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My wheels send a wave of slush over the curb as I turn too sharply onto the main road. Still, I accelerate until the fast-food restaurants are a neon smear out the window. Bill. Will. Willy.

I think back to the depositions in my head. A boy had described the day Tommy died—how he was left in the forest to build a fort all alone because neither of his friends—Willy or Tommy—showed up. Willy who got suckered into helping the nuns. Bill who got in trouble for telling the devil’s tales. I’d assumed they were different people, but what if they were the same? What if Fred was never the boy in the boat at all? What if it had been Bill forced to help Sister Cecile with swim lessons that day? I feel the clunk of the missing piece sliding into place. But I need to get back to my desk, to see the words in front of me. I need to be sure.

The sky is fully black with clouds now. Snowflakes smack against the windshield like insects. The radio jangles pop music until it’s interrupted by a weather report warning about a dip in temperatures and high winds. I hear the word bomb cyclone and turn it off.

I park crookedly and take the stairs two at a time. At my desk, I lay out the transcripts one by one. Sarah Dale. Fred Rooney. Karl Smith. Karen Lafayette. Violet Harrison. I open the binder to a map of Coram House as it was in 1968 and review the places I’d marked in red. The kitchen. The boathouse. The cove where Tommy drowned. The dump. The old oak.

First, Sarah Dale. On the day Tommy died, she described waiting by the back door to the kitchen when she saw Fred Rooney.

I’d just seen Fred outside the kitchen, on the path down to the water. I’d been scared. He’d had this huge knobby stick through the handle of his bucket. A boy like that doesn’t carry a stick unless he means to hit someone with it.

The first time I read it, I’d focused on the stick—what it said about Rooney that she’d been so scared of him—and the fact that he’d been headed down the path to the beach. When Sarah Dale looked at the water, she’d seen two boys in the boat with Sister Cecile—of course she’d assumed one was Fred. But I’d missed the mention of the bucket.

Next, I pull out the transcript of Stedsan’s interview with Fred Rooney.

We ate orphan gruel. I know because every goddamn day it was my job to take a bucket of leftover slime we couldn’t choke down over to the dump.

On the map, I trace the most direct route from the kitchen to the dump. It starts out as the same path to the water, but then splits off to the south. Rooney had never been heading to the cove at all; he’d been taking the bucket to the dump, same as every other day.

So Sarah Dale saw Fred leave down the path and then waited for the lemonade. For how long? Ten minutes? More? I try to retrace the path from Coram House to the water in my head. Would Rooney have had enough time to empty the bucket and then run to join Sister Cecile and Tommy in the boat? The timing seems unlikely. And Sarah Dale herself said she never saw their faces. She’d just assumed it was Fred and no one had questioned it.

My panic is gone. I pick up Karl Smith’s interview and turn the pages until I find the spot where he talks about the day Tommy died.

See, we were supposed to meet up. All the kids were down on the point, playing in the woods. The sisters hardly ever gave us time like that just to play, but it was so hot. I think they just wanted to get rid of us. Tommy was supposed to meet me and Willy, but he never showed up.

That afternoon, Tommy would have been with Sister Cecile at the cove. I’d skimmed over his mention of the other boy—Willy. It hadn’t seemed relevant. But I scan farther down the page.

Willy was in trouble—he’d gotten suckered into helping one of the sisters with something, so he was out. Tommy was supposed to meet me, but he never showed. It was supposed to be this perfect day, you know—three boys building a fort in the woods—but then it was just me, all alone.

It’s not much to go on. But maybe it’s enough.

Quickly, I turn to Violet Harrison’s transcript. There was this one boy—I remember he used to tell these crazy stories. Will? There was one about a lake monster that had us all terrified for weeks. None of us wanted to go near the water after that. I don’t need to review Karen’s transcript to remember what she’d told me about Bill Campbell. Bill used to tell these stories. There was this one about a monster in the lake that gave the kids nightmares. The same story. The same kid.

