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17

At a red light, I stop and inspect my reflection in the mirror. My red lipstick has settled into the cracks in my dry lips, making them look raw and bloody. When I opened the curtains this morning, the street was covered in a thin blanket of snow, but now, just a couple hours later, it’s already gray with dirt. I thought about wearing my black flats to the funeral, my only nice pair of shoes, but now I’m glad I opted for my clunky snow boots.

The rest of my clothes aren’t ideal funeral wear either—black leggings and a dark gray turtleneck sweater—but I threw away my one black dress after Adam’s funeral. Anyways, it’s not as if Jeannette Leroy cares what I’m wearing. I’m not even sure why I’m going. I feel a responsibility for the defenseless old woman brutally murdered in the woods. But what about the nun who ordered a child to push another child out of a boat to drown? Same story, different angle, but always ending in the same place. With a body.

Not just a body, a boy. And now, thanks to Xander, I may have a face.

A car honks behind me. “Yeah, yeah, calm down,” I say to no one and drive on.

I accelerate past the police station and the entrance to Rock Point, not slowing until I get to the large church—the Chapel of Saint Joseph—that shares the graveyard with Coram House. Two looming brick bookends.

Instead of pulling into the drive, I park on the street so I can get a better look at the building. The chapel has an air of neglect. The nook above the doors is missing the statue of whatever saint should be watching over it. Underbrush presses against the wall, growing right through the fence, as if the woods are trying to swallow the building. On the top step, a priest welcomes a pair of elderly mourners, his purple-and-gold vestments a contrast to their somber black. When he turns, I recognize Father Aubry.

Five cars are parked in the lot, including a police cruiser. A small crowd, then. I turn off the ignition. My hands shake a little. Too much coffee. I wonder if I should have brought flowers. Adam’s service had so many. Giant wreaths of white lilies. The green buds poked out from behind the star-shaped blooms like the chrysalids of some giant insect. The smell was strong and sweet, melted vanilla ice cream. A smell used to cover the smell of something else. When I die, I don’t want any flowers or a funeral. I’d like to fade instantly into the air. Poof.

Knuckles rap against my car window. “Morning,” Stedsan says, voice muffled through the glass. “I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

Shit . The text last night when I was at Xander’s. I’d never written him back. After all my grumbling about how he needs to be more responsive, there goes the high ground. I scramble out of the car and mutter sorry .

Stedsan wears a dark overcoat with a gray suit and dark blue tie peeking out. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm. I fight the urge to smooth my hair. It’s annoying to be standing beside someone always perfectly dressed for the occasion, but the truth is I’m grateful not to be walking into the church alone.

“How have you been?” Stedsan asks.

“The outline is coming along,” I lie.

Stedsan gives me a strange look. “Alex, you found a dead woman a week ago. Then this body at the dump. I wasn’t talking about the book.”

“Good morning,” Father Aubry interrupts. His hand is dry and cold when he clasps mine and ushers us into the dim vestibule.

A tapestry of Jesus hangs on one wall, finger held up like he’s about to make an important point. The cheap threads are overly bright, so he looks like a painted clown—face too white, lips too red. We pass into the nave, which is light and open. Tall white columns support an arched ceiling. Filigreed white lanterns dangle above the pews. Stedsan tightens his scarf. “It’s freezing in here,” he says.

The casket sits before the altar on some kind of wheeled metal cart. Like the kind you see in the morgue on crime shows. I try to remember the name for the flower arrangement that goes on top of the casket. I knew it once.

A dozen silver and white heads sit scattered among the pews. Sitting halfway to the altar, I recognize the three officers. Detective Garcia’s tight black bun and suit. Beside her, Parker is a full head taller. Then Officer Washington next to him, toned shoulders in a fitted black dress.

Bill Campbell is here too. He beckons us forward and shakes hands with Stedsan before turning to me. “Good morning, Ms. Kelley,” he says. “Care to join me?”

He moves over to make space in the empty pew.

Stedsan and Bill talk in low voices of golf and the mayoral election. Across the aisle, a few elderly women sit with bland expressions, as if they’re in a doctor’s waiting room. I wonder if they’re friends or neighbors, here to pay their respects. Is it possible they’re connected to Coram House? Though it’s hard to imagine any of the former children coming, and all of the other nuns are dead now. There’s no sign of Fred Rooney. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.

Father Aubry passes up the aisle in a swish of robes and steps up behind the lectern. He welcomes us, then opens the red leather Bible. “The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart,” he begins. His voice isn’t loud, but it echoes in the empty room, as if there’s another Father Aubry crouched beneath the casket, speaking on a slight delay.

