Page 107 of Coram House

“How much did you know?” I ask.

Stedsan frowns. “I told you, Alex,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “I always believed Sarah’s version of events, but I never had any proof. I’m as surprised as you are that Bill was involved.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not what I’m here about.

“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think over the last few weeks,” I say. “And there’s this thing, tiny really, I don’t know why it stuck in my head, but it did. Something Russell Parker said to me.”

He waits, eyebrows raised. The silence stretches out, but he doesn’t squirm.

“His dad died when he was a kid. I checked, just to make sure, but it’s true. Lewis Parker died in 1987, when Russell Parker was ten years old.”

I wait to see if this means anything to him, but Stedsan just frowns.

“It got me thinking. Sarah Dale was a single mom, an orphan with no family, when she gave that deposition in 1989. Days of interviews. Who would have taken care of her son back in New York? Or maybe she brought him along.”

I see it in his eyes—the moment he realizes what I’m getting at.

“He would have been, what, twelve? Still a kid, sure, but I’m betting he was still recognizable to someone who met him again twenty-five years later. Especially if that someone was paying attention. And you strike me as someone who is always paying attention.”

Stedsan’s expression doesn’t change, but he goes so still he could be a statue. This is risky, I know it is. It’s a wild conjecture that he’d be crazy to confirm, but I can’t get the idea out of my head. The way he’d laughed when he told me about my media liaison and his strange reaction to Fred Rooney’s death, like he knew something he wasn’t saying. It could add up to nothing. Or to this.

“I think you always knew who Russell Parker was,” I say. “And I think that you suspected what he was doing and decided to let it play out.”

Stedsan says nothing, but that foxlike expression is back. “You can’t prove any of this.”

It feels like someone’s punctured my lungs. “People died.”

“You know,” Stedsan said. “If Bill Campbell had just told us everything he knew from the beginning, all this might have been avoided. Why don’t you save your lecture for him. As it stands—drugs, sexual assault, blackmail, murder—I’m not sure the world is worse off without those two.”

I can see it from his perspective. Justice from another angle. But I think of the dark sadness in Parker’s face. The worldisworse.

“What makes you think he wasn’t coming for you next?” I ask.

Stedsan laughs. “What makes you think he wasn’t coming for you too, Alex Kelley?”

And if he had come for Stedsan, would some part of me have thought it was deserved? The part that right now thirsts for Stedsan’s blood. That wants not just justice, but retribution. As for me, Parker had his chance out on the ice and he walked away. But maybe that had less to do with my innocence than his sense of mercy. Or maybe he knew that being left was a punishment of its own. Either way, I’ll never know.

“I’m leaving,” I say. “Today. I’m going to write my book somewhere else.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Our contract clearly stipulates you remain here for the full six months or until the first draft is done.”

“I’m not finished,” I say. “Our financial arrangement will remain the same. You’ll get your royalties, but my name goes on the cover and the final edit is mine too.”

“And why on earth would I agree to any of this?”

“Because I think you want to keep this conversation out of the book.”

He shrugs. “Allegations with no evidence. And you’d be in violation of your NDA.”

I look him right in the eye without flinching. “Fuck the NDA. I’ve done some research and there’s a good shot it wouldn’t hold up in court. Plus this story is so good I’m sure one interview with the press would more than cover my legal costs.”

We look at each other, not saying anything. Behind his eyes, I can see the gears of his mind turning, looking for the way out.

“Or you could let me write the book my way. The rest of it goes in, but this part we’ll keep between us. Your choice.”

A smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head. “I’m not too big to admit when I’ve been outmaneuvered,” he says. “Very well. Go where you wish. Write your book.”

He sighs but I’d swear he looks a little relieved.

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