“Very good. Perhaps you haven’t lost your love. Perhaps you’ve simply lost your bearings.”

She knew she could never obey her way into heaven, that it was a gift offered to her, but she could at least understand where the priest was coming from. And he did have a point.

“What else should I do?”

“I would give you penance, but would you do it?” he asked somewhat skeptically.

“I’m . . . I’ve never done penance. I’ve always been taught that Jesus provided all the penance we need.”

“And that is a good Baptist answer.” From someone else, the words might have come across as sarcastic or judgmental, but from this old priest, it sounded to Christie more like a compliment than anything else. “Obey the Lord,” he told her. “Trying to feel more love toward God is not the pathway to a deeper love. Obedience is. God has heard your confession. He loves you. He forgives you. He awaits you.”

She had another question that she didn’t necessarily think he would be able to answer but wondered if he just might, if the Lord might have revealed something to him. “Will God heal me?”

“Perhaps it is not your body that is the most in need of healing. Perhaps you need to tell God, ‘I do love, help my lack of love.’ Go in peace.”

He spoke a few words over her in Latin, and though she didn’t understand them, she took them to be a blessing and thanked him before she left the confessional.

And though she was glad to have had the chance to speak with him and share what was on her heart, she did not feel peace as she walked away. Instead, she felt fear—fear that she would never regain the warm love that she used to have for God. And also, fear that she might decide she didn’t even want to love a silent God who left her alone to suffer.

37

Sasha Daye rented a townhouse with a back door that exited to a fire escape. I waited there, around back, while Greer took the front door.

The footprint of the building was minimal, so from where I was, I could hear him identify himself as a federal agent as he knocked on the door, asking for Miss Daye.

But then, rather than hear a door opening, I caught the sound of hurried footsteps inside the house, coming my direction. A moment later, the back door flew open, and even though I was ready for her, she nearly managed to get past me.

“Hold on, Miss Daye.” I snagged her shoulder. “Stand still, or I’m going to have to—”

But she didn’t stand still. Instead, she stomped severely on my left foot and tugged to get free. Pain shot up my leg, but I didn’t let go. Instead, I twisted her wrist around and drove her to her knees.

“Easy.”