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21

The restaurant where I’m supposed to meet Parker is only a few blocks away from my apartment, so I decide to walk. The night is bitterly cold, the streets empty. Still, I pause beside the cemetery—the one I can see from my bedroom window. It looks smaller and sadder up close. The gravestones are overly shiny with laser-cut initials. There’s no fence around the perimeter, so the snow is crisscrossed with footsteps and yellow patches of dog pee. It seems dirty and haphazard after Coram House’s weeping angels and marble mausoleums.

Further down the block, a streetlight stands sentinel among dark warehouses. Somehow the small circle of light is worse than nothing at all. I feel uneasy walking alone, accustomed to the protection of streets bustling with people at all hours. It’s an illusion, I know. Anyone can be violent. And plenty of people will stand by and watch.

At the intersection of two roads, I turn left onto North Winooski. All the roads here seem to be north this and south that, all named for the place you’re going, not where you are now. The warehouses along this stretch have gotten a makeover—fresh paint and new windows, zinc washtub planters around patios.

The restaurant is straight ahead. EAT PHO orders a neon sign above the door. Tall black windows surround the booths like picture frames. One table is crowded with college kids, laughing and tipping back bottles of beer. A girl reaches her chopsticks across the table to steal a shrimp. At another table, an older couple sits, heads bent low over steaming bowls. And there, in the last booth, is Parker.

Two plastic menus sit on the table, but he’s looking out the window. I wave, but he doesn’t see me. It’s dark and I’m too far away, whereas he’s lit up on display. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks terrible—black circles under his eyes and hollows under his cheekbones like he needs a good meal. But the relief I feel on seeing him is immediate and overwhelming. For a second, I actually sway with it. I need to tell someone about Karen and Bill and all of it.

A bell chimes as I open the door. The air inside is steamy and delicious—thick with the tang of lemongrass and fish sauce. A lanky guy with a shaved head and muscle tee sits behind the counter. A vine tattoo starts at his knuckles and winds up his arm, unfurling in a brilliant flower just below his shoulder. I point to the corner booth and he waves me ahead.

My reflection in the window must alert Parker as I approach the table because he turns to look at me. Something flickers across his face—sadness maybe—and I wonder what he was thinking about before I interrupted. He stands.

“Thanks for coming,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him. He sits back down.

“To be honest,” he says, “I’m glad you suggested it. It’s been a while since I ate a meal anywhere besides my desk.”

“Me too.”

We exchange a smile. I’m aware of his knees, knocking against mine under the table. I study the menu. “So, what’s good?”

“Everything.”

Our server arrives—the same guy with the vine tattoo. I order a beer, but Parker shakes his head when I look at him. “On backup,” he says and lifts his water like he’s making a toast.

We talk about the food, about the snow, about nothing. It’s nice to pretend that we’re friends catching up over dinner. Parker seems more relaxed. Even the way he sits is different, arm stretched out along the back of the booth, running his fingers through his wet hair when a strand falls over one eye. But I feel the pull of why we’re really here—the case, the past, Bill Campbell—all black holes exerting their own gravity.

“I think I found Tommy,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. It feels so good to say it out loud, to someone who understands what it means.

He smiles back. “How?”

I tell him about the baptism records and then about my dinner at Xander’s and the newspaper clipping, all the while feeling slightly ashamed, like I owe Parker an explanation.

“He wanted to apologize,” I say, even though Parker didn’t ask.

He makes a skeptical noise. “So what was he going to do with the photo anyways?”

I sigh. “He was going to use it for… historical flavor.”

Parker laughs and, for once, it doesn’t seem like he’s trying to hold it in. But I feel a bubble of guilt at making Xander the butt of my joke. He was nice, he means well. Then again, the world is full of people who think good intentions give them a blank slate to do what they want.

The server arrives with my beer. It’s cold and the bubbles make my nose fizz. As he turns away I see the vine tattoo isn’t just a vine. A thin green viper winds its way through the greenery on his shoulder, its red tongue licking the dark stubble of his shaved neck. When I look back, Parker is studying me. I busy myself peeling the wrapper from my chopsticks, but I know it’s time.

“I went to interview someone yesterday. Someone who was at Coram House as a child. She knew them all—Fred Rooney, Sarah Dale, Bill Campbell, and Tommy too.”

