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“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 shouldhave 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.