My mouth goes dry. I’ve read the transcripts a dozen times. All the words are the same, but suddenly the story is different. Before I know what I’m doing, I pick up the phone and dial Karen Lafayette. She picks up on the first ring.

“Karen, this is Alex Kelley.” I’m breathing heavily, like I’ve been running. “I’m sorry to call like this. I just—I had a question for you.”

“Is this about the police?” she says. “Because I called that detective back and—”

“No,” I say quickly. “This is going to sound strange, but did Bill Campbell ever have a nickname?”

There’s a moment of silence and I’m worried Karen’s hung up, but then she laughs. “God, I’d forgotten all about that. Kids used to call him Little Willy. There was another Bill at the House already. And he was so tall for his age, I think the little part was a joke.”

Bill Campbell was supposed to meet his friend in the forest the day Tommy drowned, but he didn’t show up. Because Bill got in trouble for telling stories and had to help Sister Cecile with swim lessons.

Sarah Dale saw Fred Rooney go down to the water. A few minutes later, she saw two boys in a boat with Sister Cecile. One was tall and lanky like Fred Rooney. Or like Bill Campbell.

Tommy went into the water and never came out.

“Alex?” Karen asks. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

It’s as if my brain is split in two. One half is thanking Karen and saying goodbye. The other half is in 1968. The day after Tommy disap peared, Karen saw Rooney punch Bill Campbell. He must have known what really happened. All these years.

I hear Fred’s voice the day I showed up at his house. Maybe I was there that day, maybe not. But I can tell you I never touched that boy. The way he smiled at me, like he was toying with me. I’d assumed he was lying. But what if he’d told me the truth right from the beginning? Someone else had pushed Tommy into the water. And Fred, like Sarah Dale, had been watching from shore.

I think of how pale and sweaty Bill had looked when Rooney stumbled into Jeannette Leroy’s funeral drunk and shooting off his mouth. He must have been terrified that Rooney was spiraling out of control—that he’d say something. Because Rooney’s blackmail had never been about the case. It had been about hiding what happened the day Bill Campbell pushed Tommy into the water and watched as the little boy drowned.

For a moment, I have to remind myself to breathe. Even if I’m right—Bill had been a minor and under coercion. Would he really kill Fred to hide what happened? He paid Rooney for decades to keep quiet, says a voice inside my head. He made sure to buy that property and then sat on it for ten years. He cared deeply about keeping the secret. Maybe Stedsan wasn’t the only one worried about his legacy.

A hundred thousand dollars was too much money to pay Rooney just because he wanted the case settled. Garcia was right about that. But to hide murder? My stomach sinks. And not just one murder. Sister Cecile and Fred Rooney were the only other people who knew what happened that day. And now they’re both dead.

I’m not sure how long I sit at my desk staring down at the map of Coram House. It all makes sense, but at the same time, my mind protests that it’s not possible. Had my last book felt like this—like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place? I’d been wrong then. My mouth fills with metal, as if uncertainty has a taste.

Then I realize my mistake.

Parker is bringing Bill Campbell in to ask about the bribe money. But it’s going to be the wrong line of questioning. We only have one chance at this and he’s going to blow it—because of me.

Shit shit shit.

I dial Parker but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s nearly six p.m. I hang up and call the station instead.

“You’ve reached the police department,” Bev chirps.

Oh thank Christ.

“Bev. Hi, it’s Alex Kelley. Is Officer Parker there?”

“Hold on a moment, dear.”

Before I can tell her it’s urgent, staticky hold music blasts my ears. After two infinite minutes, Bev picks up again.

“I’m sorry, he’s not here right now. Can I take a—”

“What about Detective Garcia?”

“Hold, please,” Bev says, sounding clipped now.

“Wait—”

She’s gone longer this time. Finally, the hold music stops and she comes back on the line. “I’m sorry, she’s not available right now. Can I take a message?”

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Could you repeat that?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I just— Can you ask them to call me? As soon as they can. It’s really important.”

“I’ll pass along the message.”

