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15

I don’t actually know where I’m going, but I figure every Main Street in America has a bar, so I head that way, past rows of brick buildings and trees encased in twinkling lights. I pass the dark windows of a cafe and a used bookshop with a crow stenciled on the window. Down the block, a neon sign beckons me. NECTAR’S LOUNGE. I don’t actually know the difference between a bar and a lounge. Except, one conjures up a Hitchcock heroine balancing a martini on her glossy fingernails. The other, a hard-drinking man slumped over a whisky. Tonight, I’ll take either.

Through the fogged-up windows, I can make out a bar and the blurred outlines of people. Lots of people. I hesitate. The picture in my head involved sitting quietly in a dark corner, nursing my drink, not elbowing my way through a packed room. On the other hand, there’s my cold ramen and the box of VHS tapes and cotton swabs.

I step into a fug of stale beer and bodies. A wood-topped bar runs all the way down the long, narrow room. Behind it, a mirror reflects the crowd, like an old-fashioned saloon. The room is loud, and the bartender is busy serving a large party at the back. I take an empty barstool near the door and wait.

When the bartender appears, I order a double whisky, neat, wanting something with fire. The first sip makes me grimace, but it’s followed by the warm glow I was chasing. I breathe in. I breathe out. I take another sip. I wonder what the fuck I’m doing here. Drinking alone in a bar, yes. But not only that.

I try listing what I know as if it has nothing to do with me.

One summer afternoon in 1968, a boy named Tommy got into a rowboat with Sister Cecile and Fred Rooney. Sarah Dale says she saw Tommy get pushed into the water. The next day, the sisters announced Tommy had run away. There’s no record of his death. Or birth or existence, beyond the words of a few other people who vaguely remember him.

Four days ago, Sister Cecile was found dead in the woods. There was only one set of footprints in the snow. But unidentified sounds suggest someone else was there. The next day, Fred Rooney had a bandage over one eye and scratches along his arms. Possibly from a struggle. Except, even if Rooney magically erased his footprints, the depositions suggest he was Sister Cecile’s favorite. And, even if that changed sometime in the last few decades, she’s lived here quietly as Jeannette Leroy since Coram House shut in 1977. So why would he or someone kill her now? None of it makes sense, but I can’t shake the feeling, deep in my bones, that Fred Rooney knows more than he’s saying.

The bartender reappears. “Another?”

I’m surprised to find my glass is empty. I nod yes. “Wait—hey, do you know anything about those condos they’re building north of downtown?”

He frowns. “The ones out on North Ave.?”

I nod. He refills my glass. The first sip burns its way down.

He shrugs. “Out of my price range.”

He turns away, but I’m not done yet. “Do you know what it was before—the building?”

I hear my tone. Like I’m testing him. I’m not sure why I’m pushing so hard. Who cares what the bartender knows.

“No idea,” he says, backing away.

How do you not know, I want to shout at him. But I let him go.

I nurse my drink and let the hum of conversations wash over me. Then my eyes catch on a face I recognize. Parker leans against the other end of the bar. Around him, a group of people are zipping up coats and pulling on hats, clapping each other on the shoulder. I recognize a few of them from the station. Officer Washington is there, this time wearing jeans and long dangly earrings that catch the light. She smiles and leans closer to say something in Parker’s ear. He tips down his head to listen over the noise. I don’t see Detective Garcia, but it’s hard to imagine her drinking in a bar. Or wearing jeans.

I look for a place I can hide until they leave, but when I glance back, it’s too late. Parker is squinting down the bar in my direction, head cocked to the side like he’s trying to make sense of something. Then he looks away. Disappointment and relief.

I turn the barstool so my back is to the door as the officers filter out behind me in a stream of ribbing and inside jokes. I drain my glass. I’m trying to decide whether to order another when someone takes the stool beside mine.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Parker says.

“That’s why I’m in a bar.”

I intend it as a joke, but my voice is flat. He holds up two fingers to the bartender, who pours us both a whisky, then retreats as fast as he can. That’s right, back away from the crazy lady. Parker’s cheeks are flushed, but he doesn’t sound drunk. Then again, I’m probably not the best judge.

“You’re glaring at me,” he says.

“Sorry.”

He leans forward onto one elbow. “Did I do something to piss you off, Kelley?”

I don’t think he’s ever said my name like that. Like we’re colleagues. I don’t hate it. “Not lately.”

He raises his eyebrows. “But someone did.”

It’s not a question, but I let the silence hang there. We sip our drinks. Finally, I say, “Maybe everyone. But right now mostly myself.”

That earns a small smile. “And Alan Stedsan,” I say. “Plus Xander what’s-his-name who called me up and invited me to dinner and now it’s just sitting there in my brain.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The tech guy?”

“Oh, and also Detective Garcia, who clearly hates me.”