Parker nods for me to go on but doesn’t say anything.

“I wanted to know more about Rooney—about back then but also now. Why he might kill Jeannette Leroy after all these years.”

Parker’s frown sharpens, so I continue before he has a chance to reprimand me. “Look, I swear I’m not trying to meddle. I just—I think we’re missing something, that it’s all connected somehow. What happened to Tommy in the boat, Sarah Dale’s testimony, Sister Cecile, Rooney, and me. I need to understand how.”

Parker nods, but he looks unhappy. “And did you—learn how they’re connected?”

“No,” I admit. “But from what she said—I’m worried that I got it all wrong, Parker. I assumed Rooney killed Sister Cecile to cover his tracks. Or for revenge. Or, I don’t know, some combination of the two.”

“And now?”

“My source confirmed that Sister Cecile put a stop to Father Foster’s sexual abuse. And she told me that Fred loved Sister Cecile, was loyal to her, even now.”

Parker gives me a skeptical look. “You know, you worked pretty hard to get us to look at Rooney as a suspect. I’m not saying it’s up to you we arrested him. I’m just trying to understand. Are you saying you think he didn’t do it after all? Because he loved her?”

He doesn’t sound angry. Worse. There’s something closed off in his voice. Our food arrives—a steaming pile of vermicelli noodles topped with grilled pork, and fish in a clay pot smelling of garlic and caramel. It smells delicious, but I don’t want any of it.

“No,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. Doesn’t it bother you—that we don’t know why he killed her?”

Parker shrugs. “Motive is just a story. It doesn’t matter if you can prove someone committed a crime.”

I taste blood. I’ve chewed the inside of my cheek to shreds. Snow flutters against the window, melting as it makes contact with the glass. He’s right, of course. Technically, motive doesn’t matter. But how can you ever be sure, really sure, what happened if you don’t understand the why of it?

“Look,” I say, ready for a change of subject. “This isn’t the only reason I asked you here.”

Parker uses his chopsticks to pick up a piece of glistening pork. “There’s more?”

I tell him what Karen said about Bill Campbell, how he paid people off so they’d settle the case. How Rooney used to brag about getting the largest slice of the pie. My suspicion that there might be more to Bill’s acquisition of the Coram House property—that maybe Rooney knew it and was using that information to hold power over him.

Parker is sitting up straight now, arms crossed over his chest, the easiness from before gone. I might as well have shoved an iron rod up his back.

“So you think Bill Campbell is crooked,” he says. “Does this source have proof that he paid people off?”

I wonder if I should tell him about my conversation with Bill earlier today but decide against it. It’s not like I learned anything new. I shake my head.

“No proof. And my source signed an NDA, so I’m not sure if she’d be willing to testify more officially.”

“What does Alan say about it?”

I was afraid he’d ask that. I shrug. “Father Aubry said something about how Bill and Alan worked together on the settlement. I wasn’t sure what to think of it. I mean, Alan was their lawyer, so of course he was involved. But now I’m wondering if there’s more to it.”

I think of the words Father Aubry used: they were instrumental to the plan.

Parker lets out a low whistle. “Alan too, huh?”

I tear my chopstick wrapper into tiny pieces until the table is littered with confetti. “I don’t know, Parker. That’s the thing—I don’t know who did what or if any of this is even true.”

My voice cracks and, to my deep embarrassment, I feel tears gather at the back of my throat. I pick up my chopsticks and chase slippery noodles around my plate, so I don’t have to meet his eyes.

“Alex.”

I wipe my nose with a napkin and look up. Parker is sitting with his elbows on the table, looking at me. “Thank you for sharing this,” he says.

“But?”

“But this isn’t your job. There’s a whole police department out there working on this case.”

“I know that, I—”

“If any of this—Rooney, Campbell, these bribes—is connected to a murder, we’re going to find out. But what about this boy who drowned? No one else is looking at him.”

“I can’t prove anything.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, Alex. You don’t need proof. You’re not here to solve some fifty-year-old crime. You’re here to tell their story. To make people—care. You have his name, his picture—what are you waiting for?”

The words fall on me like a blow. He thinks I’m failing them. But how can I make sense of the past if I can’t figure out how it’s connected to the present?

