Page 47 of Coram House

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I waver, wondering if there’s any way around it, but I have to tell someone what I know. I pick up the phone again, but then think of Garcia’s face the last time I saw her. The disgust and disbelief. Maybe it’s better if I just show up, try to convince Parker in person first, then go to Garcia together.

Outside, a dog barks. A second later, a chorus of answering yips. Then a long, drawn-out howl that makes the fine hairs on my arms bristle. I read somewhere that dogs can sense an earthquake minutesbefore humans. I wait for the ground to start shaking. When nothing happens, I grab my keys and head for the door.

My stomach is roiling as I pull into the police station’s parking lot. Nerves or the pot of coffee I drank instead of lunch, I’m not sure. Bev is behind the front desk packing up her bag. It’s nearly five, I realize, not sure where the day’s gone. She looks up at me, her face wary.

“Hi,” I say with my brightest smile. “I’m hoping to speak to Officer Parker.”

“I see.”

Bev is wearing another novelty sweater. Dark blue with a sky of patchwork stars.

“I’ll just see if he can step out a moment.”

She points to the row of plastic chairs beside the potted plants. Just as I’m about to take a seat, someone says my name. “Ms. Kelley?”

My stomach sinks. I turn. Detective Garcia stands framed in the doorway. Snow dusts the shoulders of her black coat. I step toward her, but my shoe catches the edge of the planter and I trip, snapping one of the plant’s giant leaves. Based on Garcia’s expression, I can see how ridiculous I must appear.

“I have information,” I say. “About the case.” I wince. It sounds like a line from a bad detective novel.

“I see.” Her voice is neutral. “Then I suppose you better come on back.”

Relief courses through me. I expected Garcia to brush me off entirely or make me explain standing in the hallway. Just then, the door into the main office opens and Parker comes out.

“Officer Parker,” Detective Garcia says. “Do you have a minute? Ms. Kelley has some information for us.”

Parker’s eyes touch mine, then look away. There’s a warning there, but I don’t know how to read it. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll get a room.”

Then he’s gone.

Garcia walks by me, but pauses in the doorway and turns back, eyebrows raised. “Well,” she says, “are you coming?”

I trail behind her like a baby duckling. The office is empty, deskslittered with coffee cups like everyone left in a hurry. “Did something happen?” I ask. She doesn’t answer. Not a great start.

The door to the interview room is open. Inside, Parker wrestles with the cord of the blinds. When he finally gets them open, I see the sky outside has gone full dark. Garcia closes the door behind us. “Take a seat.”

I sit. “I was reviewing depositions—video depositions—from the case against the church back in the eighties, and I found something.”

Garcia holds out her palm.Go on.

“So I found a video of Sister Cecile. She was a nun at Coram House, from the sixties until it closed in 1977. And when I saw her face, I realized that she was the woman—the one whose body I found. Sister Cecile is Jeannette Leroy. I’d never made the connection before because her real name was never used in any of the other depositions, but some of the things she did—I mean the abuse—I’m sure there are plenty of people who want her dead—”

“Was alleged to have done,” Garcia cuts in.

My mouth opens and closes soundlessly like a fish. I have a terrible sinking feeling. “You knew already?” I manage.

Garcia sighs loudly through her nose. It’s the noise you make when a child has already used every ounce of your patience and then scribbles on your walls with marker.

“Ms. Kelley, what do you think a police investigation actually involves?”

“I read the obituary,” I say. “It didn’t say anything about Coram House.” I wince at how pathetic the protest sounds.

Garcia shrugs. “She didn’t advertise it, but people knew. We thought it was better to keep that information out of the papers. At least until we’ve investigated any possible connection.”

I wonder if I should be encouraged by this. After all, if she is so certain that Jeannette Leroy’s death was accidental, why is she still here?

“Look, have you talked to Fred Rooney?” I ask. “I went to his house the day after I found her body and he was all covered in scratches and—”

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