Page 52 of Coram House

I nod, ready for this. “Maybe. But it’s not how I see it. It’s not how I want it to be.”

“I know,” he says quietly. I laugh. I hope it doesn’t sound too bitter. “Now,” he adds. “I know that now.” He nods in the direction of Rock Point. “So, as your official media liaison—how goes the research?”

I sigh deeply.

“That good?” he asks.

“No, I mean, it’s fine. I’m lucky in some ways. There’s lots of source material. Historical documentation, transcripts from the case. I have enough detail to make a book out of it.”

“But? It sounds like there’s abut.”

“There are inconsistencies. Stories—memories—that contradict each other.”

“You think the kids made them up?”

“No!” It comes out harsher than I meant. “Sorry—I just—I don’t think anyone is lying. But trauma does strange things to memory. And there’s so much that’s missing.”

“Like the boy in the boat?”

“Tommy.” I sigh. At least Parker had been paying attention. “I can’t find any record he ever existed outside the depositions. No birth certificate, no paperwork, nothing. If Sarah Dale is right, then they didn’t just kill him, they erased him. And no one even went looking. Like his life meant that little.”

I take a sip of my drink to cover the crack in my voice.

“And then there are other depositions that frame Sister Cecile as this heroic figure. The nun who bravely stood up to the pedophile.”

Parker stares out into the night, his eyes two dark pools. “Why can’t both things be true?”

I huff. “Tommy either went into the water or he didn’t, Parker. This isn’t some philosophical exercise about a cat in a box.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not that, but with Sister Cecile. I’m just saying, plenty of us have good and bad in us. Just depends which way the balance tips that day.”

I consider this. “So you’re saying she’s both a child killer and a holy savior? That’s going to be hard to fit into the tagline for my book.”

His response is halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Maybe you need to talk to your star witness.”

“You sound like a cop,” I say. “Anyways, I can’t. Sarah Dale died a few years ago.”

I’m embarrassed to hear the catch in my voice. I avoid his eyes, clear my throat.

“And that’s a whole other problem. The only people left aren’t exactly cooperative. Most won’t even talk to me. Then there’s Fred Rooney”— I hold up my hand before he can say anything—“who I haven’t interviewed again. But I’m sure he knows something he isn’t sharing.”

“Like what?”

“About what happened to Tommy in the boat that day. I think he was there, Parker. That Sarah Dale was right—he might even have pushed Tommy into the water himself.”

Parker considers this. “There’s no statute of limitation on murder, you know. If he did do something, he’s not going to just tell you.”

“I know that,” I say, annoyed. “This was back in the sixties. He was a minor. But what if it’s more than that? What if he had something to do with Jeannette Leroy’s death too? She’s the only other person who was there that day, according to Sarah Dale. The only other person who could incriminate him.”

“So you think, what? He killed her?”

“Well, he could have, couldn’t he? He knew her. Knew her habits. He could have waited out in the woods until she walked by. And he had all these scratches on his face—it sure looked like he was in some kind of a struggle.”

Parker looks skeptical. “There were no footprints on the path.”

“It had just snowed that morning. He could have waited overnight.”

“And why now? After fifty years?”

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