“Why do you think my mom stayed with a psychiatrist instead of going into police custody?”

Father Greg shrugged. “I don’t know that I have a good answer to that. Things were different. Police stayed out of people’s business more often than not.” Yeah, that was true. Trevor’d said he grew up down the street from a child molester, that everyone knew, but instead of police getting involved, his parents told him to not go inside the neighbor’s house. “People went missing, and there wasn’t always a big search,” Father Greg said, his wistful tone suggesting nostalgia for the time when people went missing and that was the end of them. “Anyway, I don’t affiliate with police officers. We exist in the same high rise, but on different floors.” He raised his eyebrows, proud of his joke.

I was listening, but it was a struggle. You witnessed Dawn Young’s murder. My mind carouselled around that statement. “Can you tell me about your visit with my mom?”

“Cliff called me in.” He stiffened his posture, took a sip of his coffee. “He called me because your mother had signs pointing to satanic indoctrination.”

“What signs?”

He gazed down at his coffee, smeared something on the lid, and nodded to himself. “Screaming strange things, hitting, threatening.”

Sporty Priest remained at the counter, slowly bobbing his tea bag. He didn’t want to miss the gossip.

“Well, what happened when you visited her? What did she do?”

His exhale was heavy, reaching. “It’s frightening when evil finds a small hole, a fracture in our faith, and decides to burrow in. Melinda agonized. Nurses had to tie her down. I said a lot of prayers over her. When I…” He closed his eyes and shook his head as if he’d had a sour burp. “Have you ever heard a fox scream?”

“No.”

“It’s an awful sound. That’s what she sounded like, your mother, when I crossed her forehead with holy water. She’d screamed like a fox in agony. She said,” he paused and shook his head, closing his eyes, “the most awful things. I’ll never forget.”

“What did she say?”

“I can’t… I can’t repeat.” He opened his eyes and forced a smile. “She got better so that’s what’s important.”

“How did you know she got better?”

“She was, well, she was herself again. Confused and exhausted, but peaceful.”

I was trying to picture it, but my mind painted a generic, glossy scene. I needed specifics. “I really need to know what she said.”

He covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head. That bad?

“Father Greg,” Sporty Priest said, “maybe you could write it down?” He opened a drawer, pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil, and placed it on the desk. Walked back to the kitchen, sipped his tea.