Page 70 of Coram House

“Is this Alex Kelley?” It’s a woman’s voice, but deep with a hint of gravel. Older but not elderly.

“Yes,” I say. “This is Alex. Can I help you?”

“This is Karen Lafayette. I hear you want to talk to me.”

“Karen,” I say. “Karen Lafayette.”

My brain takes a moment to process the name. Karen who was a child at Coram House. Karen who knew Sarah Dale. Karen who saw Sister Cecile push a girl out the window.

“Yes,” she says. “You called me? Left a message. Two messages, actually. I’ve been on a cruise. Just got back yesterday.”

“A cruise,” I repeat. My heart thumps absurdly, not quite believing she’s here, alive, on the phone.

“Do you want to tell me what this is about? Or should I start guessing?”

She sounds amused.

“Right,” I say. “Yes, of course.”

I’d kept my messages vague, hoping to pique her curiosity enough to call me back. “I’m writing a book about Coram House.” I pause, waiting to see if she’s going to hang up.

Instead, she lets out a long breath. “Well,” she says. “It’s about time somebody did.”

Before I know what’s happening she’s agreed to an interview tomorrow and is giving me directions to her farm. “All right,” Karen says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow sometime around eleven. Are you in a truck?”

“A—what?” I ask.

“The roads up here are pretty slick, but you should be all right, as long as you have four-wheel drive.”

“Oh, right.” I look around my car, trying to figure out if I have four-wheel drive.

“Otherwise, you might want to wait a week. Give the plows a chance to catch up.”

Not going to happen. I try to fill my voice with confidence. “No problem. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

We hang up and I drop the phone into the cupholder. Fireworks are going off in my stomach. For weeks, I’ve been looking for some proof of what happened to Tommy. But every time I think I find a way in, a window open just a crack, it slams shut. And now, finally, a door.

19

My appointment withKaren isn’t until eleven, but I’m out the door by eight. After reading the manual, I’m pretty sure my car doesn’t come with four-wheel anything, so the plan is to drive slowly and hope for the best. But first, I fortify myself with coffee and an egg sandwich from the corner store.

In line to pay, I text Stedsan to reschedule tomorrow’s meeting, tell him I have a promising interview and need a few more days. I’d already been dreading our check-in since the outline was nowhere near ready, but now I don’t know how I can sit across from him knowing he might have colluded with Bill Campbell to settle the case. My poker face isn’t that good. Stedsan writes back immediately, saying great, just let him know.

I eat with the heat blowing full blast to melt the rime of frost coating the windshield. My fingers itch to text Parker for an update: Did he call Xander about the canoe? What’s going on with Rooney? But I don’t want to hear that he can’t discuss an active case. The grease from the sandwich turns to jelly as it goes cold. I wrap the rest in foil. Time to get going.

Westfield doesn’t look far on the map, but my route follows a snaking maze of country roads into an area called the Northeast Kingdom. The name conjures enchanted castles, but an hour into the drive, I’ve only seen barns that fill my car with the animal tang of livestock.

My phone loses service, so I pull over at a crossroads to scan the map. Fields of snow stretch in all directions. Not a car or house in sight. The only sign of habitation is a split-rail fence that runs along the road.Each post is weathered to gray and covered in patches of pale green lichen. The fence could be a hundred years old. Then I spot the pile of rocks rising from the middle of the field like a cairn. Karen told me about this spot. According to her directions, I should go straight for two miles and then turn into her drive. The only problem is that the road ahead is covered in a layer of snow.

I get out of the car and cross to the unplowed section of road. The snow is loose and squeaks underfoot. Far across the field, pines sway. A few seconds later the wind reaches me with eye-stinging cold. The air rings with quiet. The places I used to seek solitude—a bench in Central Park—seem crowded and noisy in hindsight.

Two more miles to Karen’s. So close and yet impossibly far. I could drive and get stuck, end up having to walk the rest of the way. Can you freeze to death in two miles? Probably. Or I could do the smart thing. Go back to my apartment and try again in a few days. All the options are bad. I turn back toward the car, and then stop.

A white owl perches on a fence post, watching me with yellow eyes.Where the hell did that come from?Wind ruffles its feathers, which are speckled brown like someone shook pepper on them. The owl shifts and black talons peek out from feathery boots.

It’s magnificent. I don’t move, don’t breathe.

The owl cocks its head at me and then unfurls its enormous wings. The span could envelop me entirely. The feathers at the end spread wide like fingers. The bird flaps once and launches into the air, soaring pale and silent over the field and into the trees beyond.

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