Page 39 of Coram House

Heat creeps up into my cheeks.

“Maybe I was there that day, maybe not. But I can tell you I never touched that boy.”

“The others said you were a particular favorite of Sister Cecile’s,” I say quietly. “That she loved you.”

Fred Rooney’s face shuts down like someone turned out the light. “Well, I guess you’d have to ask Sister Cecile about that.”

The surprise knocks me back a step. He used the present tense.

After Coram House closed, most of the nuns had gone to convents or retirement homes for members of the clergy. And now all the ones I’d found were dead, except for the one nonagenarian with Alzheimer’s. I’d assumed Sister Cecile had died too, probably at some convent back in Quebec. Why?

With a sinking feeling, I know. Because, when I read Sister Cecile’s deposition, I’d pictured an elderly nun. And that blurred face in the photo from the sixties—my mind had filled in a sturdy middle-aged woman. Finding Sister Cecile hadn’t been a priority because I’d imagined her as old,allnuns as old. But if she’d been young, say somewhere between twenty and thirty, I do a quick calculation—she’d be in her seventies or eighties now.

My own blind spot. How stupid.

“I didn’t realize Sister Cecile was still alive. I’d love to speak to her. Do you have her contact information?”

I try to keep my voice calm but can tell how eager I sound, like he just put food in front of a starving person.

Rooney throws back his head and roars with laughter. He gently lifts the bandage so he can wipe away tears. “Freebie time’s over,” he says, smile gone. Before I can say another word, he slams back into his house. I’m left standing alone in the snow.

In the car, I grip the steering wheel, hands shaking. My heart thumps like a rabbit spotting the fox’s tail as it disappears into the bush. Fearful with the knowledge that I’ve been spared.

Back on the main road, the snowy fields glow orange with sunset. A few weeks ago, I would have said snow is white, but now I know it’s blue with twilight or the yellow of direct sunlight. White doesn’t exist at all.

My phone beeps to tell me I have a voicemail—Parker asking me to call him back. I pull over and turn off the car before dialing the station.

“Parker.” His voice is low and raspy, like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey. It’s Alex Kelley. I just got your message.”

“Oh, Alex. Hi.” His tone softens. “Look, I’m sure this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but I have to ask you to come back to the station.”

He’s right. It is the last thing I want to hear. “Now?” I hate the whine in my voice.

“Tomorrow is fine,” he says. “We’ve got a detective from state coming in.”

“Oh,” I say. “Does that mean— Do you know the cause of death? Sorry, I’m probably not supposed to ask that, but it’s, well, I got the sense you didn’t believe me. About what I heard—the sounds in the woods.”

I shove the heel of my palm into my eye socket, trying to dull the headache gathering there. I’m babbling. The conversation with Rooney’s thrown me off.

“Alex, we take all witness statements seriously,” he says. “And we treat every death as suspicious if there’s any reason to believe it might be.”

I hear the reprimand in his tone, but isn’t that exactly what he’d done? Dismissed me? Or maybe I’m being too sensitive.

“Alex, are you still there? You’re breaking up.”

“Sorry.” I raise my voice, as if that will help. “I’m out of town. Interviewing someone. For the book. Fred Rooney.”

I don’t know why I say it. An olive branch, I guess. I’d gotten off to such a bad start with Parker, but after yesterday—it feels like a bridge worth repairing.

“Fred Rooney?” There’s a hard edge to his voice, the fatigue gone.

“Is that—a problem?”

“I— Look, I’m sorry. It’s just—Alex, that guy is bad news. Stay away from him.”

I bristle. “What do you mean, bad news?”

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