“The devout are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil.”

The righteous. The urge to laugh bubbles up, so strong I pretend to cough, and bite the heel of my hand.

The psalm done, Father Aubry produces a vial of holy water from the folds of his robe and sprinkles it over the casket. He motions for us to rise. There’s a rustle of clothes and a few grunts as people haul themselves up, using the pews for leverage.

Father Aubry opens his mouth, but his words are drowned out by a sharp crack from behind us. A blast of freezing air blows up the aisle. Every head turns.

The church’s doors swing open wide, revealing a figure standing in silhouette. It lurches forward into the light.

Fred Rooney.

He takes two steps up the aisle and then stumbles into a pillar. “Sorry,” he says, patting it like a dog. “Must—lost track of time.”

He burps into his fist and adjusts his tie. His buttons are mismatched and I notice he’s not wearing socks.

“Is he drunk?” Stedsan whispers.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill Campbell mutters. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up to the ceiling, as if in supplication.

Rooney weaves his way up the aisle now, toward the casket. The bruises on his face have turned a sickly yellow beneath his shock of white hair. “Go’on,” Rooney calls to Father Aubry, who’s staring at him from the altar, speechless. “I’ll just sit right here.”

He tries to slide into the pew in front of the cops, but can’t seem to figure out how to wedge himself in. Parker stares at Rooney, a mix of surprise and interest on his face. His eyes meet mine and he gives a tiny shrug. Rooney finally sits.

“Ah, well, shall we,” Father Aubry says. He adjusts the Bible on the lectern and smooths his robes. An elderly lady, puffs of white hair above a blue dress, walks briskly toward the open door, but before she can close it, Rooney is back on his feet, roaring, “Leave it open, ya dumb cow!”

The woman freezes, one hand on the door, her face pale under too much blush. Parker’s face has lost any trace of amusement.

Then, like he’s turned off a switch, Rooney begins to laugh. “It’s the bullshit—the smell of the bullshit’s too strong. Needs some air.”

People whisper and shift in their seats, clearly waiting for someone—someone else—to do something. “Now,” says Father Aubry, a quaver in his voice. “Now I think that’s enough.”

But Rooney just laughs harder. He’s started forward again and seems to grow more sober with every step toward the casket. A foot away he stops and reaches out toward the smooth wood, but just leaves his hand hanging there.

Garcia leans over and whispers something to Parker. Rooney is so close that I could touch him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring up at Father Aubry. “This is a fucking joke,” he says. “Up there—in your robes. You should be in the ground with all the others.”

He spits on the floor. The glob of phlegm sits there, wet and shiny.

“Then I’ll dig you up too—like I dug up that kiddie fucker. Take a shit on your bones too while I’m at it.”

“Oh, God,” Bill Campbell mutters. I turn to look at him. His face is white.

“Mr. Campbell?” I whisper. “Are you okay?”

He replies as if in a trance. “I— A couple days ago, one of the smaller excavators was missing. I didn’t— Do you think?” I think of what Rooney just said. Like I dug up that kiddie fucker.

“Shit,” I whisper.

Stedsan looks from me to Bill. “Does someone want to fill me in?”

In the aisle, Rooney fumbles at his belt buckle. “Or, you know what,” he says, “maybe I’ll just do it right now.”

A woman in the front row screams and covers her eyes. Bill is on his feet now, pushing past me, into the aisle. “That’s quite enough, Fred,” he sputters, his face now red with outrage. “This is a funeral. Your behavior is completely inappropriate.”

Rooney lets go of his belt and turns to Bill. “Inappropriate, is it? That’s pretty good, Bill.” He leans forward and drops his voice, so low that I barely hear him. “Especially coming from you.”

Beads of sweat roll down Bill Campbell’s face. I wonder if he’s having a heart attack.

Garcia and Parker move up the aisle, closing in. Sensing something behind him, Rooney spins just as the officers grab him. Somehow, Rooney gets one arm free and throws a wild punch, but he overbalances and goes down hard on the marble floor. I wince, imagining brittle bones snapping. In a flash, Garcia has his hands cuffed behind his back.

I step into the aisle. Bill Campbell’s face is bloodless again and he’s swaying. I take his arm. “Mr. Campbell,” I say, “you have to tell them about the excavator.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me.

On the ground, Rooney has stopped struggling. I step closer. “Detective Garcia,” I say.

She looks over her shoulder. When she sees it’s me, her mouth presses into a thin line. I speak quickly, before she can turn away.

