Page 61 of Coram House

He opens his mouth—I think to protest—but I’m not done yet.

“Look, Xander, I know your plans go beyond that and, on some level, I do agree with you. There’s no good to anyone in letting the building rot. I just—I’m not comfortable with it. Not with the condos, not with the framed photos, none of it.”

I wait for him to explain all the reasons I’m wrong, but he just nods. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” I ask, unable to cover my surprise.

He shrugs. “I’m glad you told me. And I hope you’ll come see it when it’s finished—decide what you think then.”

I smile. Hard to argue with that. “Deal.”

He shuts my door with a soft click. I roll down the window. “Thanks again for the newspaper clipping. And for dinner.”

“You said that already,” he says, but he’s grinning. “I’m going to call you about ice sailing. It’s the best. You’ll see.”

“I don’t think so,” I say with a laugh, and start the car.

As I pull away, I glance in the rearview mirror and see Xander standing in the driveway, waving. I raise a hand back. I feel a rosy glow, relief at being in my car, at having the evening I dreaded not be so bad after all. Nice, even. And, most of all, at the photo that might be nothing or everything, tucked safely in my pocket.

17

At a redlight, I stop and inspect my reflection in the mirror. My red lipstick has settled into the cracks in my dry lips, making them look raw and bloody. When I opened the curtains this morning, the street was covered in a thin blanket of snow, but now, just a couple hours later, it’s already gray with dirt. I thought about wearing my black flats to the funeral, my only nice pair of shoes, but now I’m glad I opted for my clunky snow boots.

The rest of my clothes aren’t ideal funeral wear either—black leggings and a dark gray turtleneck sweater—but I threw away my one black dress after Adam’s funeral. Anyways, it’s not as if Jeannette Leroy cares what I’m wearing. I’m not even sure why I’m going. I feel a responsibility for the defenseless old woman brutally murdered in the woods. But what about the nun who ordered a child to push another child out of a boat to drown? Same story, different angle, but always ending in the same place. With a body.

Not just a body, a boy. And now, thanks to Xander, I may have a face.

A car honks behind me. “Yeah, yeah, calm down,” I say to no one and drive on.

I accelerate past the police station and the entrance to Rock Point, not slowing until I get to the large church—the Chapel of Saint Joseph—that shares the graveyard with Coram House. Two looming brick bookends.

Instead of pulling into the drive, I park on the street so I can get a better look at the building. The chapel has an air of neglect. The nookabove the doors is missing the statue of whatever saint should be watching over it. Underbrush presses against the wall, growing right through the fence, as if the woods are trying to swallow the building. On the top step, a priest welcomes a pair of elderly mourners, his purple-and-gold vestments a contrast to their somber black. When he turns, I recognize Father Aubry.

Five cars are parked in the lot, including a police cruiser. A small crowd, then. I turn off the ignition. My hands shake a little. Too much coffee. I wonder if I should have brought flowers. Adam’s service had so many. Giant wreaths of white lilies. The green buds poked out from behind the star-shaped blooms like the chrysalids of some giant insect. The smell was strong and sweet, melted vanilla ice cream. A smell used to cover the smell of something else. When I die, I don’t want any flowers or a funeral. I’d like to fade instantly into the air. Poof.

Knuckles rap against my car window. “Morning,” Stedsan says, voice muffled through the glass. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

Shit. The text last night when I was at Xander’s. I’d never written him back. After all my grumbling about how he needs to be more responsive, there goes the high ground. I scramble out of the car and muttersorry.

Stedsan wears a dark overcoat with a gray suit and dark blue tie peeking out. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm. I fight the urge to smooth my hair. It’s annoying to be standing beside someone always perfectly dressed for the occasion, but the truth is I’m grateful not to be walking into the church alone.

“How have you been?” Stedsan asks.

“The outline is coming along,” I lie.

Stedsan gives me a strange look. “Alex, you found a dead woman a week ago. Then this body at the dump. I wasn’t talking about the book.”

“Good morning,” Father Aubry interrupts. His hand is dry and cold when he clasps mine and ushers us into the dim vestibule.

A tapestry of Jesus hangs on one wall, finger held up like he’s about to make an important point. The cheap threads are overly bright, so helooks like a painted clown—face too white, lips too red. We pass into the nave, which is light and open. Tall white columns support an arched ceiling. Filigreed white lanterns dangle above the pews. Stedsan tightens his scarf. “It’s freezing in here,” he says.

The casket sits before the altar on some kind of wheeled metal cart. Like the kind you see in the morgue on crime shows. I try to remember the name for the flower arrangement that goes on top of the casket. I knew it once.

A dozen silver and white heads sit scattered among the pews. Sitting halfway to the altar, I recognize the three officers. Detective Garcia’s tight black bun and suit. Beside her, Parker is a full head taller. Then Officer Washington next to him, toned shoulders in a fitted black dress.

Bill Campbell is here too. He beckons us forward and shakes hands with Stedsan before turning to me. “Good morning, Ms. Kelley,” he says. “Care to join me?”

He moves over to make space in the empty pew.

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