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Shadows play on the ceiling—branches trapped in the yellow glow of the streetlight. Outside, a gaggle of girls stumbles home from a party. Peals of laughter ring out like the call of a strange flock of birds.

I’d taken a wrong turn on the way back from Karen’s and somehow added forty minutes to my drive. By the time I got home, I was so tired I shoved some food in my mouth and collapsed into bed. But now, I’m wide awake in the indefinable space between night and day. I can’t stop thinking about Fred Rooney. Both the child and the old man in a prison cell. The present, haunting the past.

Rooney had seemed so angry at the funeral. It had confirmed everything I thought I knew about him. He was full of rage, wanting to punish someone for what had happened to him. My coming here was the catalyst. But what if it had only looked like rage? What if it had been grief—raw and terrible. But if he didn’t kill Sister Cecile, that means one of two things is true: either Garcia was right all along and I imagined what I heard in the woods. Or I was right and someone else was there instead.

Giving up on sleep, I glide into the kitchen over icy floors to put on the coffee. A nutty, sharp smell fills the air. Then I shove everything to one side of my desk, except for a pen and blank pad of paper. In the center of the page, I write Fred Rooney. Beneath his name, I write canoe . So, what do I know about the boat? That it’s Bill Campbell’s, but he stores it at Coram House. It’s visible from the construction site, but not from the road. You’d have to either know it’s there or get lucky.

Beneath canoe , I write motive . Fred Rooney was at Coram House for seven years. He was abused by Father Foster and was a particular favorite of Sister Cecile. If I can trust Karen’s memory, he was also repairing Sister Cecile’s roof fifteen years ago, which suggests they maintained some kind of relationship long after Coram House closed. And, even if Sister Cecile was abusive herself, if she put a stop to Father Foster, that could easily explain Rooney’s devotion to her.

But love doesn’t negate violence. Plenty of people murder in a fit of rage or passion. But then there’s that other word right above. Canoe. If Rooney knew her habits, was waiting in the woods, then it was planned. I look down at the page to see that I’ve drawn a circle around the word motive , over and over again, so that the ink is bleeding through the paper. That same headache from yesterday thrums behind my eyes. I get up to refill my coffee.

Maybe I’m looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe I need to search for the connection points instead—the places where their stories collide. In one corner of the page, I write Father Foster. In another corner, I write Tommy . Then, after a long pause, I write one more name. Alex Kelley. Because, as far as I can tell, the only thing that’s changed in the last month is me. Or maybe none of this has anything to do with Tommy or me or even with Coram House and I’m trying to force puzzle pieces together because I want them to fit. In a fit of pique, I throw the pen across the room, where it leaves a single black dot on the white wall.

Feeling stupid, I fetch the pen. In the last blank corner, I write another name. Bill Campbell. He paid Rooney off to drop the case and he’s employed him for decades. And, most damning, he looked scared when I mentioned Tommy’s name. Thomas Underwood —that thrill again, of having a name, a picture to beat back the darkness. Maybe Bill knows more than he’s saying. Or maybe he’s the only lead I have left. Either way, I need to at least try to get more before I go to Parker with this. If Rooney is in jail, out of reach, then Bill’s who I have left.

The paper before me is an insane constellation of lines and words. I tear it up and let the pieces fall onto the rug. Then I get dressed.

At eight, I pull into the driveway of Coram House. Thick clouds have muddied the bright morning sunshine, so the snow looks gray and dirty. Coram House is quiet. The windows reflect back the sky like mirrors. I drive around the side of the building and park in front of the office. The metal blinds are half open, showing light inside, but no movement.

I slam the car door louder than necessary to announce my presence. I’m lifting a hand to knock when the door opens. Bill Campbell stands, coat on, blinking at me in surprise. “Ms. Kelley,” he says my name like a question.

“Please, call me Alex,” I say, putting on my most winning smile. “I’m sorry to drop in on you so early, but I had a favor to ask.”

