“Do you want me to say that I was wrong to paint it like that? That it was an oversimplification of a complex relationship, and I did it because I was an asshole? Because I was definitely an asshole,” he said. “I’m still an asshole. I thought we’d established that.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You were right. That painting was right. So much of my life has been defined by who I’m not— explaining or apologizing for not being the ambitious, driven son my father wants. At least I don’t pretend as much anymore. But I think I forgot to figure out who I actually am instead. Anyway, if it hadn’t been for me, we would have called the police that night. Alice would be alive. Maybe you’d even be— ”
“Nope. Nice try. We were all there that night. We made our own choices, including Alice. She could have gone to the police afterward, any time she wanted.”
“Okay, but I definitely put pressure— ”
“No,” Keith said resolutely. “We were all there.” He looked away toward the bush, watching the birds come and go in silence for a moment. “I’ll go to rehab, but not Bright Horizons. I need someplace farther away. Someplace where I can really disappear.”
“You can disappear at this place,” I said. “I’ve seen pictures. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“No. I mean like an airplane ride away. Somewhere no one can find me.” He looked up at me, held my stare. There was something else I didn’t know about, something worse than losing his gallery that he was running from. “And I need to go today. Right now.”
“Okay,” I said, afraid that if I hesitated, he might tell me what this other bad thing was. Honestly, I didn’t want to know. “We’ll find a new place.”
I couldn’t imagine we’d be able to. I’d try, though. I always did.
“Great,” Keith said as he stood. He looked determined now, and maybe even a little hopeful. He consulted his watch, like I might be able to sort it all out within minutes. “I’ll get my stuff together. And let’s pay those contractors on the way. I don’t want you dealing with them alone.”
“Yeah, okay.” I already knew none of this was going to work out the way Keith was suggesting. But still, it was progress.
Keith opened the back door. “Listen, I may be a selfish fucker, but I’m still your friend. I’m obligated to look out for you.” And then he smiled. “Make sure Peter knows that, okay?”
“I will,” I said. “This is going to be okay, Keith. You are going to be okay.”
Keith nodded. And now it was his turn to lie. “I know.”
DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT
SUNDAY, 12:15 P.M.
It’s dim and gray as I get out of the car at the Farm. Like the sun never fully rose. And you really want full daylight in a place like the Farm, where even an ordinary situation can turn dangerous. When people have lost everything but the need for a fix and are desperate enough to live here, in a jerry-rigged shack with no running water or electricity, all options are always on the table.
The Farm is privately owned, inherited by a developer in Manhattan with big plans for condos on the land, and no plan to waste money cleaning it up in the meantime. Activists— weekenders, all of them— have tried to challenge the owner’s right to ignore the squatting, but he has enough lawyers to keep those cases stalled in the courts.
Back when Seldon was lieutenant himself, patrol officers used to go in regularly to chase some of the squatters off, round up others for petty drug possession and trespassing. But then an officer died clearing a building in the dark, a head wound in an accidental fall. Since then, the officers have steered clear of the place unless there was a specific callout.
But I’ve got no choice now. I need to see if Derrick and Keith were here before the accident, need to try and locate this Crystal Finnegan. Seldon doesn’t want the Kaaterskill drug trade implicated in the murder of some weekender, but I’ve got to follow the facts where they lead. And right now, some of the facts are pointing straight to the Farm.
It’s nearly silent when I get out of the car. Generally speaking, opioid addicts aren’t early risers. I stop some distance in front of the ramshackle building constructed from plywood and metal scrap at the bottom of the hill. Once upon a time everyone slept in the barn, until part of it collapsed in the middle of the night, almost killing three people. That’s when some of the squatters patched together the outbuilding. With its obvious tilt to the right, it doesn’t seem much more secure.