Missing witness Brandon Sykes, another subject to David Bolt.
That psychiatrist’s name was popping up a little too frequently.
She pushed her plate to the side to make room for her laptop. She entered “David Bolt” into Google and hit enter to search. As she scrolled through hits relating to a southern lawyer, a freelance graphic artist, and a hotshot middle school hockey player, she realized her job would be a lot easier if everyone in America had a name as unique as Rumpelstiltskin.
Fortunately, a fair share of the hits concerned the man she was interested in. There was his practice’s website. Various celebrations of his professional achievements. Announcements of the Phase I clinical trial of Equivan, one making special mention of Bolt’s earlier decision to forgo his academic appointments rather than disclose the income he made from the pharmaceutical companies that funded his research. Consumer-focused websites protesting the funding of the research by the drug companies that manufactured the two drugs that went into Equivan.
Her surfing came to a halt. On the screen was a photograph from a twenty-five-year class reunion at Yale, a group shot of the Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity. Second row, third man from the left was Dr. David Bolt. Next to him was Ramona Langston’s father, George.
She tried to slow her impulses. She’d been reacting on emotion, not facts, ever since they’d caught this case. She told herself there could be a rational explanation. To a certain segment of the population, there were only ten acceptable high schools, and three acceptable colleges. It wasn’t so coincidental that Bolt would go to college with George Langston, or have graduated from the same prep school as his kid. Casden and Yale probably went together like peanut butter and chocolate.
But these two men didn’t just go to the same college. They were in the same frat. And in this photograph, Bolt had his elbow crooked around George Langston’s neck, giving it a playful squeeze. These guys were tight.
She searched for their names together: “George Langston and David Bolt.”
She got one hit, a New York Post article with the headline “Suicide Leads to Lawsuit.” She clicked on the link. It was a short article from March.
The parents of a Manhattan high school student who died of a drug overdose last month have filed a civil lawsuit arising from the experimental combination of two leading psychiatric drugs. According to the complaint, filed yesterday in the district court for the Southern District of New York, Wallace and Janet Moffit claim that the drug Equivan-an experimental combination of the anti-depressant Flovan and the mood stabilizer Equilibrium-caused their son, Jason, to suffer severe depression and take his own life. The lawsuit seeks $20 million in damages.
Jason Moffit, 17, a student at the prestigious Casden School, was found dead in Central Park on February 14 from a heroin overdose. A representative for Dr. David Bolt, the acclaimed researcher overseeing the drug trial, declined comment, as did the Moffits’ attorney, George Langston.
Chapter Forty-Three
'Mom, what are you going to do?”
Her mother’s face was white.
“Mom. This isn’t just words anymore. He knows who you are. He found you. He’s stalking you. We have to do something.”
Ramona knew that the world her friends inhabited wasn’t real. It was real for them, but it wasn’t the world that normal people lived in. Regular people didn’t have chefs and drivers and private SAT-prep coaches. Regular mothers didn’t have lines of credit at Tiffany. Regular dads didn’t trade in their wives every decade or so for a newer model, like a car.
Ramona also knew that she wasn’t rich the same way her friends were rich, with parents who had been raised rich, as had the parents’ parents. Ramona wouldn’t even be at Casden if her family didn’t have a friend who’d pulled strings to get her in.
Still, Ramona had always been grateful for what they had. Ramona’s mother made sure of that. She hadn’t come from wealth, that was for sure. She’d been raised in Chico, California, by Ramona’s grandmother, a single mother who waited tables for a living and who died before Ramona could meet her. Ramona’s grandfather had never been in the picture. When her mother met her father, she was working as a nanny.
Maybe it was because Ramona was appreciative of what she had that she tried so hard to stay grounded in the actual “real” world. In retrospect, Ramona realized that a shared yearning to know another world was what bound her and Julia together.
Julia and Ramona had been different in a lot of ways. Julia was long and lean and lithe, with flowing blond hair and classic good looks. She was the kind of girl who attracted men. She also had a recklessness and darkness about her that Ramona liked to think she had managed to avoid.
But Julia was the only friend from Ramona’s world who was happy to join in her hobby of talking to strangers everywhere they went. They both believed they could learn at least one interesting thing about human nature from any person they encountered. That was how they had gotten to know Casey, Brandon, and Vonda. Brandon had been the one holding the panhandling sign claiming they needed money for a bus ticket to Missouri.
“Do you really want to go back to Missouri?” Julia had asked.
Brandon had assumed Julia was messing with him and started in with the spoiled rich girl comments. But then Julia sat down cross-legged on the sidewalk next to them and said she just really wanted to know. They’d spent the next four hours sitting in that same spot. Just talking.
But nothing Ramona had learned from the world outside of hers had prepared her for what was happening now, in her real life. That privileged little bubble from which she’d been so eager to peer out was now being deflated, one slow leak at a time. Julia was dead. Brandon and Vonda had lied about a person who had been nothing but kind to them. And now she was terrified that something was going to happen to her mother.
“ Mom! ” Ramona was shouting now. “We have to call the police.”
Her mother was staring at her, but her mind was clearly somewhere else. Her lips were parted, but no sound was coming out. And at her feet, on the freshly polished hardwood beams, lay the package Nelson had handed them as they’d entered the lobby, stuffed from dinner at Fishtail, one of their favorite mother-daughter spots when Dad worked late.
The top had spilled to the side when her mother had dropped the box to the floor.
Maggots. Hundreds of them, rushing to escape from their temporary housing.
PART IV
Chapter Forty-Four
The next morning, Ellie and Rogan stood on the stoop of a nondescript brick apartment building on Anderson Avenue in High Bridge.
“Some kid from Casden Prep lived here?” Rogan asked.
Whereas Julia and Ramona grew up in the poshest townhouses and penthouses of Manhattan, Jason Moffit had been raised by his parents in this rent-controlled apartment in the South Bronx, just blocks from Yankee Stadium.
“According to that article in New York, he was a scholarship student. Casden takes them to ensure both class and racial diversity.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Jason supposedly had test scores off the charts. A total genius at chess. Parents who were devoted to his
