Page 101 of Coram House

The figure steps onto the ice. It’s walking strangely, hunched and monstrous. Then I see why. It’s dragging something large and unwieldy. It takes a few more steps. The picture snaps into focus.

The hunched figure isn’t draggingsomething. It’s draggingsomeone. Out onto the ice.

Suddenly, I think of the police cruiser parked in front of the office. I imagine Parker arriving to question Bill Campbell with no ideawhat the man is capable of. I bang on the window. “Stop!” I shout to the empty room. For a second, I stand, paralyzed by my distance, my powerlessness. Then I turn away from the window. And I run.

Instinct takes over. I burst onto the landing and sprint through the narrow hallway so quickly I bounce off the wall. Time slows down. I run across the boys’ dormitory, wrench open the door, and take the steep, dark stairs down to the kitchen two at a time.

At the bottom, I shoulder the door. But the knob doesn’t turn and I’m thrown back, landing painfully on my hip. The door is locked.

No. No. No. No.

Just then my phone vibrates. I stare down, shocked to find it still clutched in my hand. It’s the police station. With immense relief, I answer. “Parker?”

“Alex? This is Detective Garcia.”

Her voice is breaking up.

“You have to get here,” I shout. “You have to hurry.”

Some jumble of words falls out of my mouth. About Bill Campbell and Parker. About the canoe. And hiding in the woods. About a boy who drowned in 1968 and this moment in a dark back staircase, trapped behind a locked door.

I’m not sure if I make any sense at all or if Detective Garcia just thinks I’ve gone insane, but after a pause her voice comes back on the line, clearer this time.

“Stay right where you are, Alex.”

I can hear her shouting orders at someone.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can. But the weather—emergency services are delayed.”

My phone beeps. The line goes dead.

I try the door again, shouldering it as I turn the knob. This time it opens easily, and I tumble onto the kitchen floor, landing hard on my knee. The pain is so sharp that, for an instant, my vision goes black. I pull myself up, using the counter for leverage, and hobble to the door. The heavy antique key is in the lock, waiting. I throw the door open and step into the night.

The wind is a punch in the gut. Thick clouds cover the moon now.My eyes rake the ice below, searching for movement, but everything is shadow.

I have been here before.

Except not me. This is where Sarah Dale stood while she watched Tommy drown. Pressed down by the heat of the day, her ears full of the chirp of crickets, she felt her feet grow roots. Everything and nothing stopped. But I’m not rooted to the ground.

There on the ice, a dark shape is moving. My eyes find the gap in the underbrush at the bottom of the hill—the path to the lake. I limp forward, knee throbbing, through the gate flanked by weeping stone angels, and then I begin to run.

The snow in the graveyard is deep. It cakes my boots until they’re heavy as bricks. I’m slow, too slow. The snow is blowing, blinding. I’ve lost the path. My foot catches on a headstone hidden beneath the snow and I go down. When I stagger to my feet, my bare hands sting with cold.

Finally, I reach the hedges that separate the graveyard from the beach. Branches catch my jacket and tangle in my hair. Then I’m through, standing on the rocky shore. Without the shelter of the underbrush, the wind howls. All is darkness, but the ice—so much ice—stretches ahead, glowing with its own light.

In the distance, I can make out two dark shapes. One upright, the other on the ice. My heart squeezes into my throat. The prone figure is struggling. It’s not a body. It’s not too late.

“Stop,” I yell. But the wind carries my voice into the sky.

At first, I assumed they were making for the nearest point of land, which would be Xander’s house, though it’s hidden now by blowing snow. But they seem to be walking out onto the lake. Could it have frozen all the way across since this morning? Or maybe there’s a boat out there waiting.

I look down at the spot where the ice meets the shore. It’s thick and lumpy. When I look up, I can barely see the dark shapes. I put a foot on the ice and test my weight. It holds. I take another step and then another.Don’t let me be too late.I think it over and over like a prayer. Because I know there’s no boat waiting for them. That’s not how this story ends.

From a distance, the ice looked smooth and blown clear of snow. But it’s covered in ridges and holes, crevasses where plates come together. Out here, it’s an alien landscape. I try not to think about what I’m doing. How insane this is.

Ahead of me, the two figures struggle on the ice. Faster. I have to go faster. But I’m afraid. Of sliding, of falling, of going into a hole and slipping quietly below the ice.

“Stop,” I scream. But they can’t hear me over the wind. I break into a run.

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