There was something about that girl. Blue. A feeling that dogged Saffy, relentless. It was envy, she realized, as the wind rippled the trees, miniature in the distance. It took a certain privilege to invite a man like Ansel into your world. To trust so freely. In the entirety of her life, Saffy had never once felt that sort of safety. As the world splayed beneath her, obscene in its beauty, Saffy marveled. She had known from a young age that everyone had darkness inside—some just controlled it better than others. Very few people believed that they were bad, and this was the scariest part. Human nature could be so hideous, but it persisted in this ugliness by insisting it was good.
By the time Saffy hiked back to the trailhead, the sun was high and sizzling. Her stomach grumbled and her shoulders had burned red—when she turned on her phone, she had eleven voicemails from Corinne.
Captain, call me.
It’s Lawson.
He’s dead.
*
Suicide, Corinne explained, as Saffy sped through town. The warden found him hanging from a bedsheet in his jail cell.
As Saffy wound through Tupper Lake, she let the anger flood. It was fury, yes—but it was more. She wasn’t even surprised. Men like Lawson always found a way out. She’d seen it so many times—how they squirmed through the cracks in a system that favored them. How, even after they’d committed the most violent crimes, they felt entitled to their freedom, however that might look. Stopped at a red light three blocks past the Blue House, Saffy pictured Marjorie, her hair matted with blood against the kitchen tile, the room swirling with smoke. She pictured Lawson himself, feet spinning above a jailhouse cot.
The cycle was ruthless. Inoperable. Saffy pulled a U-turn in the middle of the road, remembering what she had once told Kristen—she wanted to change the system from the inside. She was inside now, holding a microscope, watching the virus swallow everything whole.
*
When Saffy walked into the Blue House, she found the girl, standing alone behind the counter. Blue tapped at her phone as she sipped a glass of ice water, just back from a run, her face flushed, cheeks rimmed with salt. She startled at the sound of the door, then reached for a menu.
“How many?”
“Just me.”
Saffy took a stool at the bar, studying. Strawberry blond in a pair of running shoes. Blue’s hair was pulled back into a damp messy ponytail, flecks of mud spattering up her calves. In Blue’s profile, she could see flickering bits of Ansel—the rigid slant of her nose, something feline in the shape of her eyes.
Saffy held up her badge, a confession. “New York State Police. Can you go get your mother?”
By the time Rachel came out of the kitchen, Saffy had filled with a sickening doubt. Rachel wrapped an arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, confused, afraid. This was unprofessional, Saffy knew—not illegal, but certainly not wise. But when Blue bit her lip, anxious, she looked exactly how she had in Saffy’s dream, holding that pile of bones on the porch.
“Can you tell me about your relationship with Ansel Packer?”
“What’s this about?” Rachel asked.
“Please, it’s important. Why is he here?”
“He’s my uncle,” Blue said. “My dad’s brother. We didn’t even know he existed until last month, when my grandmother let it slip. My dad died without knowing he had any biological family, so I reached out. I thought we should know him.”
“What do you want from him?” Saffy asked.
“Nothing,” Blue said slowly. “He’s building a new deck for the back. He’s . . . well, he’s family.”
Saffy’s own paranoia deflated, a wheezing exhale. It was stupidly simple. Uncomplicated all along. But that didn’t mean the danger had disappeared. Saffy thought of the bedsheet, tight around Lawson’s neck, bruised and battered blue.
The story came out then, a spew of excess detail. Saffy told them about the bodies—the way the girls had scattered, as though reaching for escape. She told them about the ring, glinting from Jenny’s finger. She even told them about the fox, congealing on her bedsheets. Rachel’s face hardened as she listened, while Blue’s crumpled into unmistakable devastation. When Saffy finished talking, there was a long, throbbing pause. Her own regret seemed to wait, pregnant in the ravaged humidity.
“I don’t understand,” Rachel said. “Why isn’t he in jail? Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
It occurred to Saffy that there were many ways to hurt—not all of them physical. An ice machine grumbled in the distance.