Page 84 of Coram House

I let this sit for a second.

All this time, I thought we were hunting whoever killed Jeannette Leroy. That they were the rabbit, going to ground as we got closer. But what if I had it wrong? If whoever killed Jeannette Leroy came back to kill Rooney too, that changes everything. It means they’ve always been the hunter, not us.

It means they’re real. And they’re still out there.

May 3, 1989—US District Courthouse

Sarah Dale

Sarah Dale:Did you know that mold grows roots? So even if you scrape it off the surface of a piece of bread, you’re too late. Invisible roots have already grown all the way through.

Alan Stedsan:I’m not sure I—

SD:I wonder if the House was like that. You leave. You start a new life. You think you’ll be able to wipe it all away, but it’s already too late. It’s already inside you.

AS:Whatever happened back then, it’s not your fault.

SD:Maybe. But it doesn’t change a thing.

AS:Ms. Dale—

SD:Sometimes, I wonder if sadness can spread. Like spores. If it’s not just us—the ones who were at the House. Maybe we’re infecting everyone around us.

PART 5

23

I stay inthe car, heat blasting, until I hear sirens. When the police turn into Rooney’s driveway, I’m waiting on the front walkway. Two officers climb out of a car markedRICHMOND POLICE—both men past the middle part of middle age. One gives off Aryan Nation vibes with his cropped blond hair and blue eyes. The other is taller with a paunch and a mustache like a furry caterpillar. Both men rest one hand on the butt of their gun.

“You the one who called this in, ma’am?” Paunch calls in my direction.

I nod, or try to, but I’m shivering too hard. “He’s inside,” I say, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Fred Rooney. He’s dead.”

“You touch the body?” Blue Eyes barks.

I shake my head, thinking of the bluish tinge of his skin. I didn’t need to touch him to know he was dead. “No. He’s in the bedroom.”

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” says Paunch.

Blue Eyes unbuckles his holster. The gun is like a pit bull—ugly and threatening, even at rest. “Wait here,” he says. The officers go inside.

More sirens. An ambulance pulls into the driveway. Two medics get out and jog into the house with their orange bags.Don’t rush, I want to tell them.There’s no point.

The cold feels like it’s inside me, leaking out. A car door slams. I turn to find Detective Garcia standing beside the door of another police car, dressed in her usual dark suit. No sign of Parker. Still, I’m surprised to feel a lift of relief. Now she can be the one to explain this tangled mess to the officers inside.

Detective Garcia’s eyes flick over the scene, finally landing on me. Beyond a faint lift of her eyebrows, she exhibits no surprise. She has a good poker face. Just then the officers reappear and converge on her. Snippets of conversation drift over.Scene is clear. DOA.

When the group disperses, Garcia walks toward me. Her jacket is open at the collar, and I notice a smudge of pink on her shirt, as if she tried to wipe away a dollop of ketchup.

“Ms. Kelley,” she says, “I’m getting used to finding you at crime scenes.”

I’m not sure whether to smile. It doesn’t sound like a joke.

“Fred Rooney called me last night,” I say. “I came by to interview him this morning.”

Her gaze sharpens. “What time did he call?”

“Around nine p.m.”

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