Page 42

The packing tape screams as it comes off the roll. That’s the last box, sealed shut. My suitcase is stacked at the foot of the bed and now my work is all packed away—binder organized, index cards wrapped in rubber bands, laptop zipped into its case. I’d hoped to leave yesterday, as soon as the police gave me the green light, but it was late by the time I got back from Xander’s.

He’d been waiting for me, standing outside in his driveway when I arrived. Like everyone else, he knew what had happened, wasn’t sure what to say. So we talked about the weather—cold—and about where I was going next—somewhere warm and then somewhere else.

I told Xander how, thanks to his newspaper clipping, I found Tommy’s name. Found out he was born in Port Henry, New York. He still has cousins alive, an aunt who’d come looking for him, but never found him. People who would have remembered him if given the chance.

He told me how the Coram House development is at a standstill, mired in red tape. I imagined the building years from now, standing on the hill, abandoned and half-finished, rusting steel beams sticking out like naked bones. Maybe it’s a more fitting end, but what a waste. When it was too cold to stand outside any longer, we hugged and said goodbye. I felt lighter leaving.

As I zip up my suitcase, a knock from downstairs makes me freeze, as if someone might see me up here. In the two weeks after that night on the ice, a few reporters had found my address and come knocking, but I’d ignored them. Finally, I’d taped a piece of paper to the door that said: I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation. I had read it and then cried. But they left me alone. Probably it would have petered out anyways. Another news cycle. Fresh blood somewhere else.

After that night, I’d been briefed and debriefed, questioned first about everything that happened in the hours preceding and then the days and weeks before that. Time was sand inside an hourglass, flowing ever backward. My throat was raw with talking by the time I left the police station and stepped outside, blinking in surprise at the sun. When had it become morning? I’d come back to my apartment, slept. And then gone back the next day and started all over again as they—as we—tried to untangle the knot of what had happened and why. Or maybe I was the only one wrestling with the why. Motive is just a nice-to-have, after all.

Officer Russell Parker had taken a canoe to Rock Point and killed Sister Cecile. He was the one I’d heard in the woods. He’d killed Fred Rooney and had tried to kill Bill Campbell, working his way down the list of anyone who had hurt his mother or profited from what happened at the House. The evidence was there once you knew to look for it. Same story, different angle.

The knock comes again. I pull on my coat and drag the suitcase into the kitchen. Might as well make the trip count. Whoever is outside must have heard me wrestling the suitcase down the stairs because they don’t knock again. For about the hundredth time, I curse the absence of a peephole. Instead, I fling open the door—No comment already on my lips—but it’s not a reporter.

Detective Garcia stands on the porch. Instead of her usual black suit, she’s in jeans and an emerald-green coat. She has a coffee in each hand.

“Hi, Alex. I hope it’s okay—me coming here like this.”

I nod to the cup. “If one of those is for me, it is.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I step outside, hoisting the suitcase onto the porch after me. The cup warms my fingers.

“How are you doing?” Garcia asks.

I shrug. “Honestly? I don’t know how to answer that question. You?”

She shakes her head. For a while, we just stand there, not saying anything.

After that night, the police had asked me to stay in town for a few weeks. It was easy to agree when leaving and staying had seemed equally unimaginable. Lola came, and Kay too.

I’d spent the next week in stasis, lying in bed until hunger forced me out, then burrowing into my blankets as soon as the sun went down. Not that sleep was a refuge. I dreamed of ice and the cold water beneath and whatever lay beneath that. Lola rubbed my back and made me shower, while Kay cooked soup on the only burner that worked. For another week they stayed, until the day I woke up and something felt different.

That morning, I’d gotten out of bed and brewed a pot of coffee. My laptop felt cool under my fingers as I began to type. The words just came. Not as if I was assembling the pieces of an outline, but as if the story had been there all along, whole and waiting for me to begin. Lola had smiled at me. Nice to see you back, she’d said. Guess it’s time for us to go home. I’d held on to her, knowing her friendship has been the tether that anchors me to earth and also thinking how exhausting it is to keep incurring debts I’ll never be able to repay. But maybe that’s what love is—debt.

Garcia takes a long sip of coffee. “The DA isn’t going to press charges against Bill Campbell for the bribery,” she says.

She’s watching me, waiting for a reaction. But I’m not angry. Hell, I’m not even surprised. From a certain viewpoint, he’s a victim of blackmail, who was almost murdered by a serial killer. The optics of going after him for bribery and obstruction wouldn’t be great.

“Is that why you came?” I ask. “To tell me that?”

Garcia sighs. “And because I owe you an apology.”

“I never thought you’d arrest Bill,” I say. “Even I know there’s no case there.”

“No, not for that.” She’s struggling with whatever she came here to say. “I’ve—well, I treated you badly—before. I believed you were involving yourself in the case for attention, to make a better story for your book.” She pauses, clearly deciding whether to go on. “Officer Parker, he—well, he said a few things.”

My teeth grind so hard I feel a sharp pain in my jaw. “Yeah, I’m sure he painted a nice picture.”

