Page 106 of Coram House

Garcia goes very still, as if she’s watching a replay of the last few weeks in her head. Finally, she shakes her head. “Never. Not for a minute.”

I wonder if this should make me feel better or worse.

Garcia nods at the suitcase. “Where are you headed now? Back to New York?”

I shake my head. She doesn’t press.

“Have you found anything?” I ask. My lips are dry. I lick them and taste blood where the skin has cracked. “Out there.”

Her eyebrows unknit as she realizes what I’m asking. Then she shakes her head. “There’s too much ice. In the spring, they’ll drag the lake, but…” She shrugs. “It’s deep. We may never find him.”

“Do you think— I mean, is it possible…” I trail off.

Her expression softens. “There was nothing out there but open water, Alex. Nowhere to go.”

I force the words out, but they’re sharp and they tear. “I know.”

Garcia looks away. I take three deep breaths. I count the stairs. One to seven and then back down to one.

“I didn’t know Officer Parker well,” she says, “but I don’t think he was ever planning to escape. I think”—she pauses, choosing her words—“I think he was just trying to get to an ending.”

My mind has gone black. Not a single thought in it. I barely feel it when Garcia gently squeezes my hand. “I’ll call you if we have any more questions. Good luck, Alex.”

They’re strange parting words. Nottake care of yourselforgoodbye. As luck goes, I think I’ve made it clear mine is either great or terrible, depending on your perspective.

Garcia tosses her cup in a trash can. She turns west, toward the police station. I watch until she’s an emerald smudge in the distance. Then I heft the heavy suitcase and load it into my car. Five boxes to go.

Then I have to make one more stop.

The porch lights are on at Stedsan’s office, despite the sunny day. They look like two glowing eyes. The knocker becomes a twisted nose. The mail slot a slash of mouth. The face is monstrous and impossible to unsee.

I’m taking a chance just showing up like this, but I didn’t want to let him know I was coming. Didn’t want him to ask why.

I lift the knocker, for a second expecting flesh beneath my hand, but it’s cold metal. The thunk echoes inside the house. Then the door opens. Stedsan wears jeans and a gray sweater. His hair is wet, making it look much darker than his usual white blond.

“Alex.”

He sounds surprised and looks behind me like he expected me to bring a date.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

He steps back and opens the door wider. “Yes, of course.”

Stedsan offers coffee, leaving me plenty of openings to tell him why I’m here, which I decline to use. I do take him up on the coffee, though.

While he’s gone, I wander into the living room. The back garden isblanketed in fresh snow. The twisted apple tree looks like an enormous white-capped mushroom—something from the wrong side of the looking glass.

Stedsan reappears with the tray and hands me an espresso in a delicate blue cup. It’s smooth and nutty. Delicious.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. “The last few weeks can’t have been easy.”

“No,” I say.

“If this is about our contract,” he says, “I don’t want you to worry. Given the circumstances I think we can alter the timeline to be—”

“That’s not what this is about.” I set the cup on the table.

He looks up at me, his expression curious, but not worried.

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