Page 79 of Coram House

The restaurant is straight ahead.EAT PHOorders a neon sign above the door. Tall black windows surround the booths like picture frames. One table is crowded with college kids, laughing and tipping back bottles of beer. A girl reaches her chopsticks across the table to steal a shrimp. At another table, an older couple sits, heads bent low over steaming bowls. And there, in the last booth, is Parker.

Two plastic menus sit on the table, but he’s looking out the window. I wave, but he doesn’t see me. It’s dark and I’m too far away, whereas he’s lit up on display. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks terrible—black circles under his eyes and hollows under his cheekbones like he needs a good meal. But the relief I feel on seeing him is immediate and overwhelming. For a second, I actually sway with it. I need to tell someone about Karen and Bill and all of it.

A bell chimes as I open the door. The air inside is steamy and delicious—thick with the tang of lemongrass and fish sauce. A lanky guy with a shaved head and muscle tee sits behind the counter. A vine tattoo starts at his knuckles and winds up his arm, unfurling in a brilliant flower just below his shoulder. I point to the corner booth and he waves me ahead.

My reflection in the window must alert Parker as I approach the table because he turns to look at me. Something flickers across his face—sadness maybe—and I wonder what he was thinking about before I interrupted. He stands.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him. He sits back down.

“To be honest,” he says, “I’m glad you suggested it. It’s been a while since I ate a meal anywhere besides my desk.”

“Me too.”

We exchange a smile. I’m aware of his knees, knocking against mine under the table. I study the menu. “So, what’s good?”

“Everything.”

Our server arrives—the same guy with the vine tattoo. I order a beer, but Parker shakes his head when I look at him. “On backup,” he says and lifts his water like he’s making a toast.

We talk about the food, about the snow, about nothing. It’s nice to pretend that we’re friends catching up over dinner. Parker seems more relaxed. Even the way he sits is different, arm stretched out along the back of the booth, running his fingers through his wet hair when a strand falls over one eye. But I feel the pull of why we’re really here—the case, the past, Bill Campbell—all black holes exerting their own gravity.

“I think I found Tommy,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. It feels so good to say it out loud, to someone who understands what it means.

He smiles back. “How?”

I tell him about the baptism records and then about my dinner at Xander’s and the newspaper clipping, all the while feeling slightly ashamed, like I owe Parker an explanation.

“He wanted to apologize,” I say, even though Parker didn’t ask.

He makes a skeptical noise. “So what was he going to do with the photo anyways?”

I sigh. “He was going to use it for… historical flavor.”

Parker laughs and, for once, it doesn’t seem like he’s trying to hold it in. But I feel a bubble of guilt at making Xander the butt of my joke. He was nice, he means well. Then again, the world is full of people who think good intentions give them a blank slate to do what they want.

The server arrives with my beer. It’s cold and the bubbles make my nose fizz. As he turns away I see the vine tattoo isn’t just a vine. A thin green viper winds its way through the greenery on his shoulder, its red tongue licking the dark stubble of his shaved neck. When I look back, Parker is studying me. I busy myself peeling the wrapper from my chopsticks, but I know it’s time.

“I went to interview someone yesterday. Someone who was at Coram House as a child. She knew them all—Fred Rooney, Sarah Dale, Bill Campbell, and Tommy too.”

Parker nods for me to go on but doesn’t say anything.

“I wanted to know more about Rooney—about back then but also now. Why he might kill Jeannette Leroy after all these years.”

Parker’s frown sharpens, so I continue before he has a chance to reprimand me. “Look, I swear I’m not trying to meddle. I just—I think we’re missing something, that it’s all connected somehow. What happened to Tommy in the boat, Sarah Dale’s testimony, Sister Cecile, Rooney, and me. I need to understand how.”

Parker nods, but he looks unhappy. “And did you—learn how they’re connected?”

“No,” I admit. “But from what she said—I’m worried that I got itall wrong, Parker. I assumed Rooney killed Sister Cecile to cover his tracks. Or for revenge. Or, I don’t know, some combination of the two.”

“And now?”

“My source confirmed that Sister Cecile put a stop to Father Foster’s sexual abuse. And she told me that Fred loved Sister Cecile, was loyal to her, even now.”

Parker gives me a skeptical look. “You know, you worked pretty hard to get us to look at Rooney as a suspect. I’m not saying it’s up to you we arrested him. I’m just trying to understand. Are you saying you think he didn’t do it after all? Because he loved her?”

He doesn’t sound angry. Worse. There’s something closed off in his voice. Our food arrives—a steaming pile of vermicelli noodles topped with grilled pork, and fish in a clay pot smelling of garlic and caramel. It smells delicious, but I don’t want any of it.

“No,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you—that we don’t know why he killed her?”

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