He nods, but looks preoccupied, as if he didn’t really hear me. “I was just on my way to walk the fences. We’ve had some trouble with vandalism.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Nothing serious. Just some kids and spray paint, that sort of thing.”

Nothing like your foreman stealing equipment to dig up graves.

“I could come with you,” I say. “We can talk and walk.”

He blinks a few times and frowns, like he’s trying to find a way to say no.

“It’ll be quick, I promise. Where are you headed? This way?”

I point toward the skeleton of steel girders protruding out of the old brick building.

“Well, all right, then,” he says. “I’m always happy for company.”

Though he doesn’t sound happy.

We follow the fence that stretches along the southern edge of the property, weaving through gravestones tilted at crazy angles. A limp angel sits on the roof of a mausoleum, her wings drooping like a bird waiting to be plucked. Bill slips his fingers through the chain-link fence and shakes it. Checking for holes, I guess. Or pretending to.

“You mentioned a favor?” he asks without looking at me.

“I was hoping to take some more pictures of the interior of Coram House,” I say. Not a total lie. “We have some historical photos, but none of them are great. I think it would really help ground readers in a sense of the space.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding relieved. “Yes, of course. That would be fine.”

I ask him some innocuous questions about the building itself. Does he know anything about the history of its construction? Not much. Did they find anything of historical interest during renovations? Some statues of the saints stored in the attic—given back to the church. But not much else, unless you count the mouse poop, he says with a laugh. His tone is light, but he still seems uneasy.

The fence ends in a stand of scrubby pines. “We’re going to clear all this out,” he says, motioning to the choking undergrowth. Glimmers of water are just visible between the branches. “So residents will have direct access to the water and then the trails at Rock Point just through there.” He points to a gap in the fence, the woods beyond.

“Access through the graveyard?” I frown, surprised. I’d assumed they’d move the graves at some point.

Bill shrugs. “This piece of land is deeded over in perpetuity to the church, and it’s too close to the water, so we couldn’t build on it anyways. Besides, it’s a piece of history. Think of it like a park.”

So the new residents, the young professionals with lakeview balconies, they’ll be looking down at the graves just as the children did.

“I met Xander Nilsson, by the way,” I say.

He perks up. “Xander? He’s a wonderful guy. A real visionary. He really understands what we’re trying to do here.”

I nod. “When did he get involved with the project?”

Bill thinks. “Two or three years ago? Once things really got going.”

“Seems like the property sat here for a long time, then.”

He looks at me, and I detect a hint of wariness. “We acquired the property ten years ago. But there’s a lot that goes into a project of this scale. A lot of planning. Red tape.”

I nod, but say nothing. We follow a path through the scrub and emerge at the water. The beach is narrow and rocky, covered in dirty piles of snow. Bill crouches down beside a hole filled with blackened chunks of wood and crushed beer cans. “Idiot kids,” he mutters. The fire pit stands barely three feet from the side of the wooden boathouse. “They could have burned the whole thing down.”

I scan the beach but the canoe is gone. “You put the boat away,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Finally decided it was too cold?”

He looks distracted. “The police took it. You know, I didn’t take it out once this summer. I thought my grandkids would use it but it just sat there on the beach.”

I keep my tone nonchalant like the news hadn’t sent something surging inside me. “The police took it?”

“To dust for Fred’s fingerprints, I assume. I told them of course they’d find them. I’m the one who asked him to put the boat in the shed. Thanks to you, actually.”

It sounds like an accusation.

“The day you noticed it from the window,” he says. “I’d completely forgotten it was down here.” He looks at me, coldly. Like my casual act isn’t fooling anyone. “Why are you really here, Ms. Kelley?”

It’s now or never. “Are you close with Fred?”

He frowns. But it’s not consternation, it’s confusion. This isn’t the question he was expecting.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you were at Coram House together as children. And you’ve employed him for—what—twenty years? Even after he wrecked your equipment, when he showed up drunk at a funeral, threatened a priest. I’m not sure most people would be so charitable.”