“Coram House is at the center of this all. What happened then and now. I can’t understand any of it until I know how.”

Parker sighs and rubs his eyes. I recognize his expression—frustration, disappointment, and, the one that cuts deepest, resignation. He glances down at his watch. I feel desperate to keep him there, to explain that I haven’t abandoned the book. That it’s the opposite. My greatest fear is failing those kids, but it seems like every road leads me back to the body of Jeannette Leroy in the water.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We’ve got CCTV footage from the construction site that puts Fred Rooney’s car there at six a.m. the morning Jeannette Leroy was killed. His prints are all over the canoe.”

My heart lifts—he must have talked to Xander.

“We also found an empty bottle near the cove where you discovered her body. It tested positive for his DNA. His prints are also all over the machinery used to dig up the grave, and he’s refusing to give an alibi for either time period. He’s in custody now, waiting on bail. Fred Rooney is going to jail, and you helped put him there. This is a happy ending, okay?”

I nod and try to summon some kind of happiness or at least satisfaction, but it won’t come.

Parker’s phone rings. He frowns down at the screen. “Parker,” he answers in a clipped tone. The voice on the other end is speaking quickly. Parker nods along. “Right,” he says. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He hangs up. For a second, he stares down at the dark screen. It’s something bad. I can see it on his face. “What is it?” I ask.

“They just released Fred Rooney.”

The clinking of silverware, the laughter, all the sounds of the restaurant disappear, as if someone turned down the volume. “What do you mean, released him?”

“He has an alibi.”

“But the fingerprints, his car—you just said—”

“Yeah, I did. Turns out he was at a bar that night. Took a friend’s car and smashed it up pretty good. He ended up in the ER down in Middlebury, but ducked out before officers arrived. He never gave his name so they couldn’t track him down. His car was parked at the construction site all night.”

A car accident. I think of the bandage on his face the day I went to see him—the day after Jeannette Leroy’s death. The scratches all over his hands.

“So he refused to give his alibi for a murder because he didn’t want a DUI?”

Parker slowly shakes his head. “Honestly? I don’t think he cares about the DUI. I think he was just waiting until the last minute to make us look bad. Which we do.”

“And they’re sure about the timeline?”

He shrugs. “They’re still trying to nail down security footage from the hospital to get an exact time stamp. But we have the doctor who stitched him up. So yeah. It’s solid.”

I let out a long slow breath. “Jesus, Parker. I-I’m sorry.”

I feel responsible. I’m the one who pushed him to look at Rooney.

He shakes his head, grim. “Like I said before. Not your fault. It’s on us.”

“Are you allowed to be telling me any of this?”

His mouth hitches up at one side. “Do you care?” He stands. “I have to go in.”

“Right,” I say. “Of course.”

Parker fumbles in his pocket for his wallet.

“Stop,” I say. “It’s on me, remember?”

For a second, he looks like he’s going to protest. Then he pulls on his coat. “All right. Thanks for dinner.” He turns to go, then stops. “And I’ll look into what you said—about Bill, the money. Okay?”

I nod. “Thanks.” I want more, but at this point I should be grateful he’s even speaking to me.

Parker weaves between the tables and steps outside into the night. He walks south, toward the police station. Snow settles on the shoulders of his parka until it looks like there’s some furry white creature curled up there. Then he’s gone.

My head is spinning. I’d been so sure there was someone else in the woods that day that I latched on to Rooney and his connection to Sister Cecile. Now this is the second time in my life someone’s been arrested for a murder they didn’t commit. Because of me. I feel a familiar tightness in my chest. Maybe there was no one in the woods that day. Maybe the canoe is just a coincidence. Maybe that’s been the answer all along—I just didn’t want to admit it.

The noodles slither around my plate, cold and slimy. The server comes by and I hand him my credit card, nod when he asks if I’m done.

I can’t eat anymore. Because it’s not just Rooney’s life I ruined. There’s Parker too. He says he doesn’t blame me, but maybe he should. I pushed him to look at Rooney. And now, what is my mistake going to cost him? The server reappears with the receipt and all the untouched food, neatly packed into Styrofoam containers. I smile and thank him, even though I don’t want any of it.

