Page 5 of Coram House

“They’re a mess,” Stedsan says cheerfully. “Depositions, newspaper clippings, legal documents. Probably all missing pages. A box of unsorted photographs. The case dragged on for years and traded hands between God knows how many paralegals with their own filing systems.”

Stedsan rests his hand on a box teetering precariously on top of the stack. I count at least ten more.CORAM HOUSE, someone’s written on the side in all caps—like they’re yelling it.

“I think you’ll find my material is more organized,” he continues. “Some of the videos were destroyed, mice probably, but the surviving tapes are here, along with transcripts of all the rest. You’ll also want to request materials from the police.”

“The police?” I turn to look at him.

He shrugs. “Not that it’s likely to get you anywhere. And the church might have some documents too.”

“That they’re willing to share?”

The room smells faintly of old paper. The desire to cut through the tape and open the first box is an itch I’m trying to ignore.

Stedsan smiles, and there’s something foxlike about it. “Oh, yes, they’re very happy to be helpful. Speaking of…” He flips open a leather-bound calendar sitting on the desk. “What are you doing one week from Wednesday at nine a.m.?”

I want to laugh. I was contractually bound to move to a place where I don’t know a living soul beyond Stedsan. “Nothing,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”

“Father Aubry wants to have us over for tea.”

“That’s very… collegial.”

“Isn’t it? It’s your call, but I’d play nice. Father Aubry isn’t a bad sort.”

For a priest, I think.

“This meeting—”

“Tea. I think Father Aubry sees this as a social visit.”

I shrug, not caring what we call it. “Will it be at Coram House?”

Stedsan shakes his head. “No. The building has been turned over to the developer now. But the rectory is on the same property, just behind St. Joseph’s—the church. You can’t miss it from the road.”

“Do you think the developer will let us go inside?”

Anticipation bangs in my chest. I need to see it.

Stedsan waves his hand, as if it’s already done. “I’ll call him. I’ve known Bill a long time and he loves being helpful, as long as there’s an audience.”

I file that one away for later. “Wednesday at nine,” I say. “All right.”

Stedsan goes off to see if he can find a VHS player for the deposition tapes. I run my fingers over the rough threads of the love seat. They glow gold in the lamplight. I wonder again why Stedsan is writing this book. I assumed it was for the money, but now that I’ve seen where he lives, that seems less likely. There are plenty of rich people foaming at the mouth to get richer, sure, but he wears his wealth casually, as if he barely notices it’s there. His legacy, he says. And maybe that’s true. I push aside the unease creeping up my spine. It’s too late for second thoughts and I’m not going to let some fancy furniture send me into an anxiety spiral.

Stedsan reappears, empty-handed. “Sorry,” he says. “I was sure I had an old VCR in the basement.”

“No problem,” I say. “I can find one.”

I bring my car around the side. Stedsan looks doubtfully at the small trunk. “I could have the boxes delivered.”

But I can already hear the rip of tape and feel the old, brittle pages under my fingers. “I think they’ll fit,” I say and start loading.

After twenty minutes of cardboard-box Tetris, they do fit. Barely. I refused to let Stedsan help, but now my back aches and I’m soaked with sweat under my jacket.

“Will you be all right on the other end?” Stedsan asks.

I picture the steep, narrow stairs up to my apartment. The icy front porch. “I’ll be fine.”

“I imagine it will take some time to go through all that. Call me if you have questions. Otherwise, I’ll see you next week.”

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