The line goes dead. I imagine Bev writing my message on a Post-it and sticking it to Garcia’s desk. How she’ll find it tomorrow and toss it straight in the trash. I’m the girl who cried important information too many times. Everything is about to fall apart, and I’m powerless to do anything.

Then I have an idea. A stupid, desperate idea. I dig through the papers on my desk until I find Bill Campbell’s home number.

“Hello?” A woman answers. Her voice is commanding.

“Mrs. Campbell?” I ask.

“To whom am I speaking?”

I clear my throat. “Sorry—my name is Alex Kelley. I’m a writer working on a local history project. I met with Mr. Campbell last week and he was so helpful. I was hoping he could answer a few last questions.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, he’s not here right now, but I’m happy to pass on the message. Alex, did you say?”

I grimace. “Do you think it would be worth trying him at the office? It’s just a quick question.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” she says. “He’s at a dinner party this evening.”

“Ah—I see. I’ll try him tomorrow, then. Thank you for your help.”

I hang up. The phone sits in my hand, dark and inert. This is good news. Bill is at a party. Nothing is going to change before morning. I should eat some dinner and wait for Parker to call me back. But there’s one more thing I need to do. Before I have time to think about all the reasons this is a stupid idea, I grab my jacket and my car keys. And I head for the door.

I back down the driveway too quickly. A pickup truck slams on the brake and honks. The driver shakes a fist at me. My heart is pumping twice as fast as usual. I back out the rest of the way onto the now-empty street. And I drive toward Coram House.

From upstairs, the falling snow looked gentle. At twenty miles an hour, each flake tosses itself against the windshield like it’s trying to break through. If I can time myself on the path that Rooney would have taken to the dump and after to the cove, I can prove that he couldn’t have been the one in the boat with Sister Cecile in 1968. Then, when Parker or Garcia calls me back, at least I can be sure of that one thing.

As I turn onto Battery Street, a gust of wind comes off the lake, rocking the car back and forth. I pass a snowplow, driving in the opposite direction. North Avenue stretches ahead, dark and empty. Then Coram House appears on its hilltop etched into the sky by the spotlights. I pull into the driveway over slushy tire tracks that have hardened to ice. The temperature must be dropping.

I pull around the back, so my car won’t be visible from the street. The wind stills. The snow hangs suspended, as if time has stopped. A black SUV is parked in front of the office. CAMPBELL & SONS , it says on the door. Beside it is a police cruiser. Panic squeezes my throat.

The cruiser could be here for any reason. Could belong to anyone.

I stop the car and call Parker. It goes to voicemail again. I text him instead. At Coram House. Are you here? Call me. It’s important. I hit send and get out of the car.

The office is dark. There are no footprints in the fresh snow leading up the steps. But still, I knock. “Mr. Campbell?” I call.

Silence. I try the handle, but it’s locked.

The cruiser could belong to anyone, but I know it doesn’t. Parker is the only one who suspects Bill Campbell of being connected to the murders. Could he have come here to try to question Bill at work? To catch him off guard? Parker is younger, stronger, sure—but Bill killed two other people and has the element of surprise. The air is cold enough to tear my lungs, but I take it in huge, deep gulps.

Bang.

I jump, then spin around. The driveway is empty. A tornado of snow blows across the empty road. Another bang—loud and sharp. It’s coming from Coram House.

I backtrack down the drive, zipping my coat against the cutting wind. I need time to speed up to the moment I find Parker. But I also want time to slow. Because what if I’m too late.

Coram House’s heavy front door slides open until it’s a yawning hole. It hits the wall with a loud bang. Then it starts to slide closed again, sucked by the wind.

I walk up the front steps. “Hello?” I call into the empty front hall. “Parker?”

There’s no reply but the wind. A faint glow comes from upstairs, like there’s a light on up there. The door presses against my outstretched arm, trying to slam shut. Make up your mind , it seems to say. In or out. But it’s not really a choice. Before the door can close, I slip inside. The wind slams it shut behind me.