Chapter Seven

Once darkness has settled over Hemlock Circle like a funeral shroud, I reach for my phone. Even though I'm not supposed to, I feel the need to tell Claudia about Billy. More than anyone, she understands how much what happened to him has affected me.

The phone rings five times before going to voicemail. Rather than making me miss her, the sound of her voice telling me to leave a message at the tone is soothing. It feels like old times.

"Hey, it's me," I say, knowing there's no need to clarify. "Um, I just got some news about Billy."

I tell her about Billy's remains being found and how he's been dead this entire time and why the police think it's murder. I get so lost in the telling that I drone on for too long, not stopping until her phone decides I've talked enough and cuts me off with an abrupt beep.

I'm about to call back and continue, but decide against it and FaceTime my parents instead. A simple phone call would suffice, but lately my mother prefers video calls, even though she has yet to master the nuances of them. When she answers, she holds the phone at a too-close angle that cuts off both her chin and the bulk of her forehead.

"Hey, honey," she says. "Is something wrong with the house?"

The question, delivered with both urgency and resignation, tells me two things—that I get my anxiety from her and that she doesn't think too highly of my adulting skills. Both of which I have neither the time nor the headspace to think about right now.

"No," I say. "I just—"

The image on my phone shakes when my father enters the room wearing a turquoise polo and a white visor. I wonder if, as a former professor of sociology, he realizes it's taken him only a week to turn into the clichéd Florida retiree.

"Hey, sport," he says. "How's it going?"

"You look tired," my mother adds. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"

I don't know what to say because I'm not sure why I called. I can't tell them about Billy, like I did with Claudia. My parents have connections here, and they'll surely spread the word if they find out. It's best to stay quiet for now.

"I just wanted to see how you were settling in," I say. "People around here have been asking."

"Great," my father says. "Everything's unpacked."

My mother nods proudly. "And we met some of the neighbors."

She jostles the phone, giving me a glimpse of the giant Monet print that had once hung in the living room. Seeing it now grace the walls of a different location is a surreal reminder of how much things have changed recently. Too much. I suddenly long to reach into the phone, yank my parents through the screen, and have them hold me the way they did when I was ten and Billy first vanished.

The feeling pulls me to the edge of confessing the forbidden. They found Billy.

I even get the first word out.

"They—"

The sound of the doorbell prevents me from saying the rest. Perfect timing.

"Someone's at the door," I say. "But things are great here. That's why I called. To say you don't need to worry about me."

I end the call and answer the door, finding Russ on the front steps carrying a bottle of bourbon. "We're getting trashed," he announces.

Having no reason to disagree, I invite him inside. We sit at the kitchen island, the place where I used to eat lunch, scarfing down grilled cheese sandwiches or burning the roof of my mouth on Chef Boyardee ravioli fresh out of the microwave. Now I set out a pair of rocks glasses and let Russ dole out two generous pours. Because the news about Billy left me with zero appetite, I also grab some Chex Mix so I'm not drinking on an empty stomach.

"Here ya go," Russ says as he slides a glass toward me, the bourbon inside sloshing to the rim. He lifts his in a toast. "To Billy."

"To Billy," I repeat, clinking my glass against his.

Then we both drink, Russ downing half his glass in a single gulp. I take only a sip, relishing the soothing warmth it brings to my chest.

"Did you break the rules and tell anyone yet?" Russ says.

"No," I lie, thinking it best to leave out my call to Claudia.

"Me, neither. I wanted to at least tell my mom, but figured it's best to stay quiet for now. She's not a gossip, but I think she still chats with Alice Van de Veer and Deepika Patel a lot." Russ pauses to take another gulp of bourbon. "Do you really think this has something to do with what happened that day?"

"Maybe," I say, which is the best answer I can give. "If it doesn't, then it's an awfully big coincidence."

Russ grabs a handful of Chex Mix but makes no move to eat it. "So you think, what? That Billy saw something at the Hawthorne Institute he shouldn't have seen, so someone there took him from your tent, killed him, and hid the body?"

"I know it sounds paranoid."

"Extremely," Russ adds before finally tossing back the Chex Mix.

"But it's at least a possible reason for who took Billy."

The lack of a suspect is one of the many things that kept the case burning in public memory. I've spent decades trying to think of who could have done it, always coming up empty. But now knowing where Billy was taken puts when he was taken in a scary, new light.

"Even if the police don't think it is?" Russ takes another gulp of bourbon and swallows hard. "Ragesh was right, you know. We didn't see anything strange that day."

