Page 82 of Coram House

I try to lift the crate, but it’s too heavy. Somehow I manage to get the door open and wrestle it into the vestibule, but there’s no way I’m getting it up the stairs without dismantling it with a crowbar first. I feel a surge of anger at Xander, at people who give without stopping to think whether they’re sending a gift or just one more burden.

Upstairs, I make sure all the windows are locked, including the brand-new latch on the kitchen window. The curtains in my bedroom are half open, so a wedge of light falls across my pillow. I pull them shut. Then I go back into the kitchen and check the deadbolt again. I feel stupid and paranoid. I bet Karen doesn’t even lock her doors. Though, to be fair, she probably has a shotgun under her bed.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. The caller ID shows a local number. I don’t know who would be calling me this late, but I answer.

“Hello?” I answer. “Alex Kelley.”

Silence on the other end. Then I hear the slow exhale of breath. Someone smoking.

“Hey there, writer.”

My stomach drops. I lean my back against the door and slide down until I’m sitting. The floor is freezing.

“Mr. Rooney. How can I help you?”

He laughs. “Oh, so now you’re looking to help me, are you?”

His voice is dripping with sarcasm, but he doesn’t sound angry.

“Listen, I don’t know if your cop boyfriend told you, but they let me go. I got what they call an alibi.”

“All right,” I say, but he continues as if he didn’t hear me.

“There are some things you should know.”

My heart thumps. He’s probably playing me, almost definitely playing me. “Is this about Tommy?”

“Jesus,” he snaps, so loud I flinch. Then he sighs. “A lot of shit happened back then. Why are you so obsessed with this one kid?”

He sounds more curious than angry now. The silence stretches out. He’s waiting for an answer.

“They tried to erase him,” I say. “Like he never existed.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said, there are things you should know.”

I take a deep breath, worried that he’s going to hang up on me. “I can’t pay you, Mr. Rooney. That hasn’t changed.”

“I know. We’re past that. I’ve got other shit to think about.”

Shit like what?I want to ask, but instead I wait. There’s a quaver in his voice that wasn’t there the last time we talked. He’s desperate or—maybe I’m imagining it—but he sounds scared.

“Bill Campbell,” Rooney says. “He’s not what you think.”

“All right,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Let’s talk.”

“Face-to-face,” he says. “Tomorrow. My place.”

Alarm flashes in my brain. Being alone with him is not a good idea. “Listen—”

“Calm down, writer. Nothing funny. I just need to talk to you like I said.”

To my surprise, I believe him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll come by your place in the morning. Around eight?”

“Fine,” he says.

The line goes dead.

I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. My heart gallops, every beat like hooves. It’s fear, but not of Rooney, not attached to any particular person. It’s like when you’re a kid and you have to go to the bathroom, but don’t want your bare ankles exposed to whatever is hiding under the bed. It’s just adrenaline, I know. Maybe it always comes back to monsters in the dark. Real or imagined.

---