Chapter Nineteen

"Are you going to arrest me?" I ask Ragesh once I've been led like a felon to his car.

"I could," he says. "I probably should."

"Technically, I wasn't trespassing. Lonette let me in."

"Because you lied," Ragesh says. "And she called the cops the first chance she got. She thought you were trying to rob the place."

The very idea is ridiculous. Me? A burglar? I can't even do a decent job of sneaking around. "Well, I wasn't."

"Then why did you come here?"

"I just wanted to look around."

Ragesh sees right through the lie. Not that it takes a detective to do so. It's clear I was up to something. "For what?"

I don't know because Billy didn't tell me. Since I doubt Ragesh will believe that one, I choose a more logical response. "Any sign that the Hawthorne Institute had something to do with Billy's death."

"We already went over this, Ethan. There's likely—"

"No connection? So everyone says. But how am I supposed to believe that when no one will tell me what went on here? Even though you know at least some of it."

Ragesh starts the car. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You volunteered here in 1992," I say, gesturing past the windshield to the stone mansion looming before us. "You and Johnny."

"Where did you hear that?" Ragesh says, either annoyed or impressed that I know. I can't quite tell.

"Let's just say I've been doing some research. So I suggest we cut the crap and tell each other what we know."

Ragesh appears to consider it as he steers the car away from the Hawthorne mansion and down a narrow drive. Up ahead is the stone wall and, to my delight, an open gate. At least I got one thing right today.

"Okay, deal," Ragesh says once we're past the gate. "Let's put all our cards on the table. Quid pro quo. Why are you so adamant that Billy's murder is somehow tied to the Hawthorne Institute?"

"Because that's where he was found."

"And I already told you that if you're trying to dispose of a body, that's as good a place as any."

"But we were there that day," I say, even though Ragesh doesn't need reminding. "Billy longer than the rest of us."

"Did he ever mention what happened then?"

"No," I say, still too ashamed to tell Ragesh about the argument Billy and I had in the tent that night and how I wish I could take back every word I said. If Billy had revealed any details about earlier in the day, I would share them. But he didn't. The only thing Billy made clear was how much I had betrayed him.

"Okay," Ragesh says. "Your turn. Ask me anything."

I'm at a loss as to where to start. There are so many questions I want answered. Eventually, I opt with one that's bothered me since Ragesh told us Billy's remains had been found.

"The other night, you said you knew Billy's death wasn't an accident because there was evidence of foul play. What kind of evidence?"

"There were fractures on Billy's ribs and skull," Ragesh says. "Based on the damage, the forensic anthropologist thinks it's likely he died from blunt force trauma to the chest and head."

He pauses, checking to see if I'm okay. I'm far from it. The whole car seems to quake. Like it's just been rear-ended, even though there are no other vehicles around.

"While it's possible his injuries were caused by a fall, it's also unlikely," Ragesh continues.

"Why?"

"Divers found a piece of fabric in the mud with Billy's remains. Like he had been wrapped in a blanket or something before he was thrown over the falls."

I feel another quake. Worse than the first one. Because I now doubt that Billy's death was quick and painless. It was likely the opposite, a fact that leaves me momentarily speechless.

Ragesh gives me a sympathetic look. "Sorry you asked?"

Yes.

And no.

Because the way I see it, the likely nature of Billy's murder eliminates a bunch of suspects, chiefly everyone on Hemlock Circle. No, I haven't forgotten Detective Cassandra Palmer's theory about why Billy didn't scream or call for help. I just continue to disagree with it. Because I can't imagine how someone who knew Billy could do that to him. Which means his killer wasn't from the cul-de-sac.

"Tell me what you know about the Hawthorne Institute," I say.

"There's not a whole lot to tell. I was there for exactly an hour."

"That's it?" I say. "But you were a volunteer."

"More like guinea pig," Ragesh says. "Johnny's the one who signed us up. He said he wanted to see what the place was like."

"And what was it like?"

"Pretty much the same as it is now. Very old. Very stuffy. Lots of guys in dark suits sitting around reading. As soon as we got there, they separated Johnny and me, taking us into two different rooms. Mine was all white. Johnny later told me his was the same. We both sat at a table divided by a partition so I couldn't see who was on the other side."

"Did you ever see who it was?" I say.

"No." Ragesh does a little shimmy, as if he's still freaked out by the memory. "I just heard them. It was a man who told me he was going to hold up cards with shapes on them and that I needed to guess what they were by using ESP or something. I could take as much time as I needed, just as long as I concentrated on the card I couldn't see."

"How many were there?"

"Fifty."

"Did you get any right?"

"Don't know," Ragesh says. "I was never told if I was right or wrong. We just moved on to the next card. When we were done, I was sent home and never went back. I finished up my volunteer work at the library, reshelving books."

