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I press my fingers to Sister Cecile’s face. The TV screen is cold and smooth. Her mouth opens and closes. She blinks. She’s alive, yet she wears the face of a dead woman. The blood is gone and the wrinkles are smoothed out, but still—I’m sure of it. Either Sister Cecile is Jeannette Leroy’s twin or the woman in this video is the body I found in the woods four days ago. It takes me an hour to get through the first ten minutes of tape. I keep replaying it—because all I can do is stare at her face.

A few weeks after Adam died, I was scrolling through photos, when I accidentally played a video. Adam from a few years before at Thanksgiving. He leaned against the counter between an empty bottle of champagne and the burned turkey, smiling. He was still, posing for a photo, not this accidental video. But then he blinked, shifted slightly onto one foot. It felt like there was a tear in time. Like he might come alive and step out of the phone. The next day I’d uploaded all my photos and videos to the cloud and deleted them from my phone. That’s how I feel now, like I could reach out and touch the woman’s face. Warn her about what’s to come.

A quick search gives me what I’m looking for. Apparently, women usually change their names when they become nuns to signify the transformation of their lives. So Jeannette Leroy became Sister Cecile. And then, at some point, probably after the publicity surrounding the case, she went back to using her given name. It was so simple, and it had been right in front of me. My throat tightens. Stupid. Stupid.

I’ve read the deposition, so the content of the video is less interesting than the dynamic. Jeannette Leroy is well spoken and calm. But, more than that, she’s so perfectly sure that she’s right. You can feel it in the way she sits, still and poised at the edge of the chair. You can hear it in the way Stedsan begins to falter and seems to have no answer to her questions—not that she’s waiting for one. The woman is a force.

And she’s so young. She looks barely older than me. If Sister Cecile arrived at Coram House in 1965, she must have been a teenager or in her early twenties. Barely older than the children she was watching over.

I give up trying to focus on what they’re saying. Just the fact of this interview changes everything. Maybe no one had a motive for hiding in the woods to kill Jeannette Leroy, the quiet old lady. But Sister Cecile? I look at the list of names on my desk: all children who lived at Coram House under Sister Cecile’s iron cross. If even a fraction of the testimonies are true, any one could have had reason to want her dead. And those were just the people interviewed in connection with the lawsuit. There would be thousands of other children, unknown or unnamed, who passed through Coram House over the years. And there at the top of the list: Fred Rooney.

Fred Rooney who might have helped Jeannette Leroy drown a child fifty years ago. Then there was the bandage on his face the day I showed up at his house. The scratches. The day after Jeannette Leroy’s death. My head feels like it’s floating off my shoulders.

“Shit.” My voice sounds strangled.

What if the cops don’t know about Jeannette Leroy’s connection to Coram House? I pick up my phone and dial Stedsan. He doesn’t answer, of course. Goddamn Stedsan never answers.

“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 minutes before 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, desks littered 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—”

“I can’t discuss an active investigation.”

Detective Garcia’s voice is ice, any vestige of patience gone. I have a flashback to that day in the car, leaving Rooney’s house. It’s exactly what Parker said when he warned me off talking to Rooney. Maybe he wasn’t trying to fob me off. Maybe he was trying to tell me they are taking me seriously. I risk a glance at Parker and he gives a tiny shrug, like he’s read my mind. I wish I could melt into the floor and ooze back into the potted plant in the lobby, hide under its yellowing leaves.

“Listen,” Parker says. “Like Detective Garcia said, Jeannette Leroy’s connection to Coram House wasn’t exactly a secret around here, but if it gets out into national news, our investigation is going to get a lot more difficult.”

Detective Garcia leans forward. “The last thing we need is a bunch of reporters getting in the way. And we will absolutely write you up if we find out you’ve said or done anything to compromise this investigation.”

I nod, mumble yes, of course . The child with the marker, just grateful to be alive.

“Now, if that’s all, we’re late for something.”

Garcia stands without waiting for a reply.

“I can see her out,” Parker says. Garcia nods at him once, a curt thanks. Then she opens the door and leaves without a backward glance.

I cover my face with my hands. Parker clears his throat. “No, don’t say anything,” I mumble from behind my fingers.

“I did warn you to be careful.”

I drop my hands. For the first time, I notice that Parker isn’t in uniform. He’s wearing jeans and a collared shirt. Like he’s going to a party. The sympathy on his face makes me want to throw something at him.

