Chapter 10
10
The sun is high, the light bright and flat as we take the trail back toward the road. My morning run in reverse. How much time has passed since I left my apartment this morning—two hours? Four? I have no idea.
“Careful there.”
Parker points to a patch of ice. Brown maple leaves are curled inside, as if they’re still drifting through the air instead of frozen in place. He walks ahead, his boots leaving elephant-sized footprints in the snow.
“What will happen to her now?” I ask. I can’t bring myself to say body . Neither can I shake the feeling that I’m responsible for her. Like I found a dog on the side of the road and need to make sure it finds its way home.
“They’ll bring her in to identify her and determine cause of death,” he says. “Or the family will report her missing. Turn left here.”
He points down a path that splits off from the main trail. Now it’s covered in heavy bootprints—a herd of elephants—but I recognize the spot. “This is the place where she joined the trail,” I say.
He stops and looks at me, frowning.
“This morning, I mean. The trail was covered in fresh snow. I thought I was the only one here until I got to this spot.” I point at the spur trail. “Another set of footprints joined the trail from down there. They must be hers, right? The woman’s.”
Parker rubs a hand over his chin. The woods are so quiet I hear his glove rasp against the stubble. “Seems likely. Thanks, I’ll pass it along.”
I get the feeling that he’s humoring me, trying to keep me moving.
“Not much farther,” he says.
A few minutes later, the trees drop away and we step onto a path lined by rows of headstones stretching up a steep hill. This morning, I felt deep in the woods, but Coram House was right here all along, crouching just out of sight.
A police cruiser sits in front of a white mausoleum. A marble angel keeps watch on the roof. Her legs dangle over the side like a child on a chair too tall for her. The car beeps as Parker unlocks it.
“You’ll have to sit in the back,” he says.
A prickly ball of fear in my stomach. “Am I under…” I trail off, unsure what I’m even asking.
“It’s policy,” he says quickly. “There’s a shotgun rack in front.”
Immediately, I feel stupid.
He opens the back door for me. It’s warmer inside out of the wind, but this just makes me shiver harder, as if my body can now give up. Parker turns the heat to high and points the vents toward the back. “Should warm up in a second,” he says.
I huddle in on myself and look out the window. The gravestones go right up to a stand of birch at the edge of the woods. The silver bark peels away in strips like a snake sloughing off its skin.
“All right?”
A metal grille separates the back seat from the front. I nod back at him from my cage, but the truth is, everything hurts. My skin feels a size too small for the flesh thawing underneath.
Parker rests his hands on the wheel, but doesn’t drive yet. “About the other day…” He pauses. “I should have told you I was supposed to be your liaison when you came in. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to come off as—” He searches for the right word.
“Hostile?” I suggest through chattering teeth.
His eyes catch mine in the mirror. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Unprofessional,” he says.
“Right,” I say. “Neither did I. It was… a hard day.”
Parker nods and puts the car in reverse. The path hasn’t been plowed yet; the only marks are Parker’s tire tracks. As we crest the hill, Coram House appears, one piece at a time. First the gold weathervane, then the long slate roof, the upper floors, the lower, as if the building is rising up from underground. From here, you can’t see any of the new construction. It could be fifty years ago.
“I went inside,” I say. “Yesterday.”
Nothing changes—he’s still quiet, eyes still on the road, but his silence takes on another layer. We reach the main gates to the cemetery, and he puts on his blinker.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” I say. “It was so empty. It was just— a building.”
I don’t know how to describe what I mean or even why I’m telling him this. It’s not that I’d expected some chamber of horrors, preserved in wax. But there had been no sign the building was ever full of children. I’d once been in a school that had been shut down. There had still been drawings pinned to the wall, a pencil jammed between the floorboards, initials carved into the stairwell. The children of Coram House had been erased entirely.
“That’s all it’s ever been,” Parker says. “A building.”
We drive down North Avenue in silence. When he pulls into the police station parking lot, I think at first that there must have been a mistake. I thought he was taking me home. He must see the look on my face.
“It won’t take long. I—we’d just like to ask you some questions while it’s still fresh in your mind. Then someone will take you home. Okay?”
I nod, even though I want to say no. I’m too tired. I don’t want to. But what is that in the face of a woman’s death?
The automatic doors swoosh open, enveloping me in a rush of warm air. Bev is still there, surrounded by glittering threads of tinsel. But today, she comes out from behind the desk and pats my arm. “It’s just awful,” she says. “Oh, good lord. Honey, you’re frozen. Let me get you something hot to drink. Tea? Tea is hotter than coffee.”
She disappears and we go inside. Eyes follow us as Parker leads me through the station and down a back hall. He opens a door and we step into a small room with a single grimy window, set so high, all I can see is a sliver of sky. The drop ceiling is stained nicotine yellow. Parker gestures to four molded-plastic chairs around a metal table. “Here, sit. I’ll be right back.”
