Page 78 of Coram House

“Did you give people money so they’d drop the case against the church?”

Color creeps up Bill’s neck. “I think we’re done here.”

But he doesn’t leave. Maybe he expects me to blink first.

“They trusted you to be on their side,” I say. “To have their best interests in mind.”

“You talk about them like I’m not one of them,” he snaps. “Do you think it would have been better to have the case drag on for decades? A case that we could never win? Or to take the money the church was offering and get on with our lives?”

Hatred washes over me. My mouth fills with the taste of metal. He’s so smug, so sure it was the right thing to do because it’s the thing he wanted to happen.

“If that’s all, Ms. Kelley, I’d like to get on with my day,” Bill says coldly. “I assume you can see yourself back to your car. And any other questions you have for me, you can send to my lawyer.”

Bill turns and stands with his back to me, looking out at the water. I knew this is where we’d end up. I just wanted to see his face when he denied it. Because I can be sure of at least one thing now: he’s a liar.

“Bill,” I call.

He turns automatically at the sound of his name.

“I hear you’re a good storyteller. That you have one about a monster that lives in the lake and hunts children.”

I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe it’s instinct. Or maybe I just want to ruffle his smooth surface. Either way, it works. Instantly, his cold anger is replaced by a look of terror so pure it stuns me. Then it’s gone. Maybe for a single moment he remembered what it feels like to be a child here, alone and afraid.

“You have five minutes to get off my property,” he says. His voice is so full of hate that I feel a spike of fear and, for the first time, think about how alone we are here. Then I turn my back on him and walk as quickly as I can up the path. Thorns grab at my jacket like sharp claws, trying to drag me back.

In the car, heat blasting, I wait to feel regret, but it doesn’t come. Bill Campbell won’t talk to me again. And I’ll probably never get back inside Coram House, which gives me a pang. But I got what I came here for. Bill denied paying people off but there wasn’t a flicker of surprise onhis face. People always make that mistake—jumping straight to denial when confusion is the first reaction of true innocence.

So what do I do about Stedsan? The chances that Bill Campbell paid people off and Stedsan didn’t know about it seem slim. So why bring me here to write this book? Why dig up the past at all?

Because you fucked up your last book. And because I happily signed a contract with an NDA giving him total control of the story. He can fire me and write it however he wants.

The answer feels like a gut punch.

He didn’t bring me here in spite of my failure, but because of it. Because he knew I’d go along with whatever story he wanted to tell.His legacy, he’d said. Tiny pellets of snow patter on the windshield.

I can gather all the truth I want, but I can’t do anything with it. But I know someone who can. Without giving myself a chance to second-guess it, I call Parker. When I hear a gruff hello, I’m lightheaded with relief. “Parker? It’s Alex. Can we talk?”

“Alex, this isn’t—”

“Look, I know this isn’t a good time. But there are some things you need to know. It’s about Rooney.”

The line is silent for five seconds, then ten.

“All right. I get off at six. But dinner is on you.”

The laugh that bursts out of me sounds unhinged. I think of Parker, standing outside my apartment in the snow. That strange current between us. It feels like a hundred years ago.

“Deal. Just tell me where to meet you.”

He gives me the address of a Vietnamese restaurant near the station. By the time I pull back onto the road, the heat has been blasting long enough that my whole body feels warm, like I have a tiny sun glowing inside me.

21

The restaurant whereI’m supposed to meet Parker is only a few blocks away from my apartment, so I decide to walk. The night is bitterly cold, the streets empty. Still, I pause beside the cemetery—the one I can see from my bedroom window. It looks smaller and sadder up close. The gravestones are overly shiny with laser-cut initials. There’s no fence around the perimeter, so the snow is crisscrossed with footsteps and yellow patches of dog pee. It seems dirty and haphazard after Coram House’s weeping angels and marble mausoleums.

Further down the block, a streetlight stands sentinel among dark warehouses. Somehow the small circle of light is worse than nothing at all. I feel uneasy walking alone, accustomed to the protection of streets bustling with people at all hours. It’s an illusion, I know. Anyone can be violent. And plenty of people will stand by and watch.

At the intersection of two roads, I turn left onto North Winooski. All the roads here seem to be north this and south that, all named for the place you’re going, not where you are now. The warehouses along this stretch have gotten a makeover—fresh paint and new windows, zinc washtub planters around patios.

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