“The bones you found at the dump, I think I know where they came from. Or, well, Mr. Campbell here does.”

From the ground, Rooney cranes his head back. He doesn’t look hurt, despite the fall. Invincible as a roach.

“Lookie, it’s the writer,” Rooney says cheerfully. “Come a little closer and maybe I’ll spill my guts for you. Tell you all about that boy who drowned—what was his name?”

He smiles. I want to rake my fingernails over his face.

Bill Campbell appears at Garcia’s shoulder. “Can we please get him out of here?” he whispers through gritted teeth.

Garcia nods and together, Parker and Officer Washington haul Rooney to his feet. “Dunno, Bill,” Rooney shouts, laughing as the officers half carry, half drag him toward the door. “They can’t even manage to find a huge fucking hole in the ground.”

Garcia waits, looking from me to Bill Campbell. “You and you,” she says, pointing. “Come.”

Then she stalks down the aisle without waiting for a response.

Father Aubry raps on the lectern, trying to regain control. He lifts a Bible into the air. “If you would turn to John 14,” he says in a shaky voice.

Stedsan looks from me to Bill, amused by the whole disaster. “Well,” he says. “Don’t keep the lady waiting.”

Bill straightens, as if steeling himself, and walks briskly to the exit.

I slink down the aisle after Garcia, like a dog summoned by a very pissed-off master.

Outside, the sun stabs my eyes. In the parking lot, Parker is pushing Rooney’s head down so he doesn’t hit it on the roof of the police cruiser. Garcia stands at the base of the stairs, watching us descend. She looks furious. “All right, let’s hear it,” she says.

Bill Campbell shuffles his feet but doesn’t say anything. My stomach flutters. “I think the bones you found in the dump belong to Father Foster,” I say. “He was a priest at Coram House when Fred Rooney lived here. He abused the children.”

Garcia’s hand goes to the gold crucifix around her neck. “And where did you get this theory from?”

“Inside—what Rooney said about digging up the bones.” I leave out the shitting part. “Mr. Campbell”—I gesture to Bill—“mentioned they’re missing an excavator from the construction site where Rooney works.”

Garcia nods slowly, connecting the dots, then turns to Bill Campbell. “Is this true?”

He clears his throat and nods, but can’t seem to find his voice.

“Why didn’t you report it?” Garcia asks.

“I—well—I didn’t know it was stolen,” he says. “I thought record-keeping—maybe it was left at another site—”

Garcia raises a hand, cutting him off. “All right, we’ll talk about it later. Where would we find this Father Foster’s grave, then? If we wanted to test this theory.”

Bill clears his throat again and rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to work a kink out of his neck. “I’m not sure exactly, but he’d likely be in the southwest corner. Most of the clergy are buried there.”

It seems strange that he doesn’t know or is pretending not to know. But his expression gives nothing away.

“All right, let’s go.” Garcia steps onto the path that leads into the graveyard, then stops. She looks down at her black heels, now full of snow. Her cheeks turn red, in fury or embarrassment, I’m not sure.

Parker joins us. I notice a tiny spot of blood on his chin where he must have cut himself shaving. Garcia turns to him.

“Officer Parker, you check it out and then report back. I’ll take Mr. Rooney back to the station. Question him once he sobers up.”

Garcia climbs into the cruiser, slamming the door behind her rather harder than necessary. As she pulls onto the street, Rooney turns to look out the back window. He waves, at me or at Bill, I can’t tell.

“Lead the way,” Parker says, gesturing to the graveyard. Bill Campbell looks from Parker’s boots to his own flimsy black dress shoes.

“It’s a long walk,” Bill says.

Parker pulls a pair of leather gloves from his pocket. He glances down at my own sensible boots, then up at Bill. “Then I guess we had better get started,” he says.

As we follow the path away from the church, I wonder at what Garcia said. Why didn’t Bill Campbell report the missing excavator? The only answer that makes sense is he knew and was protecting Rooney. But why?

We reach the iron gate that marks the entrance to the graveyard. Two stone angels flank it, making a very dramatic show of weeping. Just in case you forget a graveyard is supposed to be sad, I guess.

The main path only has an inch or two of snow. It must have been plowed sometime this morning, but most of the gravestones are buried under soft mounds, like turtles tucked in under a white blanket. We pass through a circle of evergreens with a stone bench in the center. It’s sheltered from the snow, so brown pine needles crunch underfoot. On the other side the view opens up to reveal the lake. Last time I was here, the water was dark and churning. Today, it’s been replaced by flat, endless white. Without the breeze rattling the bare branches, the landscape would be still as a photograph.

