So I decided I was going to find a guy and hurt Keith back. And if there was a kind of guy Keith cared about, it would have been the guy I spotted at the far end of the Dutch Cabin in his canvas work jacket and heavy boots. A real man who worked with his hands.
Not like Keith the artist. Keith the asshole. Because Keith is an asshole. I know that now. And with the way they’re acting, I’m starting to think maybe the rest of my friends are, too.
Did I get what I wanted? Did I maybe make Keith angry enough that he pushed— I don’t really think that. Other people saw it happen, anyway— Derrick, Maeve. All night the guy had been after Maeve, couldn’t take his eyes off her, which was a little irritating, but also good for Maeve. She still doesn’t realize how gorgeous she’s become.
The sick part is that there was a tiny part of me that hoped for a second Keith had gotten jealous enough to push somebody off a roof. But no, the guy was just drunk, and he fell.
Accidents happen. What doesn’t usually happen is the witnesses deciding not to call an ambulance and instead scurrying away in the dark like rats.
Days later, it’s like life has just gone on for my friends. And me? Am I some saint? No, not even close. Because I’ve wondered more than once whether Keith will think twice now before he touches another girl.
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 4:43 A.M.
“Maybe you and I should talk first, Mr. Cheung? Given that this is your house,” I suggest. “Out in the other room.”
“You’re separating us?” Stephanie asks.
“Procedure,” I say. “That a problem?”
“It’s not a problem at all,” Maeve says, her tone much softer. “We’re just upset. And Stephanie is a lawyer. She questions everything. She can’t help it.” A lawyer. Of course she is.
“Understood.” I look over at Jonathan and motion toward the dining room. “Maybe out there?”
“Um, yeah, sure.” Jonathan rubs his hands on his pants legs. Nervous, for sure. Could be nothing. Could be the thing.
I follow Jonathan out into the dining room, which has one of those absurdly long tables with plank benches, the kind people pay extra for because they look worn. Jonathan sits on the near side of the table, threading his legs through the long bench as I walk around to the other side. His shoulders are still hunched, eyes heavy under that stupid beanie.
“So when’s the wedding?” I ask as I sit.
Jonathan looks up like he’s got no clue what I’m talking about.
“Sorry, I thought you said this was your bachelor party? That usually suggests a wedding.”
Jonathan closes his eyes. “Right, of course, yeah. This has all just been . . .” He presses his lips together. “In May or June. We haven’t set an exact date.”
“Your house is amazing, by the way.” I gesture to the huge chandelier, an elaborate architectural formation of crystals that somehow manages to be hip and not fussy. “Looks like a real labor of love.”
“Yeah, we, um— we renovated the whole place.” Jonathan’s face tightens as he looks up at the chandelier. “My, um, fiancé, Peter, did most of the work. He has a much better eye for those kinds of things, and a lot more patience. We bought the place six months ago. The transformation since then has been— it’s unrecognizable. For months, Peter was up here a lot.” He hesitates. “Days and days at a time.”
Jonathan sounds tense now. Maybe he expects me to care that his fiancé is a man? I don’t, but it’s fair to wonder. We’re only two hours from New York City, but there are some deep pockets of small-mindedness in the Catskills— homophobia, racism, sexism. Even in the department, starting at the top with Chief Seldon, who talks nonstop about the “way things used to be”— code for very male and very white and extremely heterosexual. Seldon’s beloved in town, though. Chief of police for fifteen years, he’s flyby charming with a booming laugh, and he’s married to a gorgeous young wife with twin girls and two sons, adopted from Haiti and Uganda respectively, one of whom has special needs. Taken together, it’s qualified Seldon for Kaaterskill sainthood.
“How did you end up with a house here, if you don’t mind my asking? I’ve lived in this area most of my life, so I’m partial. But I always wonder how people from the city”— people like you with money— “find this area. We’re not exactly the Hamptons.”
“Peter and I considered the Hamptons. But that’s not my speed. Peter has friends who bought a house up here.”