Parker shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ve all earned a time-out or two this week.”

“I get that we’re all supposed to stay in our lane, I do,” I say, hearing the anger in my voice but not caring, “but shouldn’t she be encouraging people to share information? Because last time I checked you hadn’t arrested anyone. Or are you still trying to convince me that Jeannette Leroy slipped and fell?”

“I can’t—”

I hold up a hand to stop him. “Discuss an ongoing investigation. Yeah, I heard. But come on. Even with another body at the dump?”

His surprise lasts only a second. So Stedsan was right. There is another body.

Parker rotates his glass so the brown liquid catches the light. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”

I hiccup. Dammit. “Stedsan.”

He sighs. “I said I didn’t want to know. Aren’t you supposed to protect your sources?”

“Maybe if my source didn’t piss me off so much. And anyways, someone else is dead and I know Jeannette Leroy is connected to all this crazy shit somehow and—”

He puts his finger to his lips, asking me to lower my voice. I glare at him.

“It’s not a body,” he says. “Not exactly.”

Well, that shuts me right up. Not only because he’s clearly saying something he shouldn’t, but also what does that even mean? I look at him closely. “Are you drunk?”

He coughs into his fist. Or maybe it’s a laugh. “We did get an early start,” he says. “Retirement party. But no.”

“Because I don’t want to be taking advantage of you.”

That gets an actual smile. He clears his throat. “It’s not a body—it’s bones. We haven’t identified them yet, but they look old.” He shrugs. “There’s no reason to think this has any connection to Jeannette Leroy.”

“Bones,” I say. “At the dump.”

“Another?” The bartender appears out of nowhere again. How does he keep doing that?

I look down at my glass. Empty again. I nod, mutely.

“We’ll take them to go,” Parker says. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

The slap of cold doesn’t dull the buzz of the whisky exactly, but it sharpens everything else. The pinprick stars in the black sky, the smell of woodsmoke in the air. We cross Church Street, the boutiques and bakeries shut down for the night, and cut through an alley that spits us into the park behind city hall. It’s empty and dark, except for pools of light cast by the streetlamps, a long chain of yellow circles. We walk in silence, but it’s not heavy with anything.

The night is still—no wind blowing off the lake—and I assume that’s where we’re headed. That huge expanse of ice has its own gravitational pull. I sip from the paper cup. The whisky’s warmth spreads through my body like a tree putting down roots.

Two blocks later, the street cants sharply downhill and crosses a set of train tracks. Then we’re on a boardwalk, heading for the pier that juts into the harbor. Patches of ice crunch beneath my boots. A row of empty bench swings are positioned to take in the view. At the end of the pier, we stop. Surrounded by ice on all sides. Nowhere left to go.

“This feels illegal,” I say, sipping my drink. “It’s going to look very bad for me if I get arrested.”

“I hear the cops have other things on their minds these days,” Parker says, and raises his cup in a toast. He leans on the railing so the arms of our jackets are almost touching. Warmth radiates off him.

It’s so quiet. There’s the soft groan of ice shifting as water moves underneath. I imagine all the fish asleep for the winter, floating in place.

The night is clear with no moon, just a scattering of stars, but it’s light enough to make out the dark shape of Rock Point in the distance. Out there, I know, the water is still moving. Still alive. Behind the point, the sky glows softly. Like the early hours of sunrise. Or industrial construction lights. Coram House.

He follows my gaze. “So, what do you think of it?”

“I wouldn’t want to live there.”

He takes a long sip. “Why? Because it’s haunted?”

He doesn’t ask it like he’s making a joke, so I don’t answer that way either.

“Not haunted exactly, or not by ghosts, at least. But sometimes I wonder if all those feelings—cruelty, terror, happiness—can sink into a place. Change its character somehow.”

It’s certainly how I felt about our apartment after Adam died. It was sad. Empty. Colorless. Or maybe that was just me. “Plus,” I go on, before he can laugh at me, “it would make me feel complicit. Like I was benefiting from the things that happened there.”

He looks surprised. “People could say the same about this book you’re writing, you know.”

I nod, ready for this. “Maybe. But it’s not how I see it. It’s not how I want it to be.”

“I know,” he says quietly. I laugh. I hope it doesn’t sound too bitter. “Now,” he adds. “I know that now.” He nods in the direction of Rock Point. “So, as your official media liaison—how goes the research?”

I sigh deeply.

“That good?” he asks.

“No, I mean, it’s fine. I’m lucky in some ways. There’s lots of source material. Historical documentation, transcripts from the case. I have enough detail to make a book out of it.”

“But? It sounds like there’s a but .”

“There are inconsistencies. Stories—memories—that contradict each other.”

“You think the kids made them up?”

“No!” It comes out harsher than I meant. “Sorry—I just—I don’t think anyone is lying. But trauma does strange things to memory. And there’s so much that’s missing.”