Garcia shakes her head. “I was the one that filled in the gaps, Alex. I need to take responsibility for that. For not seeing—for not looking.”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “I gave him everything he needed to know about them. Rooney. Bill Campbell. What they’d done. Jesus, I sent him to Xander’s house to ask about the canoe.”

I bury my face in my hands.

“You didn’t know.”

“Do you think— I mean, none of this started until I got here. Do you think it was me?”

Is this my fault? I can’t quite get the words out. Maybe I don’t want an answer.

Garcia considers this, then she shakes her head once, decisively.

“Maybe your coming sped something up, maybe not. But we searched his house. We found notes, documentation, some of it years old. He moved here for this. I think it was too late long before you got here.”

I’m sure she’s not allowed to tell me any of this, so I smile, grateful, even though it doesn’t make me feel better. The silence stretches out. I try to decide if I’m going to ask it—the thing I want to know but am also afraid to.

“Did you ever suspect?” I ask.

Garcia goes very still, as if she’s watching a replay of the last few weeks in her head. Finally, she shakes her head. “Never. Not for a minute.”

I wonder if this should make me feel better or worse.

Garcia nods at the suitcase. “Where are you headed now? Back to New York?”

I shake my head. She doesn’t press.

“Have you found anything?” I ask. My lips are dry. I lick them and taste blood where the skin has cracked. “Out there.”

Her eyebrows unknit as she realizes what I’m asking. Then she shakes her head. “There’s too much ice. In the spring, they’ll drag the lake, but…” She shrugs. “It’s deep. We may never find him.”

“Do you think— I mean, is it possible…” I trail off.

Her expression softens. “There was nothing out there but open water, Alex. Nowhere to go.”

I force the words out, but they’re sharp and they tear. “I know.”

Garcia looks away. I take three deep breaths. I count the stairs. One to seven and then back down to one.

“I didn’t know Officer Parker well,” she says, “but I don’t think he was ever planning to escape. I think”—she pauses, choosing her words—“I think he was just trying to get to an ending.”

My mind has gone black. Not a single thought in it. I barely feel it when Garcia gently squeezes my hand. “I’ll call you if we have any more questions. Good luck, Alex.”

They’re strange parting words. Not take care of yourself or goodbye. As luck goes, I think I’ve made it clear mine is either great or terrible, depending on your perspective.

Garcia tosses her cup in a trash can. She turns west, toward the police station. I watch until she’s an emerald smudge in the distance. Then I heft the heavy suitcase and load it into my car. Five boxes to go.

Then I have to make one more stop.

The porch lights are on at Stedsan’s office, despite the sunny day. They look like two glowing eyes. The knocker becomes a twisted nose. The mail slot a slash of mouth. The face is monstrous and impossible to unsee.

I’m taking a chance just showing up like this, but I didn’t want to let him know I was coming. Didn’t want him to ask why.

I lift the knocker, for a second expecting flesh beneath my hand, but it’s cold metal. The thunk echoes inside the house. Then the door opens. Stedsan wears jeans and a gray sweater. His hair is wet, making it look much darker than his usual white blond.

“Alex.”

He sounds surprised and looks behind me like he expected me to bring a date.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

He steps back and opens the door wider. “Yes, of course.”

Stedsan offers coffee, leaving me plenty of openings to tell him why I’m here, which I decline to use. I do take him up on the coffee, though.

While he’s gone, I wander into the living room. The back garden is blanketed in fresh snow. The twisted apple tree looks like an enormous white-capped mushroom—something from the wrong side of the looking glass.

Stedsan reappears with the tray and hands me an espresso in a delicate blue cup. It’s smooth and nutty. Delicious.

“How are you holding up?” he asks. “The last few weeks can’t have been easy.”

“No,” I say.

“If this is about our contract,” he says, “I don’t want you to worry. Given the circumstances I think we can alter the timeline to be—”

“That’s not what this is about.” I set the cup on the table.

He looks up at me, his expression curious, but not worried.

“How much did you know?” I ask.

Stedsan frowns. “I told you, Alex,” he says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “I always believed Sarah’s version of events, but I never had any proof. I’m as surprised as you are that Bill was involved.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not what I’m here about.

“You know, I’ve had a lot of time to think over the last few weeks,” I say. “And there’s this thing, tiny really, I don’t know why it stuck in my head, but it did. Something Russell Parker said to me.”

He waits, eyebrows raised. The silence stretches out, but he doesn’t squirm.

“His dad died when he was a kid. I checked, just to make sure, but it’s true. Lewis Parker died in 1987, when Russell Parker was ten years old.”

I wait to see if this means anything to him, but Stedsan just frowns.

“It got me thinking. Sarah Dale was a single mom, an orphan with no family, when she gave that deposition in 1989. Days of interviews. Who would have taken care of her son back in New York? Or maybe she brought him along.”

I see it in his eyes—the moment he realizes what I’m getting at.

