Maybe Father Michael Joseph wanted her to sit here quietly with nothing and no one around her. She thought in that moment that even though he wanted her to talk to him, he wanted her to speak to God more. But there were no prayers inside her. Perhaps there were, deep in her heart, but she really didn’t want to look there.

So much had happened, and yet so little. Women she didn’t know were dead. She wasn’t. At least not yet. He had so many resources, so many eyes and ears, but for now she was safe. She realized sitting there in the quiet church that she was no longer simply terrified as she’d been two and a half weeks before. Instead she’d become watchful. She was always studying the faces that passed her on the street. Some made her draw back, others just flowed over her, making no impact at all, just as she made no impact on them.

She waited. She looked up at the crucified Christ, felt a strange mingling of pain and hope fill her, and waited. The air seemed to shift, to flatten, but the silence remained absolute, without even a whisper coming from the confessional.

Inside the confessional, Father Michael Joseph drew a slow, deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t want to see this man again, not ever again, for as long as he lived. When the man had called Father Binney and told him he could only come this late-he was terribly sorry, but it wasn’t safe for him, and he had to confess, he just had to-of course Father Binney had said yes. The man told Father Binney he had to see Father Michael Joseph, no one else, and of course Father Binney had again said yes.

Father Michael Joseph was very afraid he knew why the man had come again. He’d confessed before, acted contrite-a man in pain, a man trying to stop killing, a man seeking spiritual help.