Page 40 of Coram House

There’s a huff of breath on the other end of the phone. “I can’t say more right now. But he’s dangerous. Just—don’t talk to him alone, at least—okay? I can come with you next time.”

“Yeah, in my experience bringing a cop along makes interview subjects open right up.” A prickle of irritation runs down my spine—what am I supposed to do with half information and cryptic warnings? He’s worse than Stedsan.

“Alex, listen to me. I can’t discuss an active investigation, okay?” Parker sighs like someone very, very tired.

No one asked you to, I want to say. But then I imagine the sleepless night he’s probably had. “Okay,” I say. “I appreciate the”—I search for the right word—“information. Anyways, what time do you want me there tomorrow?”

“Is nine okay?”

“Sure.”

There’s a long pause filled with muffled thumping—Parker tapping his pen against the desk. “Okay,” he says. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

But the line is already dead. I drop my phone into the cupholder.

The car splutters as I turn the key. For one horrible second, I imagine hiking back to Rooney’s house in the dark to use his phone, Parker’s warning ringing in my ears. Then the motor catches and rumbles to life. I navigate the car off the shoulder and onto the icy road. Night falls as I drive, the sky a little darker every time I glance in the rearview mirror. There are no streetlights here. No moon. Darkness is following me home.

12

Shit. I wipeat the stain spreading across my shirt with a paper towel. Now I have no coffee, and I’m supposed to be at the police station in five minutes. All morning, I’ve been distracted, thinking about Fred Rooney and what I could have done differently. And then there’s what he said about Sister Cecile. I spent an hour searching various combinations of her name, but came up blank. Could she really be out there, alive? Or was he messing with me? But now it’s two minutes to nine and I need to stop thinking about it. I dig through my drawers, but I haven’t done laundry yet, so the pickings are slim. Finally, I pull a cleanish sweatshirt on over my bra.

Outside, I hurry to the car. At least we didn’t get more snow overnight. The last thing I need right now is to dig out the car. But when I pat my pocket for the car keys, I can’t find them. “Shit,” I yell, loud enough to get a dirty look from a woman walking her dog. I don’t apologize, just dash upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the station parking lot, eyes on the clock, as if that will make it say something other than 9:27. A dark shape appears in front of the hood and I slam on the brakes. A police officer stares me down. I raise my hands in the universal gesture ofI’m sorry, I’m a complete idiot. He shakes his head and disappears into the building. Sweat prickles down my back. I hate being late. The clock ticks up to 9:28. I jog across the parking lot.

As usual, Bev is sitting behind the reception desk, today in a sweater covered in rainbow pom-poms. She lifts a hand, telling me to wait, and picks up the phone. A few seconds later, Parker appears in the lobby.His uniform is rumpled and his hair flattened. There are dark purple bags under his eyes. It’s unfair how men can continue to be good-looking even when they look terrible.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say.

Parker nods, distracted, but doesn’t say any more about it. “Thanks for coming. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

The station feels busier than before. Or maybe it’s just giving off a different energy. Before, it felt somber and restrained. Today, officers are seated at desks, legs bouncing in impatience. One cracks his knuckles as I walk by.

Parker leads me toward a knot of people at the back of the room. They part to reveal a woman in a dark pantsuit, sitting on the edge of a desk. One pant leg is hiked up to reveal a flat black boot. Not one of those TV detectives who run around in three-inch heels, then. Her makeup is minimal, her hair pulled into a low bun. Everything about her feels polished. Professional. Though I do catch a glimmer of gold around her throat. As we get closer I see it’s a thin chain with a tiny cross. She catches sight of us and gives Parker a slight nod.

“Thanks, everyone,” she says to the crowd around her. “Find me if you have any questions. We’ll brief again at the end of the day.”

The knot of officers gathered around her breaks apart like athletes going onto the field. She slides off the desk and comes to her full height, which is a good five inches shorter than me. Yet she still projects an aura of authority.

“Alex,” Parker says, “this is Detective Garcia. She’s here from state.”

Detective Garcia holds out her hand and I catch a hint of perfume. Something lush and tropical. It reminds me of one of those expensive candles everyone in Brooklyn has on their mantel. Jasmine. Lily of the valley. Tuberose.

“Thank you for coming,” Garcia says. By her tone, I can’t tell if she’s thanking me for coming or berating me for my lateness. The morning is making me feel off-balance. I half expect to see the floor tiles lifting as a wave moves beneath the surface.

“Let’s find somewhere quiet to talk,” she says.

Parker leads the way to an interview room. The drunk tank. Thebed is gone, along with the guy in the expensive sneakers. Without him, the room is identical to the one I sat in with Parker and Officer Washington two days ago. The table. The four plastic chairs. The only difference is the framed poster. This one shows Lake Champlain at sunset, a white sailboat cutting across the water. The real lake—or at least our little inlet—is obscured by the cinderblock wall.

When I sit, this chair also rocks back and forth. I smile. But when I look up, Garcia is watching me, her lips pressed together into a thin red line. The smile drops from my face.

She sits down and opens a folder. “Let’s get started,” she says. “Officer Parker?”

Parker adjusts something on the camera mounted to the wall. “All good,” he says. He catches my eye and gives me a small smile. My insides settle a little.

Garcia picks up the remote and I consent to being recorded. She asks me to describe what happened that day in the woods. As I speak, she sits very still, her arms crossed and her eyes never leaving me. I feel like an insect trapped under a glass dome.

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