Page 26 of Middle of the Night

“You mean the state police?” Ashley says.

“Correct. Detective Cassandra Palmer is in charge of the investigation. Currently, she’s overseeing the search of the institute grounds, but I’m sure all of you will be hearing from her soon.”

My wooziness grows at the prospect of yet more questioning. Other than the fact that we were at the institute—which Ragesh insists isn’t important—there’s nothing I can tell the authorities now that I couldn’t thirty years ago.

Nothing I can remember, that is.

I take another deep breath and lean back on the sofa. Maybe because she senses my weariness—or because she’s feeling the same way—Ashley asks Ragesh, “Is there anything else?”

“That’s about it.”

About.

Meaning thereissomething else, and Ragesh is either unable to tell us what it is or unwilling to. I suspect it’s the former, because he adds, “I’m sorry. I know all this is a lot to take in, especially with no real resolution.”

That fact is one of the many things I’m grappling with right now. For decades, all I wanted was an indication of what had happened to Billy. Now that I have an answer, it feels both horrible and inadequate.

The knowledge of Billy’s death only begets an even bigger mystery: Who did this to him? Why? For what purpose? Without those answers, all that’s left is a sense of mournful disappointment. After thirty years, there should be more.

More information.

More justice.

More fucking closure.

Instead, all we can do is carry on with our day, which for Ashley and Russ means returning to their families. I walk them both to the door.

“Thanks for telling us what you could,” Russ tells Ragesh on his way out. “We appreciate it.”

At the door, Ashley gives me a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to have you back, Ethan. Don’t be a stranger.”

She leaves, and it’s just me and Ragesh, who remains in the living room, his arms crossed.

“What’s going on, Ethan?”

“What do you mean?”

“You damn well know what I mean,” he says. “You called me asking about Billy barely twenty-four hours after his body was found. That’s a coincidence I think is worth discussing.”

I plop back onto the sofa, stunned by yet another wallop of surprise. I think about how suspicious he sounded on the phone earlier.What have you heard? How much do you know?

“You think IknewBilly had been found when I called you earlier?”

“I’m not saying that,” Ragesh replies, though it feels like that’s exactly what he’s saying. “But I do find the timing of your call very interesting. Something had to have prompted it.”

“Other than being back in the house where it all happened? That’s reason enough, don’t you think?”

“You’ve been back a week. I checked.” Ragesh wags his finger at me, a gesture that’s both absurd and taunting. In that moment, the stoic detective he’s become flickers enough to reveal a glimmer of the bully he’d once been. “So I suspect something else made you think to call about Billy’s case.”

He’s right, of course. But to tell him that would mean having to explain how, for the briefest of moments, I’d thought Billy was outside circling the cul-de-sac in the middle of the night. Faced with the choice of appearing suspicious or merely mentally disturbed, I pick the latter.

“I thought I sensed him,” I say slowly, fearful Ragesh the bully will show himself again. “His presence. In my yard.”

I tell him everything. About The Dream, the garage lights, the sudden, strange sense that Billy was outside with me. That last part makes me weak with shame. That I really thought, even for the briefest of moments, that Billy was still alive, that he was here, that he was, I don’t know, waiting for me.

Ragesh lifts a brow. I can’t tell what it signifies. Amusement? Condescension? Concern?

“And in the morning,” I continue, “this was in my yard.”

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