"We didn't see anything," I say. "But maybe Billy did after we left. No one knows what went on at that institute, Russ. Don't you think that's odd? That we live two miles from that place but have no clue what they really did there?"

Russ says nothing for a good long while after that. Not until his glass is empty. As he pours himself another round, he says, "Just be careful with that kind of thinking. I mean, I understand why you'd connect that place to what happened to Billy. But if the police don't think they're related, maybe that's the truth."

I crunch some Chex Mix and wash it down with bourbon. "Then who do you think did it? And why?"

"I still think it was the stranger in the woods. Someone who took Billy, killed him, then went far, far away from here."

"Doesn't that seem a little too simple?" I say.

"It's better than your conspiracy theory." Russ pauses, a boozy flush to his cheeks that suggests this isn't his second bourbon of the night. "If Billy hadn't—"

He stops himself, prompting me to say, "Disappeared."

I cringe at the euphemism for what we now know to be true. Billy was murdered. To call it a mere disappearance doesn't come close to the horribleness of the situation.

"Right," Russ says. "If that hadn't happened, do you think we'd be friends now?"

"Of course," I say, even though it's not entirely the truth. Before Billy was gone, our interactions were forced at best. I didn't actively dislike Russ, but he wasn't exactly fun to be around, either. Young Russ was easy to frustrate and quick to anger. At school, his playground temper tantrums had earned him the unflattering nickname Wuss.

Then again, Russ has chilled considerably since then. Far more than myself. And I'd like to think that whether or not a tragedy had befallen Billy Barringer, he and I would have found each other anyhow.

"I agree," he says. "What about Billy? If things were different, would the two of you have stayed friends?"

I take a drink and sigh. "I doubt it."

Even though it breaks my heart to say it, I know it's the truth. Billy and I were too different to last beyond a few more years. It would have been one of those fleeting friendships born of loneliness and close proximity, not of a shared bond or common interests. I think about our last waking moments in that tent, how at the time it felt like we'd already turned a corner in our friendship, each of us heading in separate directions. Even more, I remember how we both tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

Hakuna matata, dude.

"That doesn't mean I don't miss him," I add. "Don't you?"

"Honestly? I barely remember him."

I take a quick glance at Russ's drink. He's downed half of it in the span of a minute. Still, the brusqueness of his answer is more than just the alcohol talking. A fact Russ confirms by adding, "I'm sorry if that sounds cruel. But it's true. It was so long ago. Decades."

"But he was your friend," I say.

"He was your friend. I was just allowed to tag along sometimes."

I nod, guilty as charged. "I'm sorry about that. We should have included you more."

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad, man," Russ says. "I'm just pointing out that you have more memories of Billy than I do. When I think about him, all I really remember is what happened to him. Not that I spend much time thinking about it at all. Before today, it had been a long time since Billy Barringer crossed my mind."

Over the years, there have been days, even weeks, in which, like Russ, I didn't think about Billy. But then I'd have The Dream, remember what happened, and feel guilty all over again. I see it as the least I can do. Isn't it my duty to remember? Don't I owe Billy that much? Doesn't Russ?

"I get why you're not as impacted by what happened as I am," I say. "But I assumed you at least thought about him from time to time."

"Do you ever think about Johnny?"

Russ peers at me over the rim of his glass, clearly drunk but his question coming out stone-cold sober. It makes me realize this isn't about Billy at all. It's about Johnny Chen and what happened to him and how today's news is dredging up all the bad memories Russ has about his brother.

"Sometimes," I say, hedging, for the truth is I don't think of Johnny Chen much at all. On the rare occasions I do, it's in an abstract way, with me thinking less about Johnny than how his death affected Russ.

"Name one thing you remember about him," Russ says.

I don't even try because I know I can't, proving his point and making me feel like an awful person. Rightly so. Me expecting Russ to mourn Billy as much as his brother is just pure hypocrisy.

"Shit, Russ, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Russ says, swatting at the air like there's a fly in the room. "I don't expect you to miss Johnny as much as I do. Just don't expect me to do the same with Billy. I'm sad about what happened to him. I really am. But that sadness has its limits. Something you need to remember, my friend."

Although he's drunk and slightly slurring his words, Russ's message is clear. He'll mourn Billy to a point. As much as any neighbor would. But he won't let it consume his life. Just like I shouldn't.

"I'll try," I say.

"Good." He downs the rest of his drink and stands, swaying in the middle of the kitchen. "Because let's face it, buddy. We've both had our share of loss and we've both mourned too much."