this foreign metropolis, she is doing what she knows KT used to do. Until this year, KT and I would text and call and FaceTime every day. Oftentimes, all through the day. Sharing stupid meaningless pieces of information. Photos of dresses and jackets in changing rooms. Photos of celebrity haircuts from fashion magazines. I’d tell her what I ate for dinner and she’d tell me the same. If she sat down at a lunch and a friend told her a secret she’d text me from the toilets and tell me what she’d said. It’s still a secret if you only tell your identical twin. It’s like telling the other half of yourself.
From my park bench I call Detective Martinez, but the call goes straight through to his voicemail. I don’t leave a message; I call Bogart DeLuca instead.
‘DeLuca.’
‘Hi, Bogart, it’s Molly Raven.’
‘I was just thinking about you, Molly.’
That seems creepy. I pause and he says, ‘I’ve found some stuff. Can I show you some things I’ve dug up so I can get your reaction? That possible, you think?’
‘I could come to your office?’
‘You could, Molly, you could. But I’m based all the way down on the Lower East Side. Canal Street. Right now I’m at Hudson Yards – fancy place, you know it?’
‘No.’
‘OK, where are you right now?’