“What’s that?” Parker points down the path. I scan the snow-frosted gravestones, but don’t see anything out of place. Not at first.

“I don’t know,” Bill says. He sounds nervous.

Then I spot a flash of yellow at the edge of the woods. A crust of snow crunches underfoot as we step off the path. Bill’s feet must be soaked, but he follows us without complaint.

“Stop.” Parker holds out his arm to block our way. Tire tracks. Not fresh, they’re covered in a layer of snow, but still visible. We give them a wide berth.

At the edge of the woods, a yellow backhoe lies tipped on one side in a mess of broken saplings and underbrush. The machine is covered in a thin layer of undisturbed snow, so it must have been here since at least last night, maybe days. But all around it the earth is torn up and stained brown with mud. A small tree has been dug up and cast aside, dirt still clinging to the roots. The ground is covered in chunks of stone, some bearing fragments of text. Sister. Beloved. 19.

Gravestones.

“Oh my god,” Bill says.

In the middle of the debris there’s a deep wound in the ground. I drift closer until Parker puts a hand on my arm. “It’s a crime scene,” he says. “And I don’t know if the ground is stable.”

But I don’t need to go any closer to see the splintered wood and torn satin lining, black with age and mud. The remains of a coffin. A gravestone lays on its back, miraculously unbroken. Fr. Edmund Foster. 1914–1994.

There’s a clicking sound. Bill’s face is pale with cold or shock. His teeth are chattering.

“Parker,” I whisper and nod toward the older man.

Parker frowns. “Mr. Campbell,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“What?” Bill snaps. “Of course I’m not all right. Look at this mess.” His speech is slightly slurred.

“It’s cold out here,” Parker says. “Why don’t you wait back at the church?”

Bill looks like he’s going to protest but then spins on his heel and trudges back to the path.

“Give me a second,” Parker says. “I have to call this in.”

I take a few steps away. My eyes follow the tread marks that lead back up the hill, a straight line to Coram House. Not a single other section of graves looks damaged. I’d pictured Rooney drunk, taking the excavator on a whim. But maybe not.

“Copy that,” Parker says into the phone and then hangs up. “They’re sending a team. We should clear the area.”

I nod, but don’t move. “This has been here for days,” I say.

Parker’s smile is wan. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“No—I just mean, look at this place. It’s a mess. And the ground must have been frozen solid. It would have taken a long time to do this. Plus, how much do those things cost?” I point to the excavator lying on its side. “A hundred thousand bucks? If it was your business, wouldn’t you report it missing? Unless you knew exactly where it was.”

Parker seems to consider that.

“Campbell and Rooney have known each other a long time,” I say.

“You think he’s protecting him?”

I think of the way Rooney acted toward Bill Campbell in the office the day we met. How rude he was and the tension in the room. Then there was that strange moment when I’d asked Campbell about Tommy. He’d dismissed Sarah Dale’s testimony, sure. But he’d also looked scared.

“Or maybe he’s afraid of him,” I say.

“Afraid?” Parker frowns.

“Think about it,” I say, getting excited now. “We can’t prove Rooney did anything to Jeannette Leroy. Campbell knows we can’t. Even if he suspects Rooney—he’s not going to come forward. I’ve seen them together, Parker. They’re not friends. And Rooney undercuts him in public. Why would he put up with that?”

Parker’s frown deepens. I think he’s going to tell me I’ve gone too far, to butt out of the case and cut out the we stuff. But he doesn’t.

“Rooney works for him—has for decades,” Parker says. “Why would Campbell employ him all these years?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. He’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe Bill Campbell has suspicions about what happened to Jeannette Leroy, maybe he’s afraid of Rooney now. But why give him a job in the first place? From everything I’ve read, Rooney has always been monstrous. But a certainty is blooming somewhere deep inside me. Bill Campbell knows more than he’s saying.

Sirens sound in the distance, faint but getting louder. “Let’s go,” Parker says. We return to the main path. Nearby, a bird alights on a branch dotted with red berries. It plucks one off and tosses its head back, swallowing it whole.

“Alex,” Parker says. He looks uncomfortable. “I—know you’re going to keep digging into this—this connection to what happened back then. Will you let me know what you find out?”

“Of course I will,” I say, surprised.

Just then, Parker’s phone rings. He looks down at the number. “I have to—”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

I walk the rest of the way alone. Coram House looms above, casting a long shadow across the snow. The moment I’m inside the shadow, the air grows suddenly colder, as if I’ve passed through a ghost.