Page 76 of Coram House

“Under-something,” she says breathlessly. “I remember because the kids used to call him Tommy Underwear. Because of the bedwetting and because kids are little shits. Funny how things just pop into your head.” She frowns. “But I don’t remember the last part. Something nature-y. Underhill?”

“Underwood?” I ask, heart thumping.

“Yes!” Karen shouts and then smacks me on the shoulder. “That’s it!”

We grin at each other and then she pulls me into a tight hug. “Good girl,” she says in my ear. To my embarrassment, I start to tear up as I hug her back. Karen lets me go and waves one last time before closing her front door. I climb into the car, feeling hollowed out, so exhausted I’m not sure how I’ll make the drive back.

Tommy Underwood.It’s the closest I’m going to get to confirmation. But my bright mood dissipates when I think of everything else Karen said. If she’s right, then Fred Rooney had nothing to do with Sister Cecile’s death. So what do I do now? Call Parker—and say what, exactly?Oh, after weeks of trying to convince you that Rooney did it, I’ve changed my mind. And by the way, Bill Campbell has been paying out bribes.

Parker would be justified in kicking me straight into the nearest snowbank. Anyways, it’s all theoretical. My phone doesn’t have service here. I put the car into drive and pull back onto the snowy road.

The story feels like a tree. Every time I manage to answer one question or find a new piece of information, the story branches out into three more questions, ten more, growing thinner and harder to grasp as it grows toward the sun.

20

Shadows play onthe ceiling—branches trapped in the yellow glow of the streetlight. Outside, a gaggle of girls stumbles home from a party. Peals of laughter ring out like the call of a strange flock of birds.

I’d taken a wrong turn on the way back from Karen’s and somehow added forty minutes to my drive. By the time I got home, I was so tired I shoved some food in my mouth and collapsed into bed. But now, I’m wide awake in the indefinable space between night and day. I can’t stop thinking about Fred Rooney. Both the child and the old man in a prison cell. The present, haunting the past.

Rooney had seemed so angry at the funeral. It had confirmed everything I thought I knew about him. He was full of rage, wanting to punish someone for what had happened to him. My coming here was the catalyst. But what if it had only looked like rage? What if it had been grief—raw and terrible. But if he didn’t kill Sister Cecile, that means one of two things is true: either Garcia was right all along and I imagined what I heard in the woods. Or I was right and someone else was there instead.

Giving up on sleep, I glide into the kitchen over icy floors to put on the coffee. A nutty, sharp smell fills the air. Then I shove everything to one side of my desk, except for a pen and blank pad of paper. In the center of the page, I writeFred Rooney.Beneath his name, I writecanoe. So, what do I know about the boat? That it’s Bill Campbell’s, but he stores it at Coram House. It’s visible from the construction site, but not from the road. You’d have to either know it’s there or get lucky.

Beneathcanoe, I writemotive. Fred Rooney was at Coram House forseven years. He was abused by Father Foster and was a particular favorite of Sister Cecile. If I can trust Karen’s memory, he was also repairing Sister Cecile’s roof fifteen years ago, which suggests they maintained some kind of relationship long after Coram House closed. And, even if Sister Cecile was abusive herself, if she put a stop to Father Foster, that could easily explain Rooney’s devotion to her.

But love doesn’t negate violence. Plenty of people murder in a fit of rage or passion. But then there’s that other word right above.Canoe.If Rooney knew her habits, was waiting in the woods, then it was planned. I look down at the page to see that I’ve drawn a circle around the wordmotive, over and over again, so that the ink is bleeding through the paper. That same headache from yesterday thrums behind my eyes. I get up to refill my coffee.

Maybe I’m looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe I need to search for the connection points instead—the places where their stories collide. In one corner of the page, I writeFather Foster.In another corner, I writeTommy. Then, after a long pause, I write one more name.Alex Kelley.Because, as far as I can tell, the only thing that’s changed in the last month is me. Or maybe none of this has anything to do with Tommy or me or even with Coram House and I’m trying to force puzzle pieces together because I want them to fit. In a fit of pique, I throw the pen across the room, where it leaves a single black dot on the white wall.

Feeling stupid, I fetch the pen. In the last blank corner, I write another name.Bill Campbell.He paid Rooney off to drop the case and he’s employed him for decades. And, most damning, he looked scared when I mentioned Tommy’s name.Thomas Underwood—that thrill again, of having a name, a picture to beat back the darkness. Maybe Bill knows more than he’s saying. Or maybe he’s the only lead I have left. Either way, I need to at least try to get more before I go to Parker with this. If Rooney is in jail, out of reach, then Bill’s who I have left.

The paper before me is an insane constellation of lines and words. I tear it up and let the pieces fall onto the rug. Then I get dressed.

At eight, I pull into the driveway of Coram House. Thick clouds have muddied the bright morning sunshine, so the snow looks grayand dirty. Coram House is quiet. The windows reflect back the sky like mirrors. I drive around the side of the building and park in front of the office. The metal blinds are half open, showing light inside, but no movement.

I slam the car door louder than necessary to announce my presence. I’m lifting a hand to knock when the door opens. Bill Campbell stands, coat on, blinking at me in surprise. “Ms. Kelley,” he says my name like a question.

“Please, call me Alex,” I say, putting on my most winning smile. “I’m sorry to drop in on you so early, but I had a favor to ask.”

He nods, but looks preoccupied, as if he didn’t really hear me. “I was just on my way to walk the fences. We’ve had some trouble with vandalism.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Nothing serious. Just some kids and spray paint, that sort of thing.”

Nothing like your foreman stealing equipment to dig up graves.

“I could come with you,” I say. “We can talk and walk.”

He blinks a few times and frowns, like he’s trying to find a way to say no.

“It’ll be quick, I promise. Where are you headed? This way?”

I point toward the skeleton of steel girders protruding out of the old brick building.

“Well, all right, then,” he says. “I’m always happy for company.”

Though he doesn’t sound happy.

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