Rick shifted his weight, scanning the shadowed corridor. “Yeah, peaceful like a graveyard. Only difference is the graves here still whisper.”
Frank gave a low chuckle. “And they say you’re an incurable grump.”
Rick’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He checked his wristwatch—their breakfast was already a distant memory. “Can’t expect me to be pious on an empty stomach.”
The door creaked open before Frank could reply. The same nun stood in the frame, pale and unhurried. “Reverend Mother will see you now.”
The Mother Superior’s chamber smelled faintly of lavender and scorched dust, as if incense had long since burned down to its memory. Shadows clung to the corners, thick where the pallid midday light couldn’t reach past the arched, iron-latticed window. A wooden crucifix hung on the wall behind the desk, its Christ carved in raw, suffering detail, eyes rolled skyward, ribs like blades.
The Reverend Mother sat stiff-backed in a high chair that looked more throne than seat. She was a tall, thin woman likely in her late seventies, her habit immaculate, her veil starched to a knife’s edge. Age had not softened her, only chiseled her features sharper: hollow cheeks, a jutting chin, and eyes like frosted glass that watched them as if expecting to find fault. Her hands, folded atop a large leather-bound Bible, were veined and liver-spotted, yet carried an undeniable authority.
As they stepped inside, the nun who had led them there bowed her head and withdrew, shutting the door behind her with a softclick.
Frank removed his hat with quiet respect and offered a courteous nod. “Reverend Mother.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Rick said, mirroring Frank’s gesture under the old woman’s stare.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” she said, gesturing to two wooden chairs in front of her desk. Her voice was firm and precise, accustomed to command, not conversation. They sat. “Now. Tell me why you’ve come.”
Rick leaned forward. “We’re looking into a woman who lived here some time ago. Her name was Lily Costa. Otherwise known as Sister Mary.”
The Reverend Mother’s expression didn’t change, not exactly, but something tautened beneath it. A faint pull of the brow. A shadow in her sunken eyes. “I’ve seen many young women take the veil over the years, Detective,” she said. “I cannot say I remember them all by name.”
“This would’ve been around twenty-six years ago,” Frank added gently. “She died after giving birth to twins. A boy and a girl.”
The silence that followed had weight. Not awkwardness—remembrance. It settled like dust stirred from long-forgotten corners. The Reverend Mother lowered her gaze to her folded hands. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. “I see.”
Rick reached into his coat, drew out a cigarette, and held it between his lips. There it was—the twitch of her mouth, the slight nudge of her Bible to the side. Not just an unpleasant memory. Guilt, maybe. Or something worse. He lit the match with a rasp. “So you do remember her.”
“I don’t recall giving you permission to smoke in here,” she snapped, stare sharp as flint. “This is consecrated ground.”
Rick froze, flame halfway to the cigarette. They held each other’s gaze for a beat before he shook the match out and tucked both items away. “Of course,” he said.
Beside him, Frank stifled a grin and glanced aside.
The Reverend Mother let the moment pass. Then she stood, smoothing her veil with one careful hand before walking to the window, as if making room for something unwelcome. The light hit her face at an angle, cutting one side into a silvered shadow. “It was not a happy story,” she said at last, staring out at the courtyard. “Most are not. The girl was very young, barely more than a child. She came to us from one of the poorer parishes near the docks, I believe. Father Donovan sent her here to… recover from an ordeal.”
“What kind of ordeal?” Rick asked.
“She’d been assaulted,” she went on, fingers tightening slightly on the window ledge. “Raped. A horrific thing, of course. The trauma proved to be too much for the poor child. She was fragile to begin with—some girls are. Too gentle for this world. The pregnancy that followed was not something she was prepared for.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window glass. “The mind has its limits. And hers had been pushed too far.”
Rick watched her closely. She spoke with the tidy, antiseptic language of someone trained to explain pain away. But beneath it, in the slight hesitation before each sentence, was the ghost of something more. A story untold. “What makes you say that?”
The Reverend Mother grimaced. “Because she went insane. We did what we could. Prayers. Silence. Care. But nothing seemed to help. Eventually…” She let the sentence trail off. “There was no reaching her.”
Rick’s eyes narrowed.Not doctors. Not therapy. Just prayers and silence.
“How did she die?” Frank asked, as if already suspecting the answer.
“She took her own life. They found her hanging from a rope made out of her dress.” A pause. “The children were given up,”she added, almost as an afterthought. “I arranged it myself; it was the most merciful option. The boy was placed with a couple who couldn’t conceive. The girl went to a family that lost their child.”
Rick’s pulse picked up. Rape, suicide, madness, twins separated at birth. Was it a break in the case or another layer of mystery? He knew Frank had noticed the pattern too: another death, another loony bin case. And again, Ash at its center. His fingers itched for a cigarette again, but he kept them still. “We’d like to speak to anyone who might’ve known her,” he said. “Someone she was close to.”
The Reverend Mother gave the faintest nod. “Sister Irene. They shared a cell. If anyone remembers Sister Mary, it would be her.” She returned to the desk and rang a small brass bell. The sound was soft but piercing, glass breaking in frost. She asked no questions, eager to see them gone.
The door creaked open, and the pale-faced nun from before reappeared.
“Sister Agnes,” the Reverend Mother said, her gaze on the Bible. “Take our guests to the chapel. Sister Irene should be there.”