“Like the boy in the boat?”

“Tommy.” I sigh. At least Parker had been paying attention. “I can’t find any record he ever existed outside the depositions. No birth certificate, no paperwork, nothing. If Sarah Dale is right, then they didn’t just kill him, they erased him. And no one even went looking. Like his life meant that little.”

I take a sip of my drink to cover the crack in my voice.

“And then there are other depositions that frame Sister Cecile as this heroic figure. The nun who bravely stood up to the pedophile.”

Parker stares out into the night, his eyes two dark pools. “Why can’t both things be true?”

I huff. “Tommy either went into the water or he didn’t, Parker. This isn’t some philosophical exercise about a cat in a box.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not that, but with Sister Cecile. I’m just saying, plenty of us have good and bad in us. Just depends which way the balance tips that day.”

I consider this. “So you’re saying she’s both a child killer and a holy savior? That’s going to be hard to fit into the tagline for my book.”

His response is halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Maybe you need to talk to your star witness.”

“You sound like a cop,” I say. “Anyways, I can’t. Sarah Dale died a few years ago.”

I’m embarrassed to hear the catch in my voice. I avoid his eyes, clear my throat.

“And that’s a whole other problem. The only people left aren’t exactly cooperative. Most won’t even talk to me. Then there’s Fred Rooney”— I hold up my hand before he can say anything—“who I haven’t interviewed again. But I’m sure he knows something he isn’t sharing.”

“Like what?”

“About what happened to Tommy in the boat that day. I think he was there, Parker. That Sarah Dale was right—he might even have pushed Tommy into the water himself.”

Parker considers this. “There’s no statute of limitation on murder, you know. If he did do something, he’s not going to just tell you.”

“I know that,” I say, annoyed. “This was back in the sixties. He was a minor. But what if it’s more than that? What if he had something to do with Jeannette Leroy’s death too? She’s the only other person who was there that day, according to Sarah Dale. The only other person who could incriminate him.”

“So you think, what? He killed her?”

“Well, he could have, couldn’t he? He knew her. Knew her habits. He could have waited out in the woods until she walked by. And he had all these scratches on his face—it sure looked like he was in some kind of a struggle.”

Parker looks skeptical. “There were no footprints on the path.”

“It had just snowed that morning. He could have waited overnight.”

“And why now? After fifty years?”

And that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Sister Cecile was already dead when I went to question Fred about Tommy. So unless someone else happened to be digging around, had already spooked him, the timing doesn’t make sense.

Parker is quiet for a few seconds. When he speaks again, I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “It would be easier if he killed them both,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean he did it.”

“It doesn’t mean he didn’t either,” I say, stubborn. But I don’t have any real fire behind it anymore. “This book—it’s like trying to weave together a story, but every strand turns to smoke in my hands.”

“Can you write the book without knowing what happened to Tommy?”

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“But you don’t want to.”

His tone is neutral, but still I feel defensive. “How many other kids are there just like him? Who just disappeared? I know it’s been half a century and I sound crazy, but if I can just…”

I trail off, because what I almost said is: If I can just help this one kid . But, of course, I can’t help him. He’s dead.

“I don’t think it’s crazy,” Parker says softly. “Every kid should have someone to stand up for them.”

“Fifty years too late.”

“Sometimes too late is the best we can do.”

I smile at him, grateful, but he’s looking out at the water. I think of all the things he’s seen in his years on the job. How many flavors of sad and terrible exist in the world.

The silence hangs, not awkward, but full of something. For a second, I think he’s going to take my hand. I clear my throat.

“So, these bones,” I say.

Parker laughs and turns his eyes back to me. “Nope.”

“They were really at the dump?”

“I can’t discuss an—”

“All right.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “But I can’t tell you how tired I am of hearing that.”

Nothing I can do , his shrug says. He has a good smile, a little crooked so it always looks like one side of his mouth wants to look more serious than the other.

I sigh for effect, but the truth is I’m tired of talking about bodies and bones. “Fine,” I say. “Tell me about something else, then. What was it like to grow up in this promised land of maple syrup and sledding?”

“Probably pretty great.” He sips his drink. “But I couldn’t tell you. I grew up in the city—Brooklyn—at least until my dad died.”

“I had no idea.” It bothers me. I’m supposed to have a sixth sense for people’s stories. “So how’d you end up here?” I ask.

Parker turns, leaning his back against the railing. He nods at me. “How’d you end up here?”

I shrug, not sure I’m ready to go where this conversation is leading.

“What—only you get to ask the questions?” he teases.

“Well, I got offered this book deal. After my last book, it felt like a fresh start.”

It sounds hollow. He lets the silence hang there.

“And my husband died.”

