Page 83 of Coram House

I close my eyes. The lake monster floats just beneath the surface of the water. A long neck rises from a smooth, gray back. Orange eyes glow in the murky water. They fix on a skinny pair of legs treading water in the shallows. The monster’s body undulates like a snake across the bottom, stirring up swirls of mud. It strikes silently.

I wonder if that was Tommy’s last thought as he slipped below the surface. The tug of gravity must have felt like a monster, jaws clasped around his ankles, pulling him down into the deep. I lie there for hours, exhausted, brain spinning, sure I’ll never sleep again. But sleep pulls me under eventually. And I wonder what monsters I’ll dream about.

22

The fields ofsnow flanking the highway glow gold with sunrise, but the forested edges are still black, shadows stuck to the trees like cobwebs. I didn’t tell anyone I’m going to see Rooney. I sat at the table with Parker’s number pulled up on my phone, but couldn’t hit call. I knew he’d tell me that it’s stupid to go alone, might even insist on coming. He’d be right. But I heard the desperation in Rooney’s voice. This time, he has something to say, and he wants to say it to me alone. So I wrote a note explaining where I’m going and why—just in case. Sitting there in the middle of the table, it looked like a suicide note.

On the drive, I play the recording from Karen’s interview. I’d only meant to review the section where she talks about Bill and Rooney, to make sure there’s nothing I missed. But her voice feels like history is playing out in front of me. The opposite of a black-and-white photograph in a dusty box. I’m riveted. I can’t turn it off. I wonder if I should include parts of the depositions in the book—to let the children of Coram House speak for themselves. Maybe entire sections interspersed between chapters. I feel the tiny thrill of a puzzle piece clicking into place.

In college, I took a writing class with a famous investigative journalist. He had a Pulitzer and a dozen bestselling books, which entitled him to make all sorts of pronouncements about what writing should or shouldn’t be. At the time, I took notes like it was a recipe for success. Now, I think most of it was garbage. He had talent and he worked hard and was lucky. Whether or not he stood at his typewriter barefoot for four hours a day like Hemingway was beside the point.

One thing he said stuck.You have to write for an audience of one, he said.All the other people you hope will read your book don’t matter. You’re writing only for this one person.Now, I wonder if that’s what made me feel so directionless after Adam died. He was my one. And who is my one now? Tommy would be the easy answer. The lost boy, found. But it’s not his voice I hear in my head; it’s Sarah Dale. Sarah, who spoke the truth and was dismissed again and again. Locked in a cabinet. Silenced.

The turnoff to Rooney’s comes sooner than I remember, and I slam on the brakes. The car skids on a patch of ice as I swing left. It’s just a small skid—I correct it easily—but still my hands are shaking by the time I pull into Rooney’s driveway. A fine layer of snow covers his black pickup. But the driveway itself is freshly plowed and the walkway to the front door is already scraped clean of snow. I turn off the engine. My stomach twists, but it’s not fear—it’s anticipation. I get out.

The morning is still. A quiet cabin in the woods. Snow layered on the roof like cotton batting. I step onto the porch, and knock—three raps that echo inside the house. My phone says quarter past eight. I wait for footsteps or a gravelly voice telling me to hang on a second, but it doesn’t come. I knock again, louder this time. He’s probably just in the bathroom. And yet, an alarm is going off in my brain.

The snow on Rooney’s truck suggests he hasn’t gone anywhere since the snow fell overnight. Maybe he just overslept. A flash of movement in the front window sends my heart into my throat. But it’s nothing, just the flutter of a curtain. And that’s when I realize what’s wrong. The window is wide open.

The curtain moves again, caught by a current of air. And it’s not just the one window. All four windows along the front of the house are open.

My hand goes to the doorknob, somehow knowing that it will be unlocked even before it turns under my hand. The door swings open with a loud creak.

“Hello?” I step inside. The floorboards groan. It’s freezing inside.

Straight ahead a sliding door leads onto a snow-covered deck. To the left, the kitchen. Bare tile floors and empty counters. It looks like noone has ever cooked a meal. I cross back into the front hall and then to the living room. This room, at least, looks lived in. The faded red couch bears an indent in one cushion, as if someone just got up. The television is on, but muted. A bottle of beer lays on its side on the rug, a dark stain spreading outward from its mouth. I turn to the dark hallway beyond.

“Hello?” I call again.

The nearest door is half open, revealing the foot of a bed. I don’t want to go in there, don’t want to smell Rooney’s bedroom or see the twist of sheets on his unmade bed. But the alarm in my brain is screaming now. Something is wrong.

I force myself to take three steps forward, counting each one. The door opens easily under my fingertips. A flash of movement makes blood thud in my ears, but it’s just another open window above the bed. More curtains blowing. Who would have expected a sixty-something bachelor to have so many damn curtains. I’m about to retreat into the hall when I see something that makes me stop.

On the far side of the rumpled bed, a pile of clothes sits on a chair—pants, shirt, and a sweatshirt folded on top. On the floor, peeking out from behind the bed skirt, is a sock. An icy prickle of sweat trickles down my armpits. Not a limp twist of fabric. A sock on a foot.

My legs take a step forward and then another. It’s as if someone else is driving my body. All along, I’m staring at that sock. At the worn patch on the bottom where the flesh peeks through. As I round the bed, I see the ribbed top of the sock, then a few inches of smooth calf, hairless and speckled with age.

Rooney lies on the floor in boxers and socks, arms and legs splayed out as if he fell that way and stayed put. His skin has the bluish tinge of someone in a fairy tale, frozen by the ice queen. Cloudy eyes stare up at the ceiling. Along his neck, a thin red line. Cut or bruise, I can’t tell. But there’s no blood. I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.

I back away—bang—straight into something. My scream comes out as a squeak. But it’s just the bathroom door. I look back. Rooney hasn’t moved.

Then I’m stumbling into the hallway, running so the rug slips and I slam into the wall. I stagger outside, down the front walkway, andwrench open the door of my car. I fall into the driver’s seat and lock the doors.

For a mad second I wonder if I can just leave. Drive away. Let someone else find him. He’s blue. It’s not like anyone can do anything. And the last thing I need is for the police to find me here with another body barely a week after the first one.

I try to put the key into the ignition but my hands are shaking too hard. My breathing is ragged. There’s no air in the car.

“Fuck,” I yell at no one.

I can’t leave. I know I can’t leave.

I lean back against the headrest and wait for my lungs to fill. Then I dial 911 and go through it all again. Tell the operator where I am, how the body looked.You’re getting good at this, says a voice in my head. The operator asks me to stay on the line until help arrives, but I hang up.

Rooney is dead.I probe to see how I feel. It’s like pressing my tongue against a sore tooth. When the pain comes it’s acute, but satisfying too. I don’t feel sad exactly. The world is probably better off without Fred Rooney. But with Sarah Dale and Jeannette Leroy dead, he was my last chance to learn what really happened the day Tommy drowned. And he wanted to talk. I was so goddamn close. A door into Coram House, into the past, has closed forever just when I was about to peek through.

Then there’s that red line on his neck. What was that—a cut or bruise? Maybe he just died of a heart attack. Or maybe there’s another option.

Rooney is dead and someone killed him.

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