A second later, there’s a soft knock and Bev enters, holding a mug. She places it in front of me and then hurries out before I can thank her. The liquid is viscous with sugar, but she’s right, the tea’s very hot. My chair rocks back and forth every time I shift. I wonder if it’s an interrogation tactic or if that only happens in movies.
Parker reappears a minute later with a television remote and another officer, a woman with long braids twisted into a bun and a cherry-red manicure. She smiles at me like we’re old friends and introduces herself as Officer Washington. Then she holds out a pair of orange Crocs with white socks tucked inside. “Not the most fashionable,” she says, “but better than wet feet.”
I peel off my soggy sneakers and socks. My toes look like fat, white raisins. The dry socks feel delicious. I love her a little.
“Alex, just to let you know, we’ll be recording today’s interview. Is that all right?” Parker gestures toward the camera mounted in one corner.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s fine.”
He sits in the chair across from me, next to Officer Washington.
“Could you take us through everything that happened this morning?” he asks.
I wrap my hand around the mug. “I went for a run this morning—left my apartment just after sunrise, so six thirty maybe?”
Officer Washington writes something down.
“And where did you run?” Parker asks.
“Over to North Ave.,” I say. “Then up to Rock Point. I meant to run the loop trail, but I—” My voice cracks and I clear it. “I got to the viewpoint and heard a scream.”
“Did you see anyone else at Rock Point?”
“No. It was pretty cold this morning. Just the footprints—the ones I told you about. Oh, and a moose.”
Their eyes snap to me in unison. Officer Washington frowns, pen hovering above her notepad. “A moose?” she asks. And I don’t think I’m imagining the disbelief in her tone.
My cheeks go hot. “It was just standing there on the trail. When I heard the scream I thought, I don’t know, maybe it had attacked someone.”
“Let’s back up for a second,” Parker says. “Earlier, you said there was another set of footprints on the trail. Can you describe them?”
I picture the trail. The smooth dusting of snow, the way it squeaked underfoot. The place where the other set of footprints joined the main trail.
“They were small. I remember because I was relieved it was another woman. If I was going to be alone in the woods with them, I mean.”
Officer Washington scribbles something in her notebook. I try to ignore it.
“Thanks, Alex,” Parker says. “That’s really helpful. Can you tell me about the scream?”
“I-I was at the viewpoint. At the end of the trail. Did I say that already?”
The laugh bubbles out of me. Inappropriate. I’m just so tired.
“I know the place,” Office Washington chimes in, her tone all upbeat encouragement.
“I thought it might be an animal or something,” I say, “but it— I don’t know—it sounded scared. Human.”
“What did you do next?” asks Parker. His expression is neutral. I can’t tell what he makes of all this.
“Nothing, at first,” I say. “Well, I checked my phone, but I didn’t have service. I couldn’t tell where it had come from, but it sounded like maybe down by the water?”
My voice rises at the end, as if I’m asking them.
“I was worried someone might be hurt. That they’d fallen and broken their leg or something. I didn’t imagine—I mean not then—that someone was dead.”
I think of the rock sitting beside the woman’s body. Covered in blood and chunks of something I don’t want to think about. I try to swallow but the tea sticks in my throat.
“There was someone else there,” I say, the words spilling out. “I heard this sound. After the scream, I yelled—to see if someone was there. And then there was this scraping noise. And these echoey thunks.”
Parker’s face stays neutral, but Officer Washington’s eyebrows shoot up. I’m doing a terrible job, I know. But I’ve never had to describe a sound before—I feel like I’m speaking the wrong language.
Parker’s voice is gentle. “Did you see anyone else?”
“No,” I say, “just the sounds.”
I know what he’s thinking. I just finished telling them about the footprints on the trail—the single set of footprints.
Officer Washington leans forward. “Listen, I get it. If you’re not used to being out in the woods, all sorts of sounds can—”
“Look, I don’t know how to explain it, but they weren’t like the other noises in the woods. They were human sounds. There was someone else out there. I think they heard me calling and were trying to get away.”
I know it’s true as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Someone heard me and was trying to get away. The silence stretches out, until finally Parker clears his throat. “These sounds,” he says, his voice even, careful, “could you tell where they were coming from?”
I rub my eyes. My head is pounding, right behind the sockets. I wonder if they’d bring me some ibuprofen. “From the direction of the water.”
Officer Washington has stopped taking notes. Now she’s squinting at me, as if trying to see something out of focus.
“So after you heard these sounds,” Parker says, “what happened next?”
“I followed the footprints down to the rocks. And when I didn’t see anyone, went down to the beach. And that’s where I found her.”
