Page 43 of Coram House

“Of course.”

“And, Alex?”

I turn to look at him.

“Detective Garcia is right, about adrenaline. Sometimes we don’t see or hear what we think we do.”

Somehow it stings less when he says it. Parker drains his cup andtosses it in the trash. “You want my advice?” he says. “Get some rest. Forget about this case and work on your book. If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it.”

I know it’s the best I’m going to get.

“Work on my book? Three days ago you were ready to ship me back to New York.”

He looks embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I think”—he pauses— “I had your intentions down wrong.”

I nod, feeling absurdly relieved and grateful. He rubs his eyes, like he can erase the dark circles.

“You wantmyadvice?” I say. “Go home. Get some rest. You look like shit.”

He shakes his head, but I see the hint of a smile.

“Here I thought we were getting to be friends.”

I hide my smile inside the empty cup.

First thing the next morning, I put my jacket on over my sweatpants and dash across to the corner store. A teenager with a fluff of dark peach fuzz lounges behind the register. When I ask where the papers are he blinks at me as if no one’s ever asked him that before. I find them on a rack beside the potato chips. I’m not sure which paper runs obituaries, so I grab one of each.

Back in my apartment, I spread the papers on the table. There’s nothing in the first one, but in the next, I find it. A two-page spread of obituaries, each with a paragraph of text and a small picture. The woman’s photo is grainy and gray, but it’s still startling to see her so alive. Her white hair is cropped close to her face, showing off high cheekbones and delicate elfin features. She’s staring right at the camera with an expression that’s not a smile, but looks expectant somehow. Like someone waiting for whatever comes next.

Beside the photo is a name and a single sentence.Jeannette Leroy, 1946–2016. For anyone wishing to pay their respects, a service will be held at 11 a.m. on January 23 in the Chapel of Saint Joseph.That’s it. Nothing about how she died or how she was beloved by friends and family.

The lines are so bare. I imagine an old lady living alone. Buying groceries, taking a walk, going to bed—each day blending into the next. How scared she must have been when she lay there bleeding in the woods. Or maybe she died instantly.

Who would want to hurt a seventy-year-old woman with no money and no family? No one. One set of footsteps in the snow. Maybe Garcia is right. Maybe it was just adrenaline.

I pull up the calendar on my phone and add a reminder for the service on Saturday. Then I fold the paper up and set it aside. Time to get back to work. First, I call Father Aubry. No answer, so I leave a message asking him to call me back. Then I try Stedsan. No answer either. I text him instead.Looking for the last known address or more info on Sister Cecile. Any ideas? Also would have been good to know she’s still alive.I delete the last sentence and hit send.

My desk is a mess of greasy wrappers and crumpled newspapers, piles of notes on index cards waiting to be entered into my binder. You’re not supposed to be able to smell your own house, but even I can tell it smells stale, like damp laundry and the garbage I haven’t taken out. Something inside me is going to explode if I spend one more hour at my desk. And whatever that thing is, I have to outrun it.

I find my running clothes under the bed. They smell faintly of sweat, but I put them on anyways. It’s barely noon, but the clear blue sky outside has the warm light of afternoon. I start up North Avenue, putting on a burst of speed past the police station. I find my legs and run past the houses, a blur of white clapboard against a sky so blue it’s indigo at the edges. Flashes of color—a red rug over a porch railing, the lush green of a potted plant in the window. Then the houses fall away and the trees grow denser.

The entrance to Rock Point is strung with yellow caution tape, but there’s no one there. What had I expected? An officer guarding the woods? Wind whips strands of hair across my cheeks. I tug my orange hat down over my ears. Lola had bought it for me as a going-away present to keep me safe from hunters.It’s still a city, I’d said,you can’t just walk down the street with your shotgun.Now, I think of the moose in the woods and how she’d laugh.

I feel a pang for her or for my life in New York, I don’t know which. But it’s dull and far away. The way you miss something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like childhood or an imaginary friend. Or a life before you had a dead husband, a dead body in the woods, and were floundering at another failing book.

The sun’s heat beats down on the crown of my head as I run, even as the wind stings my cheeks. I keep going up North Avenue, trying and failing not to look at Coram House as I pass. No sign of Rooney’s truck in the drive, at least.

With every mile, North Avenue narrows—from a busy thoroughfare to a quiet neighborhood street and finally to a dirt road that ends at a muddy beach. A light skin of ice covers the water at the edges. The beach is empty except for a red shack.AUER FAMILY BOATHOUSE, says the peeling paint. Picnic tables are tipped on end, and the boathouse itself is boarded up, for the season or forever, it’s hard to tell.

Nearby, a flock of tufted birds feast noisily on red berries. It’s been a long time since I’ve run this far. Too far probably, based on the twinge in my knee. But I wanted to run to the end of something. Any road. Any place.

By the time I get home, my lungs feel torn and my legs are like jelly. The lukewarm shower feels like it’s burning, my skin no longer able to tell the difference between hot and cold. It’s all just pain.

13

When I getout of the shower, my skin is as pink as a baby mouse. I stand in front of the open fridge, cold air winding around my ankles as I look for dinner, which turns out to be a beer and a bag of nuts. From the desk, my phone pings. I hadn’t brought it on my run and now I have two missed calls. Dammit.

The first is from Father Aubry. He’s sorry he missed my call, he says. He’s traveling but says try him again tomorrow or just come by on Sunday morning—he’ll be in the office preparing for the afternoon service. I’d been hoping the second call was Stedsan with Sister Cecile’s address and phone number, but it’s an unknown number. I hit play. At first it’s silent and I nearly delete it, but then a voice speaks.

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