Page 50 of Coram House

I try listing what I know as if it has nothing to do with me.

One summer afternoon in 1968, a boy named Tommy got into a rowboat with Sister Cecile and Fred Rooney. Sarah Dale says she saw Tommy get pushed into the water. The next day, the sisters announced Tommy had run away. There’s no record of his death. Or birth or existence, beyond the words of a few other people who vaguely remember him.

Four days ago, Sister Cecile was found dead in the woods. There was only one set of footprints in the snow. But unidentified sounds suggest someone else was there. The next day, Fred Rooney had a bandage over one eye and scratches along his arms. Possibly from a struggle. Except, even if Rooney magically erased his footprints, the depositions suggest he was Sister Cecile’s favorite. And, even if that changed sometime in the last few decades, she’s lived here quietly as Jeannette Leroy since Coram House shut in 1977. So why would he or someone kill her now? None of it makes sense, but I can’t shake the feeling, deep in my bones, that Fred Rooney knows more than he’s saying.

The bartender reappears. “Another?”

I’m surprised to find my glass is empty. I nod yes. “Wait—hey, do you know anything about those condos they’re building north of downtown?”

He frowns. “The ones out on North Ave.?”

I nod. He refills my glass. The first sip burns its way down.

He shrugs. “Out of my price range.”

He turns away, but I’m not done yet. “Do you know what it was before—the building?”

I hear my tone. Like I’m testing him. I’m not sure why I’m pushing so hard. Who cares what the bartender knows.

“No idea,” he says, backing away.

How do you not know, I want to shout at him. But I let him go.

I nurse my drink and let the hum of conversations wash over me. Then my eyes catch on a face I recognize. Parker leans against the other end of the bar. Around him, a group of people are zipping up coats and pulling on hats, clapping each other on the shoulder. I recognize a few of them from the station. Officer Washington is there, this time wearing jeans and long dangly earrings that catch the light. She smiles and leanscloser to say something in Parker’s ear. He tips down his head to listen over the noise. I don’t see Detective Garcia, but it’s hard to imagine her drinking in a bar. Or wearing jeans.

I look for a place I can hide until they leave, but when I glance back, it’s too late. Parker is squinting down the bar in my direction, head cocked to the side like he’s trying to make sense of something. Then he looks away. Disappointment and relief.

I turn the barstool so my back is to the door as the officers filter out behind me in a stream of ribbing and inside jokes. I drain my glass. I’m trying to decide whether to order another when someone takes the stool beside mine.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Parker says.

“That’s why I’m in a bar.”

I intend it as a joke, but my voice is flat. He holds up two fingers to the bartender, who pours us both a whisky, then retreats as fast as he can.That’s right, back away from the crazy lady.Parker’s cheeks are flushed, but he doesn’t sound drunk. Then again, I’m probably not the best judge.

“You’re glaring at me,” he says.

“Sorry.”

He leans forward onto one elbow. “Did I do something to piss you off, Kelley?”

I don’t think he’s ever said my name like that. Like we’re colleagues. I don’t hate it. “Not lately.”

He raises his eyebrows. “But someone did.”

It’s not a question, but I let the silence hang there. We sip our drinks. Finally, I say, “Maybe everyone. But right now mostly myself.”

That earns a small smile. “And Alan Stedsan,” I say. “Plus Xander what’s-his-name who called me up and invited me to dinner and now it’s just sitting there in my brain.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The tech guy?”

“Oh, and also Detective Garcia, who clearly hates me.”

Parker shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve all earned a time-out or two this week.”

“I get that we’re all supposed to stay in our lane, I do,” I say, hearingthe anger in my voice but not caring, “but shouldn’t she be encouraging people to share information? Because last time I checked you hadn’t arrested anyone. Or are you still trying to convince me that Jeannette Leroy slipped and fell?”

“I can’t—”

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