I look his way. "And Johnny?"

"He went back," Ragesh says quietly. "A lot. Even after we finished our volunteer duty."

I pull out my phone and swipe to the image of that photograph from 1993. The picture quality is terrible. In my haste, I hadn't bothered with things like focus or centering the frame, resulting in a photo that's slightly askew. Still, by zooming in I'm able to see the important part: Johnny Chen and Ezra Hawthorne.

Looking at them again, I pick up on details I missed the first time, such as the way Ezra's pale, clawlike hand rests on Johnny's shoulder. Or how Johnny's dressed in a black suit identical to the one Ezra is wearing.

"Did Johnny ever tell you what he did there?"

"No," Ragesh says. "I assumed it was the same thing. Weird tests and experiments. But Johnny liked the place. By the end, it was the only thing that seemed to make him happy."

The end? At first, I don't understand what Ragesh means by that. But then I check the photo again, this time zeroing in on the gold plaque and its date. The same year Johnny died. For all I know, this might be the last photograph taken of him.

I study the strange expression on Johnny's face. He looks vaguely nervous. Like he's not entirely comfortable being there.

Choosing my words very carefully I say, "Do you think what happened to Johnny could have had something to do with his time at the Hawthorne Institute?"

Ragesh pounds on the brakes, bringing the car to a skidding stop in the middle of the road. The force of it throws me forward a moment before the seat belt tightens, jerking me back against the seat. I tug it away from my neck as Ragesh turns to me, his face hard.

"Do not drag Johnny into this conspiracy theory of yours. No one else had anything to do with his death. Johnny was…" Ragesh's voice deflates, like air hissing out of a balloon. "He was messed up, okay? He was going through some stuff—a lot of stuff—and turned to drugs because of it. Then he died. And there are still days when I think about it and get so mad at him for what he did to himself. But that's the key here. Johnny did it to himself. The Hawthorne Institute had nothing to do with it. Just like it had nothing to do with what happened to Billy."

"I'm sorry," I say, and I truly am. His reaction reminds me that I'm not the only person on Hemlock Circle who lost a friend.

Ragesh resumes driving. "You're forgiven."

A tense silence fills the car, becoming so stifling it makes me want to crack open the window. After a few minutes, it gets so unbearable that I feel compelled to break it.

"Detective Palmer thinks someone from Hemlock Circle killed Billy," I say. "Do you agree?"

"Not exactly."

"Since you don't think it was one of our neighbors—and you don't think it was someone from the Hawthorne Institute—who do you think killed Billy? The stranger in camouflage people saw the day before?"

"It definitely wasn't him," Ragesh says.

"How can you be so certain?"

"One, because I know how rare that kind of thing is. Yes, it can happen, and does in often tragic ways. But the odds of it happening in your backyard are one in a million." Ragesh stares straight ahead, a firm grip on the steering wheel. "Two, I know because the stranger in camouflage was me."

Because he's still focused on the road, Ragesh misses the look of utter shock on my face. It's only me who witnesses it, my slack-jawed reaction caught in the side mirror and reflected back to me. Accompanying it is a sinking disappointment. While it was never proven that a stranger was roaming the neighborhood the day before Billy was taken, the idea provided a distorted form of comfort. It was easier to believe a nameless, faceless bogeyman took Billy than consider the likelihood that it was someone from Hemlock Circle.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"Why would I?" Ragesh says. "It's embarrassing to admit that I was roaming the woods, got turned around, and ended up in a backyard on Willow Court instead of my own. It's even more embarrassing to know the whole neighborhood freaked out about it."

"But you lived there," I say. "Why would anyone think you were suspicious?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?" Ragesh points to his face. "Look at the color of my skin, Ethan."

I nod. "Point taken."

"I suppose the camouflage also had something to do with it," Ragesh concedes. "But I looked slick in camo. Still do."

I think about the day we all went to the falls and the Hawthorne Institute. Ragesh hadn't been part of the group until we stumbled upon him sitting in the forest.

"What were you doing in the woods?"

"Thinking," he says. "Johnny wasn't the only person going through some shit. I was, too. And being in the woods helped clear my head. But to everyone else, it seemed shady. Like whoever saw me leave the woods at Willow Court. Or Ashley, who was convinced I was spying on her. God, the way her dad reacted. He told my parents I was a Peeping Tom. Talk about embarrassing."

"Ashley's single now," I say. "If you're interested."

"I don't think my husband would approve."

Thrown off guard, I do a surprised jolt in my seat. Ragesh clocks the movement, smiles, and says, "Surprised?"

Very, I think. "A little," I say.

"Told you I was going through some stuff back then," Ragesh says.

"How long have you been married?"

"Eight years."