The words always feel like a line in a play. At first, Parker looks surprised, but then his expression changes. Not the melting eyes and cocked head of sympathy. Something else. He looks knowing. Grim. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

“It was—he was sick. It was fast, but long enough to say goodbye. So that’s something, I guess.”

Suddenly, I feel embarrassed—like I’ve taken off my clothes in front of someone who never asked to see me naked. And it’s a lie besides. It was all terrible. There was one night, near the end, just before Adam went into hospice. He got stuck in the bathroom and I had to help him get up. He was so angry with me, and then he cried. In that moment, I wanted it all to be over more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Our wedding is barely more than a series of snapshots in my head, but the shame of my wanting in that one moment is always fresh. It makes me so angry—that of all the memories of our life, that’s the one I’m left with.

“It’s something,” Parker says quietly. “But it’s not enough.”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. I know, in that moment, that he’s lost someone. It’s like there’s some secret underlying sadness I can recognize. Another member of the club no one wants to be part of.

“My kid died,” he says. “And then my marriage—well, I’m not married anymore. It was time for a change. So I came here. A few years ago.”

He says it matter-of-factly. Like reading out loud from a history book, but the pain is there in the stiff set of his shoulders. I feel a mirroring stab in my chest. Adam and I had lives before we met and then a decade together. But losing a child is losing the future. A piece of yourself carved off. So much pain for so little time together.

Guilt leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wonder if I used Adam’s death to get the information I wanted from him. I’m honestly not sure.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to dig things up.”

Parker shrugs. “They were never buried to begin with.”

The wind has picked up and drifts of snow blow across the ice. “What I said before.” I can’t say husband again. Can’t say dying . “That wasn’t the only reason I came.”

He looks at me, waiting.

“I mean, I’m not just here to hide. Those kids—this story—it matters to me. I know you didn’t think that when you met me, but it does.”

Parker nods, but doesn’t reply. The silence isn’t tense, though—it’s the opposite. Like something’s been released. I drain my drink. Next to me, Parker crumples his cup and throws it in the bin. Then he takes mine and does the same. “Thanks,” I say with a shiver. Either it’s getting colder or the whisky is wearing off.

“Come on,” Parker says. “Let’s call it a night before we both freeze.”

We hike back up the hill and, even though I tell him he doesn’t need to, he walks me the three extra blocks home. “This is it?” he asks when we get to the purple house. “Your landlord has interesting taste.”

I laugh. “You should see the inside. It looks like a dorm room.” Immediately, I flush at how it sounds. “Anyways—good night,” I say quickly. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Wait,” he says.

I turn back. Parker’s hands are buried deep in his pockets. His breath billows, a cloud of fog. My chest feels tight. I’m suddenly aware of how many inches there are between us. Tiny ice crystals have formed on his eyelashes.

His phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, and I see a name on the dark screen. Washington.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m on backup. I have to get it.”

I think of how she leaned into him at the bar, whispered in his ear to be heard over the noise.

“Parker,” he answers.

I turn and retreat up my stairs. Fish inside my pocket for the keys. Behind me, Parker murmurs into the phone. Sirens ring out in the distance. I wonder what Washington is telling him, know that I can’t ask. I turn back just as he’s hanging up.

“Listen, Alex—”

“Thanks for this—the drink, the walk. I think I needed it. Sorry for keeping you out so late—have a good night.”

My tone is light, but it feels forced. Like someone trying to recapture a feeling of levity. As easy as catching snowflakes.

Parker pauses for a second and then nods. “All right, good night. Talk to you soon.”

Then I’m inside, taking the stairs two at a time as if I’m trying to outrun something. Upstairs, I twitch aside the curtains to see if Parker is still there. But the sidewalk is empty, just the dark hollows of our footprints, filling up with snow.

My skin feels hot with anger or embarrassment or relief—I don’t want to examine the swirl of emotions too closely. I’m worried I said too much, revealed too much of myself. I feel exposed. Like someone’s peeled off my skin to reveal a mass of twitching nerves and muscle.

I want to call Lola, to have her tell me about her night. But I can’t call her this late. She’ll think it’s an emergency. And I know what she’d say anyways. She’d say I need to get out more. To get my mind off dead kids and bodies and cops. Once in a while, do the crazy thing , she’d say . Or, in your case, I’d settle for a slightly out-of-the-ordinary thing.

I reach into my pocket for my phone and pull up Xander’s number. Before I can hesitate, I type.

Got your message. No apology necessary, but I never say no to a good meal.

I hit send. There. Crazy thing, done.

I’m brushing my teeth when the reply comes.

Definitely apologies necessary. How about tomorrow? 7pm?

My stomach sinks. All at once I’m both sober and full of regret for my impulse. But it’s too late now.

Sounds great.

Three dots and then a response.

sg. Will send details tmrw.

I put my phone away, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in my stomach, unsure if it’s regret or whisky. Probably both.