Page 81 of Coram House

Parker’s phone rings. He frowns down at the screen. “Parker,” he answers in a clipped tone. The voice on the other end is speaking quickly. Parker nods along. “Right,” he says. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He hangs up. For a second, he stares down at the dark screen. It’s something bad. I can see it on his face. “What is it?” I ask.

“They just released Fred Rooney.”

The clinking of silverware, the laughter, all the sounds of the restaurant disappear, as if someone turned down the volume. “What do you mean, released him?”

“He has an alibi.”

“But the fingerprints, his car—you just said—”

“Yeah, I did. Turns out he was at a bar that night. Took a friend’s car and smashed it up pretty good. He ended up in the ER down in Middlebury, but ducked out before officers arrived. He never gave his name so they couldn’t track him down. His car was parked at the construction site all night.”

A car accident. I think of the bandage on his face the day I went to see him—the day after Jeannette Leroy’s death. The scratches all over his hands.

“So he refused to give his alibi for a murder because he didn’t want a DUI?”

Parker slowly shakes his head. “Honestly? I don’t think he cares about the DUI. I think he was just waiting until the last minute to make us look bad. Which we do.”

“And they’re sure about the timeline?”

He shrugs. “They’re still trying to nail down security footage from the hospital to get an exact time stamp. But we have the doctor who stitched him up. So yeah. It’s solid.”

I let out a long slow breath. “Jesus, Parker. I-I’m sorry.”

I feel responsible. I’m the one who pushed him to look at Rooney.

He shakes his head, grim. “Like I said before. Not your fault. It’s on us.”

“Are you allowed to be telling me any of this?”

His mouth hitches up at one side. “Do you care?” He stands. “I have to go in.”

“Right,” I say. “Of course.”

Parker fumbles in his pocket for his wallet.

“Stop,” I say. “It’s on me, remember?”

For a second, he looks like he’s going to protest. Then he pulls on his coat. “All right. Thanks for dinner.” He turns to go, then stops. “And I’ll look into what you said—about Bill, the money. Okay?”

I nod. “Thanks.” I want more, but at this point I should be grateful he’s even speaking to me.

Parker weaves between the tables and steps outside into the night. He walks south, toward the police station. Snow settles on the shouldersof his parka until it looks like there’s some furry white creature curled up there. Then he’s gone.

My head is spinning. I’d been so sure there was someone else in the woods that day that I latched on to Rooney and his connection to Sister Cecile. Now this is the second time in my life someone’s been arrested for a murder they didn’t commit. Because of me. I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. Maybe there was no one in the woods that day. Maybe the canoe is just a coincidence. Maybe that’s been the answer all along—I just didn’t want to admit it.

The noodles slither around my plate, cold and slimy. The server comes by and I hand him my credit card, nod when he asks if I’m done.

I can’t eat anymore. Because it’s not just Rooney’s life I ruined. There’s Parker too. He says he doesn’t blame me, but maybe he should. I pushed him to look at Rooney. And now, what is my mistake going to cost him? The server reappears with the receipt and all the untouched food, neatly packed into Styrofoam containers. I smile and thank him, even though I don’t want any of it.

The dark streets are so quiet that it feels much later than eight. I’m on edge, jumping at every shadow, at the sound of snowflakes rustling the plastic bag of leftovers. But what am I afraid of exactly? I imagine Rooney waiting in an alley, out for revenge, and immediately feel stupid.

From half a block away, I spot a box at my front door. When I get closer, I see it’s a wooden crate, like something that belongs in an antique store. The card, thick as a wedding invitation, has my name on it.

Alex—I know you told me to stop apologizing, but sorry. Again. Thanks for coming. I hope we can do it again. Anyways, here’s some wine. From NAPA!! —Xander

Xander added a tiny curve under the exclamation points, turning them into a smiley face. My stomach twists—guilt at making fun of him at dinner.

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