“He would have been, what, twelve? Still a kid, sure, but I’m betting he was still recognizable to someone who met him again twenty-five years later. Especially if that someone was paying attention. And you strike me as someone who is always paying attention.”

Stedsan’s expression doesn’t change, but he goes so still he could be a statue. This is risky, I know it is. It’s a wild conjecture that he’d be crazy to confirm, but I can’t get the idea out of my head. The way he’d laughed when he told me about my media liaison and his strange reaction to Fred Rooney’s death, like he knew something he wasn’t saying. It could add up to nothing. Or to this.

“I think you always knew who Russell Parker was,” I say. “And I think that you suspected what he was doing and decided to let it play out.”

Stedsan says nothing, but that foxlike expression is back. “You can’t prove any of this.”

It feels like someone’s punctured my lungs. “People died.”

“You know,” Stedsan said. “If Bill Campbell had just told us everything he knew from the beginning, all this might have been avoided. Why don’t you save your lecture for him. As it stands—drugs, sexual assault, blackmail, murder—I’m not sure the world is worse off without those two.”

I can see it from his perspective. Justice from another angle. But I think of the dark sadness in Parker’s face. The world is worse.

“What makes you think he wasn’t coming for you next?” I ask.

Stedsan laughs. “What makes you think he wasn’t coming for you too, Alex Kelley?”

And if he had come for Stedsan, would some part of me have thought it was deserved? The part that right now thirsts for Stedsan’s blood. That wants not just justice, but retribution. As for me, Parker had his chance out on the ice and he walked away. But maybe that had less to do with my innocence than his sense of mercy. Or maybe he knew that being left was a punishment of its own. Either way, I’ll never know.

“I’m leaving,” I say. “Today. I’m going to write my book somewhere else.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Our contract clearly stipulates you remain here for the full six months or until the first draft is done.”

“I’m not finished,” I say. “Our financial arrangement will remain the same. You’ll get your royalties, but my name goes on the cover and the final edit is mine too.”

“And why on earth would I agree to any of this?”

“Because I think you want to keep this conversation out of the book.”

He shrugs. “Allegations with no evidence. And you’d be in violation of your NDA.”

I look him right in the eye without flinching. “Fuck the NDA. I’ve done some research and there’s a good shot it wouldn’t hold up in court. Plus this story is so good I’m sure one interview with the press would more than cover my legal costs.”

We look at each other, not saying anything. Behind his eyes, I can see the gears of his mind turning, looking for the way out.

“Or you could let me write the book my way. The rest of it goes in, but this part we’ll keep between us. Your choice.”

A smile spreads across his face. He shakes his head. “I’m not too big to admit when I’ve been outmaneuvered,” he says. “Very well. Go where you wish. Write your book.”

He sighs but I’d swear he looks a little relieved.

“This book was supposed to be my legacy, but I have a feeling you’ll do the subject justice.”

I still hate him, but feel a pang. He looks so old suddenly. “We don’t get to write our own legacies, Alan,” I say. “That’s not how it works.”

He stands to walk me out. I let him go first. He doesn’t seem the type to hit me over the head with a bookend, but then who knows?

“What were you doing inside Coram House that night anyway?” Stedsan asks as I slip on my jacket. “Just luck?”

I consider the question. The slamming door. The sound of humming drifting down the stairs. The moon lighting my way. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.

He looks surprised. Well, that’s something, to finally surprise him. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for more.

“Me either,” I say. But I’m not sure that’s true anymore.

I’m halfway down the walkway when Stedsan calls out, “I always liked him, you know. Officer Parker.”

I turn back. “Yeah. Me too.”

“How do you think he’d feel about the book you’re going to write?”

A deep pain twists in my chest. I think he’d tell me the why doesn’t matter, only what he did. But I think the why is everything.

“Goodbye, Alan,” I say. “I’ll send you a copy when I’m done.”

On the way to the car, tiny chunks of ice crunch beneath my feet like pieces of broken glass. I feel Stedsan in the doorway, still watching, as I climb in and turn the ignition. But I drive away without turning back.

I’ve thought a lot about the question Parker asked me on that last night. Around and around in circles. What I’d do if given the power to turn back time, to lick my fingers and snuff out a life and all the pain that came with it.

No, I’d told him, I wouldn’t do that. And not just because there’s nothing else. But because love is a debt paid only in loss eventually, one way or another. You cannot open the door to one without the other. But you also never know what will come next. Joy on the heels of sorrow on the heels of joy. And we don’t get to pick. We’re given so few perfect moments in this life, and sometimes you don’t see them for what they are until after. But how do you put the pain and the perfection of a life on a scale and decide how they stack up—which lives are worth living? Maybe someone else can, but not me.

The highway is quiet. I drive until there are no more office parks or big-box stores, just a road snaking through mountains. In the rearview mirror, my file boxes sit patiently on the back seat, waiting for me to unpack them in a new place. My fingers tingle to begin writing. I come around a bend and see the mountains, framed in my windshield. The snow and shadowed branches would look like a black-and-white photo were it not for the pure blue backdrop. Blue that goes on and on forever. I drive into it.