I tell them about the rest: going down the stairs to the beach, how I didn’t see anyone at first. And then that flash of bright purple, how she had been right behind me the whole time. I describe the feel of the slippery coat, how her skin had been warm, her glassy eyes staring at me. And the blood. Officer Washington is scribbling furiously now. I take us all the way up to when the medics arrived and then the police. I go to take a sip of tea but the mug is empty. I don’t remember finishing it. I shiver.
“We’re almost done,” Parker says. “Then we’ll get you home. Did you see anything that suggested someone else had been down at the cove? Or with the woman before she fell?”
I close my eyes, remembering that feeling of being watched—like the trees had eyes. But had I seen footsteps, a scrap of cloth, anything tangible?
“No,” I admit.
He looks at me for one more second. The gold circles around his irises seem brighter in this dingy room. Then he shuts the folder.
“I think that’s all for today. Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions. Officer Washington will give you a ride home.”
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Thanks.”
All I want to do is crawl into bed, but it feels too abrupt, like this can’t possibly be it.
The three of us step into the corridor. “This way,” Officer Washington says, just as the door we’re passing flies open.
A man careens into the hall, knocking the folder out of her hand in a shower of papers. He grabs me for balance, sending us both into the wall. My shoulder connects in a sharp burst of pain. Parker lunges forward, peeling the man off me by his collar. Without the heavy weight, it feels like I’m floating.
Parker grips the man by the shoulders now, but he’s not holding him back, I realize. He’s holding him up. The man is very, very drunk. The smell of it wafts off him, sharp and medicinal.
“Sor—” He burps. “Shorry about that.”
The man widens his eyes and over-enunciates in the deliberate way of someone so drunk they actually think they’re fooling you. “Seem to be I lost my balance.”
He leans forward, as if to brush some invisible dust off me, but Parker catches his wrist and gently places it back by his side. I wonder what the guy’s story is. He looks haggard and red-eyed, but his clothes are expensive. The sneakers a name-brand limited edition and the coat shows a flash of designer plaid.
Another officer comes hurrying down the corridor, holding a paper cup. “Sorry—Jesus, I swear I only left for a minute and he was dead as a rock.” Coffee sloshes over the rim. “Shit.” He shakes his hand, so brown droplets fly everywhere.
“No harm,” Parker says. He looks at me, eyebrows raised in question. I nod. I’m fine.
The drunk man studies me, cocking his head to one side like a dog. “Yer—you’re pretty.”
“All right, Mr. Nilsson.” The other officer takes his arm. “I think that’s enough.”
Parker grabs the guy’s other arm and together they lead him back into the interview room. There’s a cot in one corner with a garbage can beside it. A makeshift drunk tank. Drunk guy looks back over his shoulder. “Can I buy you dinner?” he whispers to me, though it’s loud enough to carry down the hall. Parker gives me an apologetic look and kicks the door shut.
Officer Washington shakes her head. “They picked him up this morning out on the ice. Half frozen. Probably homeless.”
“I doubt it,” I say.
She blinks and looks at me.
“Did you see his sneakers? Those were Travis Scott Air Jordans. They go for a thousand bucks.”
“Didn’t take you for a sneaker head,” she says, clearly amused.
“Not me. My husband.”
I tamp down the urge to finish with: He died . Like I owe everyone the whole story every time I mention him. Maybe that’s why I usually don’t. But Officer Washington doesn’t ask for more. She bundles me out of the police station and into a car—a different car, so I get to sit in front this time. On the way, she keeps up a bright, one-sided conversation about who makes the pizza with the thinnest crust, the freshest bread, the best coffee. It should make me hungry but doesn’t.
As soon as I get out of the car, exhaustion settles over me, so intense I can barely make it up the stairs. In the kitchen, I kick off my borrowed shoes and head straight for the shower. Billows of steam fill the bathroom, so thick and hot I feel lightheaded. When I’m the color of cooked lobster, I drop the towel and climb into bed naked.
A siren wails, getting louder until red lights blaze through the cur tains, then pass by. A faint smell of smoke hangs in the air. I think of Karen Lafayette’s deposition. There was a little girl who burned up. Sister Cecile told her to fetch a ball from the fire and her snowsuit went up in flames. I shake my head, as if that will make the picture fall out.
I wonder if I’ll hear these voices, these stories, replaying in my head forever. See the bloody tangle of hair floating in the water. Feel warm dead skin. Maybe it’s not Coram House that’s haunted. Maybe it’s me.
I only meant to warm up in bed for a few minutes, but soon I’m sinking into sleep. At first, I fight it, but staying awake is like clawing my way out of a sand pit. The sides cave in again and again until I wonder why I’m bothering when it’s so much easier to just let go.