“When you warned me about Fred Rooney, I thought you were just talking about him being”—I wave my hand in the air, trying to summon the right word—“a sketch ball.”

He presses his lips together. “He’s more than that.”

I think again of the way I rushed over here, riding to the rescue to tell them something they already knew. I cringe. “Okay, lesson learned. Can you please escort me out, so I can die of embarrassment in the parking lot where no one can see me?”

He stands and holds out his arm in an exaggerated, gallant gesture. “Right this way.”

I follow him to the side door. But before I can escape into the night, he holds out a hand. “Alex, I think it would be better if you didn’t come by here for a while.”

“Yeah. I got that. Loud and clear.”

“Just…” He pauses and gives me a sticky note with a phone number on it. “This is my personal cell. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

My surprise must show because he gives me a small, tired smile. “I’m your media liaison.”

I smile back, feeling marginally better. “Right. Thanks.”

Then I head back to my car, grateful for the slap of cold air on my hot cheeks.

Back home, I fill the kettle. Then I stab a block of ramen noodles over and over with a butter knife, breaking them apart. While I’m waiting for the water to boil, I sink onto the couch. The wood frame groans like I’ve gained a hundred pounds in a single day. I wait for the horrible feeling of humiliation to pass. I close my eyes, just for a second.

A phone ringing pulls me from a strange dream that I forget instantly, so I’m left only with the impression of dark water, the surface mirror-smooth. The screen of my phone lights up again. Stedsan, finally. I answer, hoping my voice isn’t full of sleep.

“Nice of you to call me back.”

“I didn’t realize it was an emergency.”

He sounds amused, but I hear the admonishment too. I don’t answer to you. I force myself to take a deep breath. “Did you know that Jeannette Leroy was Sister Cecile?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course.”

My anger is a geyser, shooting right up to the surface. “Jesus, Stedsan. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That she was here! Or that the dead body I found in the woods four days ago was a fucking nun at Coram House.”

The line is quiet. I wonder if he’s going to hang up on me.

“Well, we can start with the fact that I didn’t know you were the one that found her body,” he says, his voice cold. “Because you didn’t tell me. And I only found out Jeannette Leroy was dead this morning when I read the obituary. Voila, here I am calling you back.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again. It feels like I’m losing my grip on time. Because he’s right. I hadn’t told him about finding a body in the woods. Hadn’t told anyone. And of course he couldn’t have known Jeannette Leroy was dead—her obituary was only published yesterday.

“Did everyone know?” I ask. “That she’d been at Coram House?”

Stedsan is quiet for a few seconds. “She didn’t hide it exactly,” he says finally. “But she lived quietly on her own. And it’s been a long time. So no, I wouldn’t say everyone knew.”

Still. It was common knowledge . I feel myself flushing with embarrassment all over again at the way I marched into the police station waving my groundbreaking information.

“I came by your apartment this afternoon,” Stedsan says. “To check in. You weren’t home.”

I bristle—so he had time to make a surprise visit to my apartment, but not to call me back. But he’s right. It’s his show and his rules. I’m the one who signed the contract.

“I was at the police station.”

Outside, the streetlamp cuts through the darkness. I have no idea if it’s eight at night or three in the morning. Tree branches scrape against my window, fingernails tapping to be let in.

“Oh,” he says, clearly surprised. “Because of the body?”

“No. I mean, yes. I thought—I needed to tell someone about Jeannette Leroy being Sister Cecile.” God, it sounds even dumber when I say it out loud.

“No, I mean the other body.”

Now it’s my turn for stunned silence. “The what?”

“You haven’t heard?” he asks. “Apparently they found it at the dump.”

I think of the empty police station, Garcia grudgingly treating this like a murder now. It had nothing to do with me. There’s another body.

“No, I haven’t heard,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “Do they think it’s connected to Jeannette Leroy’s death?”

“No idea,” says Stedsan cheerfully. “Dump, body. That’s all I know.”

“But the body—I mean—it’s a murder?”

“Like I said: no idea.”

“Right,” I say. “Thanks for telling me. And—sorry if I was short with you. It’s been a long few days.”

“I’m sure it has. And I probably deserved some of it. I’ll try to be more available.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have used the f-word.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

I’m sure he has. I hang up and check the clock on the stove. Nine fifteen. I think of my ramen—the water hours cold by now. Then I stand and grab my coat off the hook. Time for a drink.