Bill shrugs. “He’s had a hard time of it. And I—well, I’ve been lucky. I’m in a position to be charitable, as you say.”

It’s a convincing portrait of a man carrying guilt for profiting when so many others suffered. Or it would be if I didn’t know how ruthlessly he’d fought to make the case go away. We face off over the fire pit.

“Mr. Campbell,” I say. “Did you pay Fred Rooney and others to drop the case?”

A curtain comes down over Bill’s face. Gone is the affable, thoughtful expression. His eyes narrow and his mouth sets into a firm line. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Ms. Kelley.”

“Did you give people money so they’d drop the case against the church?”

Color creeps up Bill’s neck. “I think we’re done here.”

But he doesn’t leave. Maybe he expects me to blink first.

“They trusted you to be on their side,” I say. “To have their best interests in mind.”

“You talk about them like I’m not one of them,” he snaps. “Do you think it would have been better to have the case drag on for decades? A case that we could never win? Or to take the money the church was offering and get on with our lives?”

Hatred washes over me. My mouth fills with the taste of metal. He’s so smug, so sure it was the right thing to do because it’s the thing he wanted to happen.

“If that’s all, Ms. Kelley, I’d like to get on with my day,” Bill says coldly. “I assume you can see yourself back to your car. And any other questions you have for me, you can send to my lawyer.”

Bill turns and stands with his back to me, looking out at the water. I knew this is where we’d end up. I just wanted to see his face when he denied it. Because I can be sure of at least one thing now: he’s a liar.

“Bill,” I call.

He turns automatically at the sound of his name.

“I hear you’re a good storyteller. That you have one about a monster that lives in the lake and hunts children.”

I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe it’s instinct. Or maybe I just want to ruffle his smooth surface. Either way, it works. Instantly, his cold anger is replaced by a look of terror so pure it stuns me. Then it’s gone. Maybe for a single moment he remembered what it feels like to be a child here, alone and afraid.

“You have five minutes to get off my property,” he says. His voice is so full of hate that I feel a spike of fear and, for the first time, think about how alone we are here. Then I turn my back on him and walk as quickly as I can up the path. Thorns grab at my jacket like sharp claws, trying to drag me back.

In the car, heat blasting, I wait to feel regret, but it doesn’t come. Bill Campbell won’t talk to me again. And I’ll probably never get back inside Coram House, which gives me a pang. But I got what I came here for. Bill denied paying people off but there wasn’t a flicker of surprise on his face. People always make that mistake—jumping straight to denial when confusion is the first reaction of true innocence.

So what do I do about Stedsan? The chances that Bill Campbell paid people off and Stedsan didn’t know about it seem slim. So why bring me here to write this book? Why dig up the past at all?

Because you fucked up your last book . And because I happily signed a contract with an NDA giving him total control of the story. He can fire me and write it however he wants.

The answer feels like a gut punch.

He didn’t bring me here in spite of my failure, but because of it. Because he knew I’d go along with whatever story he wanted to tell. His legacy , he’d said. Tiny pellets of snow patter on the windshield.

I can gather all the truth I want, but I can’t do anything with it. But I know someone who can. Without giving myself a chance to second-guess it, I call Parker. When I hear a gruff hello, I’m lightheaded with relief. “Parker? It’s Alex. Can we talk?”

“Alex, this isn’t—”

“Look, I know this isn’t a good time. But there are some things you need to know. It’s about Rooney.”

The line is silent for five seconds, then ten.

“All right. I get off at six. But dinner is on you.”

The laugh that bursts out of me sounds unhinged. I think of Parker, standing outside my apartment in the snow. That strange current between us. It feels like a hundred years ago.

“Deal. Just tell me where to meet you.”

He gives me the address of a Vietnamese restaurant near the station. By the time I pull back onto the road, the heat has been blasting long enough that my whole body feels warm, like I have a tiny sun glowing inside me.