The rookie holds out the remaining bite of the croissant, his peace offering. "I, uh, I'm sorry, Lieutenant."
Patrick shakes his head. He considers going to the fridge and raiding the lunch the kid's mom has probably packed him. "Don't let it happen again."
Hell of a way to start a day; he counts on the combination of caffeine in the chocolate and his coffee to get him jump-started. By ten o'clock, no doubt, he'll have a monster headache. Patrick stalks back to his desk and plays his voice mail-three messages; the only one he really cares about is Nina's. "Call me," it says-that's all, no name, nothing. He picks up the phone, then notices the file that the chief has left on his desk.
Patrick opens the manila folder, reads the report from BCYF. The telephone receiver falls to the desk, where it lies buzzing long after he has run out of his office.
"All right," Patrick says evenly. "I'm going to get right on this. I'll go and talk to Caleb the minute I leave here."
It's about all I can take, the incredible level calm of his voice. I drive my hands through my hair. "For God's sake, Patrick. Will you just stop being such a ... such a cop?"
"You want me to tell you that I feel like beating him unconscious for doing this to Nathaniel? That then I'd beat him up all over again for what he's done to you?"
The fury in his voice takes me by surprise. I tilt my head, playing his anger over in my mind. "Yes," I answer softly. "I do want you to tell me that." He rests his hand on the back of my head. It feels like a prayer. "I don't know what to do."
Patrick's fingers cup my skull, separate the strands of my hair. I give myself up to this; imagine that he's unraveling my thoughts. "That's why you've got me," he says.
Nathaniel balks when I tell him where we're going. But if I stay inside for another minute, I am going to lose my mind.
Light falls through the stained-glass ceiling panels of St. Anne's, washing Nathaniel and me in a rainbow. At this hour, on a weekday, the church is as quiet as a secret. I walk with great care, trying not to make any more of a sound than is absolutely necessary. Nathaniel drags his feet, scuffing his sneakers along the mosaic floor.
"Stop that," I whisper, and immediately wish I hadn't. My words reverberate against the stone arches and the polished pews and come running back to me. Trays of white votives glow; how many of these have been lit for my son?
"I'll only be a minute," I tell Nathaniel, settling him in one of the pews with a handful of Matchbox cars. The polished wood makes a perfect racetrack-to prove this, I send a hot rod speeding to the other end. Then I walk toward the confessionals before I change my mind.
The booth is tight and overheated. A grate slides open against my shoulder; although I cannot see him, I can smell the starch Father Szyszynski uses on his clerical shirts.
There is a comfort to confession, if only because it follows rules that are never broken. And no matter how long it's been, you remember, as if there is a collective Catholic subconscious. You speak, the priest answers. You begin with the littlest sins, stacking them like a tower of alphabet blocks, and the priest gives you a prayer to knock them all down, so that you can start over.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four months since my last confession."
If he's shocked, he does a good job of hiding it.
"I ... I don't know why I'm here." Silence. "I found out something, recently, that is tearing me apart."
"Go on."
"My son . . . he's been hurt."
"Yes, I know. I've been praying for him."
"I think ... it seems . . . it's my husband who did this to him." On the small folding chair, I am doubled over. Sharp pains move through me, and I welcome them-by now, I had thought myself incapable of feeling anything.
There is such a long silence I wonder if the priest has heard me. Then: "And what is your sin?"
"My . . . what?"
"You can't confess for your husband."
Anger bubbles up like tar, burning my throat. "I didn't intend to."
"Then what did you want to confess today?"
I have come to simply speak the words aloud to someone whose job is to listen. But instead I say, "I didn't keep my son safe. I didn't see it at all."
"Innocence isn't a sin."
"How about ignorance?" I stare at the latticework between us. "How about being naive enough to think that I actually knew the man I fell in love with? How about wanting to make him suffer the way Nathaniel's suffering?"
