And I mean, fair enough. The guilt should be eating them alive, as far as I’m concerned. It’s actually a wonder Keith can even live with himself, given that he is the person most responsible. Were there intervening acts? Sure. But if you look deep down into the dark core of everything awful that happened— you end up eye to eye with Keith.
To be clear, it’s all self-serving anyway. They carry the guilt around so they can excuse getting on with the rest of their lives, enjoying themselves, despite what they did.
And so, after all these years, there I sit, watching. Gathering my evidence, bit by tiny bit. Someone is responsible. Someone is always responsible. And sometimes you really do get the best view from a distance.
I know what you did. Genius in its brevity.
“Is somebody sitting here?” A shaggy young guy with a knit hat and headphones, a laptop in his hands and a stressed-out look on his face, is pointing to the oversize bag occupying the stool next to me.
“So sorry.” I smile apologetically as I move the bag. Not that he seems to care as he dives for the seat.
Set on the ground floor of a prime piece of Chelsea real estate across the street, the Keith Lazard Gallery has an all-glass front and a polished concrete floor. There’s an overly wide desk that stretches across the front, a gorgeous young blond woman perched behind it like a piece of art herself, a huge arrangement of white orchids on her right. I wonder if Keith is fucking her. I mean, presumably, right? Keith is always fucking somebody— but discreetly, irrelevantly. That’s his extra way of making amends— denying himself love. Stupid, honestly. Because it benefits exactly no one.
Keith has soldiered on quite well professionally, though. The Keith Lazard Gallery is very well respected. Of course, owning a gallery isn’t the same thing as succeeding as an actual artist. Keith used to paint these enormous abstract canvases— bright blues and reds. Striking, really. And then there was his Family of Origin series, which he worked on for years. Kind of presumptuous, if you ask me, but they were beautiful paintings. Keith was going to be the famous artist. He did have the talent. But alas, he decided to snort all his gifts up his nose.
It’s not that I’m happy it didn’t work out for him. I’m not petty that way. I just believe in people getting what they deserve. And maybe Keith doesn’t deserve all the bad things to happen to him. But I’m not sure he deserves all the good things either.
I sound bitter. I know. And honestly, I am feeling unusually resentful right now. Everything just feels so loaded, the stakes so high. I know what I need to do: stay composed, keep my eyes on the prize. The problem is, I have way too much on the line. I can’t sit around and wait for something to happen.
A box truck pulls up in front of Bessell’s front window, double-parking and blocking my view. It’s time to go anyway, even if once again I am leaving empty-handed.
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 6:18 A.M.
As I’m getting out of the car at the Cumberland Farms, my phone buzzes with a text from Cartright. Are you coming back? These people are getting restless.
Back in fifteen, I type out quickly. I already know it’ll be longer. Handle it.
I feel a guilty little tug as I turn off my ringer and tuck my phone away. Like I’m not where I should be. But that’s ridiculous. In fact, it would be negligent for me not to check if Keith and Derrick were in the Cumberland Farms the night before, to verify the timing, ask for surveillance tapes. However, it would feel better if I’d been planning on heading here before my friend in the pink sweats mentioned Bob Hoff.
Bells jangle as I push open the door, and a damp, mossy smell, something just shy of mildew, greets me. There’s a thin white kid working the counter, an Adidas baseball hat pulled low, Budweiser tank top with a big American flag. He’s hunched on a stool, staring down. Not Bob Hoff. I don’t want to feel disappointed, but I am. Still, there are the questions to be asked, which is why I’m here anyway.
When the guy finally lifts his eyes to mine, his face is heavily lined, papery skin loose against his bony cheeks. The little bit of hair tufted out under his hat is the same cold gray as his eyes. Much older than I thought.
I flash my badge quickly, as I always do. I don’t want him reading my name. Scutt means one thing in town: the Scutt-Leigh murders. At least the podcast was called The River, for where Jane’s body was found. Bethany’s blood-soaked, shredded clothes were nearby in a gully of leaves, left behind when her body was dragged off. Black bears are all over the Catskills, too. For a long time I’d been envious of Bethany’s family, envious that they’d never had to know exactly what had been done to her— the smashed face, the dozens of deep, small stab wounds. What was left of the family was long gone from Kaaterskill now, but a few years after the murders, I saw Bethany’s mom in the grocery store. Once cheerful and warm, always quick with a smile and a big hug, she’d looked stunned, almost terrified, as she circled the grocery store, gripping an empty cart. Like she’d only just been told the news. Bethany’s family were very poor, her parents uneducated, but always joyful and warm. They were a wonderful family. At that time, Bethany’s dad hadn’t yet left, but he would soon, and her oldest two brothers— there had been seven children all together— would each spend time in prison. The unknown is its own kind of horror.