“Like it or not, there are rules and regulations,”

Sister Cordelia said with a sigh, as she unconsciously repeated Willy’s exact words the next day. “They’ve given me a deadline-January 1st-and Inspector Pablo Torres told me he was already breaking every rule in the book to stretch it that far.”

It was one o’clock, and after a Mass of Resurrection, Bessie Durkin had been lowered into her final resting place, alongside three generations of Durkins in Calvary Cemetery.

Willy and Alvirah, Sister Cordelia and her assistant, Sister Maeve Marie, who was a twenty-nine-year-old former NYPD policewoman, and Monsignor Thomas Ferris were at the table in Bessie’s townhouse, enjoying the Virginia ham, homemade potato salad and sourdough biscuits prepared by Kate.

“Is there anything else I can get anyone?” Kate asked meekly before she took her place at the table.

“Kate, sit down,” Alvirah ordered. She turned to Cordelia. “What are the specific problems that are so terrible, Cordelia?” she asked.

For a moment the troubled frown on the face of the seventy-year-old nun disappeared. Cordelia’s eyes softened as she looked at her sister-in-law and smiled. “It’s nothing even you can fix, Alvirah. We have thirty-six kids, ages six to eleven, who come to us after school. I asked Pablo if he’d rather have them on the streets. I asked him what we’re doing wrong. We give them a snack. We’ve rounded up some trustworthy high school kids who help them with their homework and play games with them. There are always adult volunteers in the thrift shop, so there’s plenty of supervision at all times. The kids’ mothers or fathers pick them up by six-thirty. We don’t charge anything, of course. The nurses at the schools have checked any kids we take in. They’ve never complained about anything.”