(I’d intended to convince them, but was still irritated by how easily they’d been fooled.)

The reality was that my evenings were now almost wholly devoted to Clive. I would linger around the Little Sweet until he departed, then follow him. Clive Richardson, I learned quickly, was a walker. He might stroll for an hour, even two, before heading home. When he reached his brick apartment building, I waited until a light on the fourth floor turned on and then, some twenty or thirty minutes later, turned off again; only then did I make my own way home. On my walk back, I would realize that I was soaked in sweat. I was terrified as I followed Clive—of being seen, of what I might see—but it was a terror that held itself at bay until I was away from him, when it came over me all at once.

On these walks, I experienced what might be described as a state of hypervigilance. I attended to every detail, every movement, searching for any scrap that might provide insight into the man Clive Richardson was and the secrets he was guarding. What ought I to make of the routes he chose? Or of the way he scuffed his black loafers against the pavement? Back at my apartment late at night, I would try to get myself to read through the mounting backlog of manuscripts in my work in-box, but I quickly found myself lost in imaginative labor: What did he think about before he fell asleep? What was in his refrigerator? What did his bedroom look like? (I pictured a stark, simple room—a rough-hewn wood floor, a simple twin bed, a small wicker chair. This mental picture had arrived fully formed, which I took as a testament to my imaginative powers; a few years later, on a visit to the Orsay, I would realize that the image was not even mine—it was Bedroom in Arles, Vincent Van Gogh.)

It wasn’t only Clive’s actions I attended to. Everything I passed seemed anointed by his presence. Graffiti on a brick wall: Rochelle marry me?? A man in a dastaar selling incense on a street corner. A fruit stand with a handwritten cardboard sign: BANANAS 4 FOR 1$! The sweet and sour rivulets of liquid eroding the sidewalk in front of a halal butcher. Did he notice these things? If he did, what did they make him think, want, remember? Clive’s world became my evidence—a rush of details, almost unbearably vivid, the landscape infused by a sense of the significance of all things.

From “Secrets on Faraway Cay,” Dateline, July 12, 1996:

JANE PAULEY: You worked in security at Indigo Bay.

HAROLD MOSES: [nods] For seven years. During which time I was employee of the month on four occasions.

JANE PAULEY: You saw Alison Thomas on the night of her death?

HAROLD MOSES: I certainly did, Ms. Pauley.

JANE PAULEY: Tell me about that.

HAROLD MOSES: [sips coffee] It was eight P.M. I know so because I just return from my toilet break, which I take nightly at seven-forty P.M. precisely. It does take me longer now. [Grins.] I was doing my rounds. By the swimming pool I see the girl dipping she toe in the water.

JANE PAULEY: Did you say anything to her?

HAROLD MOSES: [shakes head] I didn’t want to disturb she. She appeared quite peaceful, like she was having some special time to she self. I saw clearly she had a sweet soul.

JANE PAULEY: What happened next?

HAROLD MOSES: [shakes head sadly] This is the last time I see she. But everybody know after that she went out with those two good-for-nothings. I have a theory about what happened to she, Ms. Pauley. Would you like to hear it?

JANE PAULEY: Please.

HAROLD MOSES: I believe it is a crime of passion. That girl was pretty. Oh, she was pretty pretty. I have one more thing I wish to say, Ms. Pauley. I want your viewers to know that I carry it heavy in my heart that for this girl I may be the last kind face of this world.

Statement to the Press, for Immediate Release, January 12, 1996:

While on a recent vacation in the Caribbean, I participated in a day trip to an uninhabited island. On this island, as has been widely reported, myself and a companion discovered the body of a young woman who had been missing for several days. Contrary to several grossly misleading recent reports, I had no involvement in the disappearance of Alison Thomas. I have participated in the local investigation to the full extent of my ability. I am not a suspect in this case. Reports suggesting otherwise are an assault on my character. I would like to extend my deepest sympathies to the Thomas family. I ask that my privacy be respected during this time.

From Tragedy in Paradise: The Untold Story of the Alison Thomas Murder by Craig Sheppard:

… The frantic hunt for the beautiful teenager continued, transforming the sleepy island with an all-out search that left no stone unturned. Unbeknownst to the police, at this same time, a Haitian man by the name of Siméon Payen was flying from Saint X to Miami, where he owned a palatial beachfront property and was well-known to law enforcement as a key player in La Petite Ha?ti, a small but notorious Miami cartel. By the time you turn the final page of this book, dear reader, I think you will agree that these two events were anything but a coincidence, and that on a small island, corruption can run deep.…

From the “Unsolved Mysteries” subreddit, Reddit.com:

I’m totally new to this sub, so bear with me, but this case is one of my first memories of being totally obsessed with an unsolved mystery and it remains one of my favorites to this day. I’ve read a LOT about it over the years, and I have to say I’ve always questioned the Haitian cartel angle, which first came out in the Sheppard book (his book on Thomas is in my personal opinion one of his weaker efforts, and I’m usually a big fan of his). I mean, doesn’t it seem like a huge stretch that Payen would involve this girl in a run, with the risks that would entail for him? I know a lot of you here subscribe to the Payen theory, but I’ve always believed that the simplest and most elegant solution is usually the right one.

Stick with me here. Imagine the police know pretty much beyond a doubt it’s Richardson and Hastie. Or it doesn’t even have to be them—maybe it’s some other local, maybe it’s a police officer’s kid. A PR disaster for the island, in other words. So what do they do? They fabricate evidence that these two dudes were actually locked up in jail by 1 a.m. or whenever, and once that’s done, it’s, “Sorry, the timeline doesn’t work and there are no other suspects. Case closed, island open for business.” This theory works on So. Many. Levels. Think about it. I mean, doesn’t it seem just the tiniest bit convenient that the thing that gets those guys off is coming from the police?

That message board alone had over nine hundred posts. As I continued to search, I found countless other boards on other websites dedicated to Alison. Across the digital underworld, people were still trying their hands at solving her murder. Scrolling through these posts, reading theory after theory, I felt physically sick. There were thousands of them—these dudes (they were almost all men) using Alison’s murder to distract them from their basement-and-weed lives, crafting some loser fantasy that they might be the one to solve it.