Page 99 of Coram House

A hundred thousand dollars was too much money to pay Rooney just because he wanted the case settled. Garcia was right about that. But to hide murder? My stomach sinks. And not just one murder. Sister Cecile and Fred Rooney were the only other people who knew what happened that day. And now they’re both dead.

I’m not sure how long I sit at my desk staring down at the map of Coram House. It all makes sense, but at the same time, my mind protests that it’s not possible. Had my last book felt like this—like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place? I’d been wrong then. My mouth fills with metal, as if uncertainty has a taste.

Then I realize my mistake.

Parker is bringing Bill Campbell in to ask about the bribe money. But it’s going to be the wrong line of questioning. We only have one chance at this and he’s going to blow it—because of me.

Shit shit shit.

I dial Parker but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s nearly six p.m. I hang up and call the station instead.

“You’ve reached the police department,” Bev chirps.

Oh thank Christ.

“Bev. Hi, it’s Alex Kelley. Is Officer Parker there?”

“Hold on a moment, dear.”

Before I can tell her it’s urgent, staticky hold music blasts my ears. After two infinite minutes, Bev picks up again.

“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. Can I take a—”

“What about Detective Garcia?”

“Hold, please,” Bev says, sounding clipped now.

“Wait—”

She’s gone longer this time. Finally, the hold music stops and she comes back on the line. “I’m sorry, she’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Could you repeat that?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I just— Can you ask them to call me? As soon as they can. It’s really important.”

“I’ll pass along the message.”

The line goes dead. I imagine Bev writing my message on a Post-it and sticking it to Garcia’s desk. How she’ll find it tomorrow and toss it straight in the trash. I’m the girl who criedimportant informationtoo many times. Everything is about to fall apart, and I’m powerless to do anything.

Then I have an idea. A stupid, desperate idea. I dig through the papers on my desk until I find Bill Campbell’s home number.

“Hello?” A woman answers. Her voice is commanding.

“Mrs. Campbell?” I ask.

“To whom am I speaking?”

I clear my throat. “Sorry—my name is Alex Kelley. I’m a writer working on a local history project. I met with Mr. Campbell last week and he was so helpful. I was hoping he could answer a few last questions.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, he’s not here right now, but I’m happy to pass on the message. Alex, did you say?”

I grimace. “Do you think it would be worth trying him at the office? It’s just a quick question.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” she says. “He’s at a dinner party this evening.”

“Ah—I see. I’ll try him tomorrow, then. Thank you for your help.”

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