Page 65 of Coram House

Parker seems to consider that.

“Campbell and Rooney have known each other a long time,” I say.

“You think he’s protecting him?”

I think of the way Rooney acted toward Bill Campbell in the office the day we met. How rude he was and the tension in the room. Then there was that strange moment when I’d asked Campbell about Tommy. He’d dismissed Sarah Dale’s testimony, sure. But he’d also looked scared.

“Or maybe he’s afraid of him,” I say.

“Afraid?” Parker frowns.

“Think about it,” I say, getting excited now. “We can’t prove Rooney did anything to Jeannette Leroy. Campbell knows we can’t. Even if he suspects Rooney—he’s not going to come forward. I’ve seen them together, Parker. They’re not friends. And Rooney undercuts him in public. Why would he put up with that?”

Parker’s frown deepens. I think he’s going to tell me I’ve gone too far, to butt out of the case and cut out thewestuff. But he doesn’t.

“Rooney works for him—has for decades,” Parker says. “Why would Campbell employ him all these years?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. He’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe Bill Campbell has suspicions about what happened to Jeannette Leroy, maybe he’s afraid of Rooney now. But why give him a job in the first place? From everything I’ve read, Rooney has always been monstrous. But a certainty is blooming somewhere deep inside me. Bill Campbell knows more than he’s saying.

Sirens sound in the distance, faint but getting louder. “Let’s go,” Parker says. We return to the main path. Nearby, a bird alights on a branch dotted with red berries. It plucks one off and tosses its head back, swallowing it whole.

“Alex,” Parker says. He looks uncomfortable. “I—know you’re going to keep digging into this—this connection to what happened back then. Will you let me know what you find out?”

“Of course I will,” I say, surprised.

Just then, Parker’s phone rings. He looks down at the number. “I have to—”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

I walk the rest of the way alone. Coram House looms above, casting a long shadow across the snow. The moment I’m inside the shadow, the air grows suddenly colder, as if I’ve passed through a ghost.

18

I unlock thedoor to my apartment. My feet feel frozen from standing in the deep snow at the graveyard.

“Shit.”

The word floats into the room, a puff of cloud, because it’s cold enough inside to see my breath. The floorboards groan as I cross to the heater in the living room and touch it. Warm. It seems to be working.

Then something on the desk catches my eye. My laptop sits in the middle of the table, surrounded by black-and-white photographs. Earlier, I’d been going through them, trying to build a visual storyboard to run with the book. One image per chapter. Except the photos aren’t in a stack anymore. They’re scattered across the table. Had I left them that way? I’d swear I hadn’t.

My throat tightens. Both windows are locked. Next, I check the bedroom. Also locked. I’m being paranoid. What do I think happened, exactly? Rooney got drunk and stopped here for a little breaking and entering on the way to the funeral? But, in the kitchen, I find the window wide open. My heart beats hard enough that I swear I can feel the muscle slamming against my breastbone.

I stick my head out the window and peer down into the narrow, overgrown yard. There are no footprints in the snow. And no ladder marks. So unless Rooney can fly, no dice. I shut the window and stare at it. A second later, it creaks open again. The latch is broken. I sigh, feeling stupid, and rig something with a rubber band until I can call the landlord.

I clean up the windblown photos scattered on the floor. I was luckythe weather wasn’t worse. With an open window, the apartment could have been full of snow, the pictures ruined. I come to the photo of Sister Cecile standing beside the boat. By now, I’ve memorized every part of it, but something is bothering me. Some tickle in my brain. I take in her black habit, the blur of her face. Maybe it’s the incongruity of knowing I stood beside her coffin just a couple hours ago. I nestle the photo back in the box with the others.

I’m halfway to the bedroom to get another sweater when I stop. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. In three steps I’m back at the box of photos.

Sister Cecile. The boat.

I pull out my phone. I don’t want to call Xander, would much rather let yesterday remain where it is—something to tell Lola about next time she calls. But I dial anyway.

“Alex,” Xander says. He sounds pleased. “How’s it going?”

“Xander, what you said last night—about seeing a canoe on the water—when was it?” I’m breathless and speaking too fast. “I mean, do you remember exactly what day it was?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, sounding baffled. “It was the night—well, I guess it was probably morning by then—the whole thing with my car—”

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