Father Moros wondered if she was on medication. This was swerving on the line that separated the spiritual and civil spheres.

“Well, is it?” the voice said, quavering. When Father Moros didn’t answer, the penitent began to cry.

The anguish in her voice brought him back on task. “Are you ready to confess your sins?” he asked.

“Yes.” The penitent’s voice caught in a sob. “You see, they wouldn’t stop him. Somebody had to stop him, or he’d hurt more children. I mean, they were going to let him go back to work in the same school where he did that to the boy. So I went to his house when he was all alone. I took a gun and I shot him and he died, and nobody knows who did it except you, me, and God.”

It was silent in the confessional for ten seconds. Angel kneeled awkwardly on the prie-dieu. She could smell the Tic Tacs on the priest’s breath not more than a foot away through the grille. And Old Spice aftershave. With her left hand she picked up the printed form on the top of the kneeling rest. It was titled: “Summary of the Rite of Reconciliation of Individual Penitents.” Her right hand reached into the shopping bag.

“Wait a minute, I get it,” Angel said. She cleared her throat, composed herself, and recited from the form: “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God.”

There was more on the form, but Angel was now preoccupied with the Ruger Mark II.22-caliber pistol she had removed from the shopping bag. The plastic Mountain Dew bottle duct-taped over the barrel made it cumbersome.

On the other side of the screen Father Moros hung his head. What a horrible thing. Could it be true? But Angel’s act of contrition put him back on familiar ground. Automatically, he began to recite the prayer of absolution.