JUNE 10, 1978
I called Eric today and we met up to ride our bikes for a while. I must have seemed troubled, because we pulled over by the school and he asked me what was up. I came out and told him about what happened with me and Greg, and that Greg said it was fine and that he had told Patty, and that I knew they made out with other people, but things still felt strange. I didn’t tell him about the other stuff, because what the hell could I say about that? I don’t even know what’s so weird about it or why it bothers me.
He laughed, but not in a mean way.
“That’s going to be news to Patty,” he said. “I love Greg like a brother, but he is a dirtbag.”
I got kind of freaked out, but he immediately calmed me down.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “If Greg told you that, then you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong. It’s okay. Greg is a jerk. He likes getting away with stuff.”
He ended up making me laugh really hard. Eric is funny.
Eric would make a really good counselor—not camp counselor, a psychologist or something like that.
He offered me a joint. I was embarrassed, but I said I don’t smoke them. He put it away. I know I’m pretty much the only person at Liberty who has never smoked grass （okay, one of three that I know of）。 I know it’s not a big deal to smoke it either, because like I said, everyone else does and they are all fine. I don’t smoke because I’m an uptight weenie.
I actually said to Eric, “I’m an uptight weenie.”
He fell backward laughing. Shawn never laughs like that. It’s nice to hang out with someone who laughs.
JUNE 12, 1978
Woke up early today. I was dreaming of that conversation I overheard between Mr. Horne and the man who came over to his house. I can’t stop thinking about it. That conversation was odd.
So, since I have time and nothing else to do, I’m going to go over to the Holiday House Motel. I might as well bike over there and get ice cream at the Duchess on the way back. I might as well shut my subconscious up.
UPDATE: 4 P.M.
That did not go how I thought it would. I don’t know what to make of what’s happened. I’m kind of shaking and I’m sitting here at the foot of my bed.
I went to the motel and said that a friend of my dad’s had been staying there a few days ago and left something at our house, and I was kind of worried because he didn’t come back for it. I sort of mumbled the name Ralph, and the woman behind the counter picked up on it right away. She said a man had been staying there, and he never actually checked out. He left his key in his room.
I have no idea where I came up with this, but I said that if I could get a copy of the bill I could take it to my dad and he could help take care of it. She hesitated for a moment, but then she went into the file cabinet and pulled it out. The man’s name isn’t Ralph—it’s Wendel Rolf. I couldn’t make out his whole address, but I saw that he’s from Albany, New York. The bill was for $64, which was for two nights.
So the man never checked out of the hotel?
What do I think happened? That Mr. Horne drowned him in the pool? And while he was doing so, the change fell out of the man’s pockets and landed at the bottom?
Like it’s an Alfred Hitchcock movie or something.
JUNE 13, 1978
This has to end. I have to put this out of my mind. Let me break it down, make sense of it. What is it that I think I heard and saw?
I’m reading back the conversation I wrote down from the other day:
Wendel Rolf: After Berlin, I never heard from you again. I thought the Russians killed you.
And then: