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I stay in the car, heat blasting, until I hear sirens. When the police turn into Rooney’s driveway, I’m waiting on the front walkway. Two officers climb out of a car marked RICHMOND POLICE —both men past the middle part of middle age. One gives off Aryan Nation vibes with his cropped blond hair and blue eyes. The other is taller with a paunch and a mustache like a furry caterpillar. Both men rest one hand on the butt of their gun.

“You the one who called this in, ma’am?” Paunch calls in my direction.

I nod, or try to, but I’m shivering too hard. “He’s inside,” I say, gritting my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Fred Rooney. He’s dead.”

“You touch the body?” Blue Eyes barks.

I shake my head, thinking of the bluish tinge of his skin. I didn’t need to touch him to know he was dead. “No. He’s in the bedroom.”

“There’s an ambulance on the way,” says Paunch.

Blue Eyes unbuckles his holster. The gun is like a pit bull—ugly and threatening, even at rest. “Wait here,” he says. The officers go inside.

More sirens. An ambulance pulls into the driveway. Two medics get out and jog into the house with their orange bags. Don’t rush , I want to tell them. There’s no point.

The cold feels like it’s inside me, leaking out. A car door slams. I turn to find Detective Garcia standing beside the door of another police car, dressed in her usual dark suit. No sign of Parker. Still, I’m surprised to feel a lift of relief. Now she can be the one to explain this tangled mess to the officers inside.

Detective Garcia’s eyes flick over the scene, finally landing on me. Beyond a faint lift of her eyebrows, she exhibits no surprise. She has a good poker face. Just then the officers reappear and converge on her. Snippets of conversation drift over. Scene is clear. DOA.

When the group disperses, Garcia walks toward me. Her jacket is open at the collar, and I notice a smudge of pink on her shirt, as if she tried to wipe away a dollop of ketchup.

“Ms. Kelley,” she says, “I’m getting used to finding you at crime scenes.”

I’m not sure whether to smile. It doesn’t sound like a joke.

“Fred Rooney called me last night,” I say. “I came by to interview him this morning.”

Her gaze sharpens. “What time did he call?”

“Around nine p.m.”

“Did he say what he wanted to discuss?”

I shrug. “Only that there are ‘things I should know.’ He wanted to talk to me about Bill Campbell. He said, ‘Bill isn’t what you think he is.’ That was it.”

“Do you know what he was referring to?”

I pause, wondering if Parker already shared what I told him last night at dinner—about Bill Campbell and the bribes. Maybe I got him into trouble and that’s why he’s not here.

“Maybe,” I say, hedging. “I have some ideas—but I’m not sure if they’re relevant.”

Garcia stares at me. How is it she never seems to blink?

“All right,” she says finally. “We can talk back at the station. It’s freezing out here. Hold on a second.”

She rejoins the knot of medics and police officers now gathered on the front porch. Another squad car shows up, tries to find a place to park in the driveway, then gives up and backs into the road. I resign myself to slowly freezing to death. An image of blowing curtains pops into my head. Then that angry red line on the loose skin of Fred Rooney’s neck. My mouth fills with saliva. I swallow it down.

“Officer Davis will drive you back to the station.”

Garcia is standing in front of me again, this time with Officer Paunch beside her. Where had they come from?

“I’ll follow shortly,” she says. “And another officer will bring your car.”

I nod and hand over my keys, but before she can leave, I call out, “The windows were all open when I got here.”

She pauses, turns back.

“Why would someone do that? Open all the windows.”

She frowns at me. “Turn up the heat. She’s turning blue.”

“Sure thing,” Paunch says and opens the passenger door of the cruiser.

He does indeed blast the heat the entire way back to Burlington, which makes me wish I’d given him a kinder nickname.

Turn up the heat.

I think of the groaning floorboards and Rooney’s blue skin. Whoever opened the windows was trying to turn down the heat. But why? To buy more time before someone discovered the body? If I hadn’t been there, I wonder how long until someone would have noticed Rooney missing.

By the time we arrive at the station, I’ve finally stopped shivering, but feel wrung out. In the lobby, Bev sits at her desk in a plain black sweater. It feels like a bad sign. “They’re waiting for you,” she says. “Go right on in.”

Paunch holds open the glass door. A few officers sit behind desks doing paperwork. The room smells stale—like old coffee and unwashed bodies. Parker’s desk is empty. No mugs. No pens littering the surface. I scan the room, but don’t see him anywhere.

“Alex. Hi, how are you doing?”

Officer Washington has traded her uniform for jeans and a fluffy pink sweater. It should look ridiculous—Officer Barbie—but instead it highlights the smoothness of her skin and the flecks of gold in her braids. Her smile is wide and warm. Right now, I want to take a bath in it.

“How are you holding up?” she asks. “Come on, let’s find a room. Technically, I just got off duty, but we’re short-staffed. I’ll keep you company until Detective Garcia arrives.”

I turn to thank Paunch for the ride, but he’s already gone.

Once again, I drag myself down the hallway to the interview rooms, feeling like someone stuffed my boots with rocks. Officer Washington opens the door at the end of the hallway. The room looks the same as the others—the same plastic chairs and generic art. But this one has a huge window that looks out onto the lake. The VIP room. Today, the ice is streaked white and gray, like an expensive marble countertop.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asks.

I nod, grateful, and sink into the nearest chair.

Crows gather in the tree just outside the window. One lets out a guttural cry as it lands, then another and another, until the tree is a mad cacophony of flapping and jostling.

Rooney died at home. Rooney was murdered.

Jeannette Leroy slipped and fell. Sister Cecile had her head smashed in with a rock.

Tommy ran away. Tommy drowned.

Some or all of their deaths were an accident. Or they weren’t. The thread connecting them is meaningful—or not. It all depends on what angle you look from. What story you want to believe.

One afternoon, when I was in Maine working on what would become The Isle , I stood on shore and watched black clouds roll toward me. I could actually feel the pressure building. That sense of electricity—that something was about to happen—that’s what I feel now. The difference is, this time it’s coming from inside me.

Since I got here, I’ve told myself that I’m the outsider looking in. That I’m impartial, a reporter. That it’s not my story. But it’s not true anymore. I don’t know when that changed exactly. Maybe it was when I heard that scream in the woods. Maybe it was finding Rooney’s body this morning. Or maybe the moment came before. The first time I read Sarah Dale’s deposition. Now it’s my story too.

Officer Washington reappears with a paper cup and tells me Detective Garcia is on her way. I’m about to ask where Parker is, but her phone rings and she ducks into the hallway. I watch the crows. For a while they flap and caw, adding more to their numbers. Then, all at once, they go quiet. It’s eerie. A waiting kind of silence.

I hold my breath.

One crow lifts into the air. Then a hundred other silent shadows fill the sky. By the time Garcia comes in, the tree is empty.

“Thanks for your patience,” she says, taking the seat across from me. Stray hairs poke out of her bun like spikes. She’s unraveling.

There’s a knock and the door opens. Office Washington holds out a folder. “The rest of the files just came in.”

“Thank you,” says Garcia, flipping it open. “You should go home.”

“Can I get you anything, Alex?” Officer Washington asks. “Water? More coffee?”

“No,” I say. “Thank you.” I’m already jittery.

Officer Washington gives me a smile and then shuts the door.

“All right, Alex,” says Garcia. “Let’s get started.”

I take a deep breath and walk her through everything again. How Rooney called me last night. How he seemed different—scared, like he’d lost his bluster. How I’d gone out to meet him this morning and found him like that. Garcia nods along, occasionally taking notes.

“That mark on his neck,” I say. “Was that how he was killed?”

She looks up. I brace myself for her to be annoyed, but she looks thoughtful.

“His body is with the coroner, waiting final determination on the cause of death.”

I think she’s going to leave it at that, but she sighs and tucks a few loose hairs behind her ears. “But it’s looking that way,” she says.

Her eyes wander to the window like there might be some critical piece of information she missed out there, trapped beneath the ice. Then, as if making a decision, she slides the folder across the table.

“Alex, the truth is, I was going to ask you to come in today, even before all this.” Her finger rests lightly on the folder, holding it in front of me, but closed. “I’d like to discuss the allegations you made against Bill Campbell.”

My throat feels dry. “Allegations?”

“That he bribed certain participants in a trial that was settled out of court in 1993.”

“Look, I didn’t make any allegations,” I say. “I reported information that I uncovered during an interview. For my book. Because I thought it might be relevant.”

Garcia takes her finger off the folder and waits. I want to leave it there, refuse to play this game. But I can’t. And she knows it. I open the folder. Inside are pages of bank statements with a few rows highlighted.

“When we arrested Mr. Rooney, we pulled his financials,” Garcia says. “He has a series of unexplained deposits going back over the last decade—around ten thousand dollars a year. Together they add up to over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Over the last decade,” I say. “But the case was settled over twenty years ago.”

She nods. “We’ve requested the documentation going further back but don’t have it yet. Most of it’s not electronic, so it may take a few days.”

I think of what Karen said about the bribe money. “It’s a lot more money than I would have expected,” I say, carefully, “based on what my interview subject said about Bill Campbell. And the timing doesn’t fit.”

Garcia nods. “That’s what I think too. But we have to check it out.” She leans forward. “Mr. Rooney was into some nasty stuff. Mostly opioids. A little dealing, a little using. The money could be from a number of sources.”

It doesn’t add up. Annual deposits don’t sound like drug money to me. It sounds more like a salary.

“This has been helpful,” Garcia says abruptly. “Thank you for coming in.”

She closes the folder and then, as if it’s an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and could you put us in touch with your interview subject? It sounds like they might be able to shed some more light on this.”

I pause. Of course. This is what she’s been angling for. My stomach sinks. On the one hand, Karen was happy to have me use her interview in the book. But she’s angry. I’m not sure she fully considered the consequences of accusing a person, especially someone as well connected as Bill Campbell, of bribery.

“I’ll have to talk to them first,” I say.

“Look,” Garcia says, her tone friendly as a knife in its sheath. “I understand you have to protect your sources. But this is a murder investigation.”

I almost laugh. I don’t even know which case she’s referring to anymore. Which body. I open my mouth, but then shut it again. I can see the look of betrayal on Karen’s face when the police show up at her door without warning. No. She trusted me with her story.

“I understand that,” I say. “Which is why I’ll call my source as soon as I leave and urge them to get in touch with you.”

Garcia sighs loudly. “Is there anything else you learned during the course of your interview that might be relevant? Anything at all?” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t transcribed the interview yet, but I can do that today. Right after this. I’ll redact the name and email you a copy.”

Garcia looks surprised. “That would be very helpful. Thank you.” She glances at her watch. “Sorry to rush you, but I have a call in five minutes. Let me walk you out.”

She sweeps the folder and notebook into her hand. We stand to go, but she pauses with her hand on the knob and turns back to me. “Alex, I’d appreciate it if you’d give the investigation some space.”

She doesn’t sound angry this time, just exhausted.

“I never stopped trying,” I say.

She nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

Garcia walks me to the front desk where Bev hands over my car keys. “Stay warm out there, honey,” she says. “They say a big storm’s rolling in tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say. The sliding doors open and spit me into the cold, but I don’t feel a thing.

Snow crunches underfoot as I walk toward the parking lot. No one’s plowed the sidewalks yet. My little gray car is parked on the far side, waiting like an old friend.

“Alex,” calls a voice behind me. My stomach lifts like I’m in a plane that’s just dipped in midair.

Parker is dressed in his dark blue uniform. “I was off this morning,” he says. “They sent me home—too many hours this month. I just heard what happened. You okay?”

I feel hot and cold at once, as if I’ve touched a live wire. “What the hell, Parker?”

He looks as surprised as if I’d slapped him, but I’m so angry I don’t care. “I’m in there and Garcia starts going on about the ‘allegations’ I’ve made against Bill Campbell. What did you say to her?”

“I had to tell her about the money, Alex.”

“But did you have to make it sound like I was on a witch hunt? No wonder she thinks I’m some psycho spotlight hound.”

Absurdly, tears burn the back of my throat. Parker looks away, which gives me a chance to really look at him. The circles under his eyes are so dark they look like bruises. I try to harden myself against it, but just like that, my anger is gone. Two dead bodies. A hundred thousand dollars of unexplained deposits. The thankless balancing act of trying to do his job and help me. However hard the last few weeks have been on me—he hasn’t gotten off unscathed.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I know you had to tell her.”

Parker turns back to me. There’s an intensity to his gaze that wasn’t there before. “I won’t pretend I’m sorry Rooney’s dead,” he says. “But I am sorry that you were the one who found him.”

His voice is thick. I wonder if he also has the feeling of being trapped in a whirlpool—going around and around, pulled down no matter what he does. He clenches his jaw like there’s something else he wants to say. I step closer.

“What?” I ask, but my voice is barely louder than a whisper.

Our eyes lock and we stand like that for a second, almost but not quite close enough to touch. That feeling comes again, of pressure building.

Then Parker clears his throat and takes a step back. “Just—be careful out there, okay? Give this all some space.”

I laugh, but it tastes bitter. “Garcia said the same thing five minutes ago.”

“Alex.”

“I have to go.”

I turn away and fumble in my pocket for the keys. Behind me, his footsteps crunch away over the ice. When I turn back, he’s halfway across the parking lot. I want to shout for him to wait, but I don’t have anything else to say. I just don’t want him to go yet. I’m like a child who wants to yell and beat my fists and be comforted all at once. The station doors open and swallow him.

Forget the car. Walk. I need to walk. I cross Battery Park, and then follow the street as it slants downhill. At the bottom, I pass a cluster of stores. Two coffee shops and a vintage clothing store with a glossy, headless mannequin in the window. All the while, my brain is spinning. What the hell were those deposits in Rooney’s account? They could have been drug money like Garcia said. But why would she bring it up unless she suspected otherwise? I have all these puzzle pieces, but no matter how I put them together, nothing quite fits. It makes me want to scream.

The sidewalk ends at the rail yard, a huge expanse of dirt with a maze of train tracks crossing in every direction. There must be a method to it, but it looks like chaos. I turn right, into the marina’s parking lot, and walk until I reach the pier. It’s empty, except for a bench at the end and some kind of sculpture—an undulating line of green copper.

At the end of the pier, I stop and look out at the harbor. The ice isn’t whole, but made of many pieces that fit together like the shards of a shattered mirror. Seagulls nap on the frozen surface, heads tucked under their wings. It’s perfectly still until I look closer. The gulls are bobbing gently up and down with the movement of the ice. Indigo water gushes up from a crack between the floes like blood pumping from an alien heart. It’s not really solid. It’s just an illusion.

I picture Fred Rooney paddling the canoe around the point, pulling himself up onto the icy rocks. Hiding among the trees in wait for Sister Cecile’s footsteps in the snow. But that never happened. He had an alibi. Drunk in the ER. The figure slowly changes shape. Instead of Fred Rooney’s flannel shirt and worn boots, I see a black cashmere coat, leather dress shoes, Bill Campbell’s face.

Bill bribed people to drop the case more than twenty years ago. What if those deposits are also from him? He could have kept paying Rooney, either to keep him quiet about the hush money or some other shady dealing. He paid him and kept paying him. But what changed?

Then, with a sinking feeling, I know.

I showed up, and Rooney saw an opportunity. If I wouldn’t pay him for the story, maybe he could squeeze more money out of Bill in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. Maybe none of this was ever about Tommy or about Coram House at all, at least not directly. Money is the oldest motive in the books. And I’d missed it.

Admittedly, it was hard to imagine Bill Campbell crouched in the bushes or—what—strangling Rooney with a rope? But isn’t that what people always say when their neighbor turns out to be a killer? He was the nicest guy. Salt of the earth. Bill has already proven the lengths he’ll go to get what he wants. Maybe murder is just one step beyond bribery. Or maybe I’ve totally lost my mind. Either way, I’m not going to find the answer here, staring at the ice while my toes freeze.

As I turn to go, the sculpture catches my eye. It’s nearly as tall as I am, but its long, undulating form is curled up like a snake about to dive into the water. I run my hand over the surface, which is rough like fish scales rubbed the wrong way. Its face is something between a dragon and snake with tufts that could be ears or feathers, a long snout, and a forked tongue.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see it’s Xander. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail or, better yet, drop my phone in the lake, but then I think of the case of wine and how I never called him back. “Hey,” I answer too brightly.

“Alex. Hi—um—hey, how’s it going? I wanted to see if you got the wine.”

“I nearly broke my foot on it last night.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, I—”

I wince. “Xander, it was a joke.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Sorry. Not a very good one. I’m tired. Thank you for the wine. And thank you again for dinner. Really. It was great. And sorry for grilling you about the canoe thing, but I think it was helpful.”

“Great, great,” he says in a way that makes me think he’s not really listening. “Actually, I called to see if you wanted to come ice sailing.”

“Ice sailing?” Confusion pushes other thoughts from my head. “Now?”

He laughs. “Tomorrow. It’s been so cold, the bay is frozen solid. Perfect conditions.”

I scrabble for an excuse. I need time to think—I have too much going on. “I heard there was a storm coming tomorrow.”

“Not until tomorrow night,” he says, dismissively. “We’ll go in the afternoon. It’ll be fun, I swear. Seriously, there’s no feeling like it.”

He goes on about the wind and the type of boat and what to wear and some strange alchemy turns his excitement into my own. Garcia asked me for space. Even Parker is trying to get rid of me. I’ve found two bodies in as many weeks. Maybe it would be good to step away from all this—just for a few hours.

“Okay,” I find myself saying. “I’ll come.”

By the time I hang up, I’ve agreed to be at his house tomorrow at two. Before I can change my mind, I also text Stedsan and tell him I’m coming by his office tomorrow, that it’s important. It’s time to find out what he knows about Bill Campbell.

I brace for the long walk back up the hill to my car, but then a glint of metal catches my eye. At the base of the statue a small brass plaque is engraved with three words: The Lake Monster . I have an odd sensation—like vertigo—as if the lines between real and not real, past and present, are blurring together. It’s like being a child and knowing there’s no monster in the closet but believing it anyway. Knowing only that your fear is real.