"Congrats," I say. "And your parents? Are they cool with it?"

"They weren't at first," Ragesh says. "But they came around eventually. It helps that I found myself a nice Indian boy. Lately, my mother's biggest complaint is that he's a better cook than she is."

Despite not knowing him that well as a kid—and not particularly liking what I did know—I'm happy for Ragesh.

"I'm sorry, by the way," Ragesh says.

"For what?"

"Lots of stuff. I was a little shit back then. Mostly because I was scared and confused and sad. That's not an excuse. There isn't an excuse for some of the things I did."

"Like locking us in a mausoleum?" I say.

Ragesh cringes. "Yeah, that. Although, just to be clear, it's not my fault the latch got stuck. But mostly I'm sorry for not trying to, I don't know, help you back then."

"There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have been nicer," Ragesh says. "At the very least, I should have talked to you or tried to take you under my wing. Because of all the people on Hemlock Circle, I knew what it was like to lose a best friend."

Looking at Ragesh, I imagine him going through the same things I did. The grief. The guilt. The wondering all these years if such a friendship was sustainable. The only difference between us, other than the state of our marriages, is how we handled losing our best friends. He became a bully, channeling his anger into cruelty before mellowing out and changing his ways. I chose a different path.

I fled.

Yet here we both are, in a car that's currently hugging the curve of Hemlock Circle as Ragesh brings it to a stop in front of my house.

"Thanks for the ride," I say. "And, you know, not arresting me."

"No problem," Ragesh says before letting me out. "Just do me a favor. Stay away from the Hawthorne Institute."

I assure him I will, mostly because I know he will arrest me if I'm found there again. I'll have to make do with what I saw, which isn't much, and the other photographs I captured with my phone. That's exactly where I start looking once Ragesh drives off. Sitting in the living room, I scroll through them, pausing at each one.

Most are creepy in the way that almost all old photos are creepy. Groups of long-dead people staring at the camera, their poses stiff, their smiles forced. Not that the people involved with the Hawthorne Institute smiled often. These were serious men, and their mirthless expressions matched that. The result is that no face stands out, not even Ezra Hawthorne's. They become pale blurs, the men pictured in, say, 1942 interchangeable with the ones from forty years later.

Many of the photos are group shots of different gatherings that took place in Ezra Hawthorne's mansion. I can tell because I recognize some of the places Lonette showed me on the tour. The grand hall. The ballroom. One photograph was even snapped at the falls, the water a white cascade behind two men wearing black robes over what I know to be black suits.

Those suits, by the way, are omnipresent. Every person in every photo wears them. That's not so unusual in the pictures dating back to the forties and fifties. Suits were common back then, worn everywhere from the dinner table to the movies. It's only in the photos from the eighties and nineties that it starts to get weird. By then fashion rules had changed to the point where men only wore black suits to funerals.

Of all the photos, only two are unusual enough to warrant closer scrutiny. One, of course, is the picture snapped at the falls, mostly because of the black robes. Hooded and cinched shut with rope, they're undeniably sinister. Maybe the Hawthorne Institute was a cult.

The only thing keeping me from fully embracing the idea is that I doubt a cult could have passed unnoticed here, no matter how much money they had. In other states, sure. But not New Jersey. Especially not this part of New Jersey, with its rich colonial history and all the Episcopalian trappings that come with it.

Another reason I don't completely buy the cult thing is that no other photo depicts anything close to that. The other one that catches my attention does so in a different way. Taken in 1969, it's of Ezra Hawthorne and three men. They're at a table, seated around an honest-to-God crystal ball. Ezra's mouth is open mid-word, his eyes aimed toward the ceiling, as if he's addressing someone hovering there. Looking at it, I can only think of Billy.

They talk to ghosts.

Is that indeed what's happening in this picture? If so, how did Billy know that—and is that why he insisted on going there two days in a row, once alone, the other with a group?

Curious, I swipe through the remaining photos, slowing when I get to the one that features Johnny Chen. The one after it was taken in 1994, the same year Billy was killed. I don't expect it to show me anything regarding his death. I'm just interested to see what might have been taking place back then.

The photo ends up being just like most of the others, a group shot taken in the entrance hall. The big difference is that, instead of all men in black suits, two women have joined the group, bringing with them much-needed pops of color.

I zoom in on them, starting with the one on the left. She appears to be in her fifties and boasts a midlife sass that's evident even in a photograph.

When I move to the woman on the right, my heart stops. Seeing her is so disorienting it feels like I've fallen through the floor and am now plummeting into the basement. A free fall so dizzying I think I might faint.

I know who this woman is, just as surely as I know that she's still alive. What I can't fathom is why she was at the Hawthorne Institute.

Mostly because the woman is my mother.