The dark streets are so quiet that it feels much later than eight. I’m on edge, jumping at every shadow, at the sound of snowflakes rustling the plastic bag of leftovers. But what am I afraid of exactly? I imagine Rooney waiting in an alley, out for revenge, and immediately feel stupid.

From half a block away, I spot a box at my front door. When I get closer, I see it’s a wooden crate, like something that belongs in an antique store. The card, thick as a wedding invitation, has my name on it.

Alex—I know you told me to stop apologizing, but sorry. Again. Thanks for coming. I hope we can do it again. Anyways, here’s some wine. From NAPA!! —Xander

Xander added a tiny curve under the exclamation points, turning them into a smiley face. My stomach twists—guilt at making fun of him at dinner.

I try to lift the crate, but it’s too heavy. Somehow I manage to get the door open and wrestle it into the vestibule, but there’s no way I’m getting it up the stairs without dismantling it with a crowbar first. I feel a surge of anger at Xander, at people who give without stopping to think whether they’re sending a gift or just one more burden.

Upstairs, I make sure all the windows are locked, including the brand-new latch on the kitchen window. The curtains in my bedroom are half open, so a wedge of light falls across my pillow. I pull them shut. Then I go back into the kitchen and check the deadbolt again. I feel stupid and paranoid. I bet Karen doesn’t even lock her doors. Though, to be fair, she probably has a shotgun under her bed.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. The caller ID shows a local number. I don’t know who would be calling me this late, but I answer.

“Hello?” I answer. “Alex Kelley.”

Silence on the other end. Then I hear the slow exhale of breath. Someone smoking.

“Hey there, writer.”

My stomach drops. I lean my back against the door and slide down until I’m sitting. The floor is freezing.

“Mr. Rooney. How can I help you?”

He laughs. “Oh, so now you’re looking to help me, are you?”

His voice is dripping with sarcasm, but he doesn’t sound angry.

“Listen, I don’t know if your cop boyfriend told you, but they let me go. I got what they call an alibi.”

“All right,” I say, but he continues as if he didn’t hear me.

“There are some things you should know.”

My heart thumps. He’s probably playing me, almost definitely playing me. “Is this about Tommy?”

“Jesus,” he snaps, so loud I flinch. Then he sighs. “A lot of shit happened back then. Why are you so obsessed with this one kid?”

He sounds more curious than angry now. The silence stretches out. He’s waiting for an answer.

“They tried to erase him,” I say. “Like he never existed.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said, there are things you should know.”

I take a deep breath, worried that he’s going to hang up on me. “I can’t pay you, Mr. Rooney. That hasn’t changed.”

“I know. We’re past that. I’ve got other shit to think about.”

Shit like what? I want to ask, but instead I wait. There’s a quaver in his voice that wasn’t there the last time we talked. He’s desperate or—maybe I’m imagining it—but he sounds scared.

“Bill Campbell,” Rooney says. “He’s not what you think.”

“All right,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Let’s talk.”

“Face-to-face,” he says. “Tomorrow. My place.”

Alarm flashes in my brain. Being alone with him is not a good idea. “Listen—”

“Calm down, writer. Nothing funny. I just need to talk to you like I said.”

To my surprise, I believe him. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll come by your place in the morning. Around eight?”

“Fine,” he says.

The line goes dead.

I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. My heart gallops, every beat like hooves. It’s fear, but not of Rooney, not attached to any particular person. It’s like when you’re a kid and you have to go to the bathroom, but don’t want your bare ankles exposed to whatever is hiding under the bed. It’s just adrenaline, I know. Maybe it always comes back to monsters in the dark. Real or imagined.

I close my eyes. The lake monster floats just beneath the surface of the water. A long neck rises from a smooth, gray back. Orange eyes glow in the murky water. They fix on a skinny pair of legs treading water in the shallows. The monster’s body undulates like a snake across the bottom, stirring up swirls of mud. It strikes silently.

I wonder if that was Tommy’s last thought as he slipped below the surface. The tug of gravity must have felt like a monster, jaws clasped around his ankles, pulling him down into the deep. I lie there for hours, exhausted, brain spinning, sure I’ll never sleep again. But sleep pulls me under eventually. And I wonder what monsters I’ll dream about.