“Oh.” But MK wanted to blab to the whole world, and Sticky knew it was useless to tell her otherwise. She wiped her nose with her fist. “Is Daddy coming back?”

“Christ.” Sticky looked up to the shitty popcorn ceiling for an appeal. Oh, baby girl. Another wrestling move in the TV room shook the house. Everyone was hungry, and Sticky’s mom was late getting home.

Tired from her marathon day in court, Anne inspected the skinless chicken breast rotating and thawing in the microwave. Dan was gone, and Pat had called semilucid with some sort of “car trouble” in Addison. Lord knows with that man. I’m past the point where I want to know. So Anne found herself with a rare evening home alone.

The pink cut of chicken looked less appealing with each turn. The water for the rice pilaf simmered in the pot on the stove. Anne reached into the pantry for one of the three dozen cans of Del Monte green beans she had bought on triple-coupon day at Tom Thumb for ten cents each (no limit per customer).

Her déjà vu returned and with it everything familiar and anxious. Her thoughts of the trial and her marriage churned together. Guilty as sin, but watch, he’ll walk. Anne darkly considered her own options. Like Raleigh, she was searching for a way to pull free.

Is this it? This is how it’s going to go?

She put the can back. She turned off the stove. She punched stop on the microwave. She riffled through her purse, looking for cigarettes. Out. She poured a drink. She checked the mark she’d notched on the bottle of Wolfschmidt. Anne let out a weary, saturated sigh. No change. He’s sneaking from somewhere else. She dug through her purse again. I know I have one left. Instead she found her old address book. A bad idea came to her, and she thumbed through the names from long ago until she found the listing for . . . her friend . . . Father Ronan Carroll. She pulled out her MCI card, went to the phone in the den, and started dialing the dozen numbers it took to make a long-distance call.

Halfway through she hung up. This is crazy. He is just a man. He’ll let me down too. A storm was rolling in—every night, high temperatures tangled with the wet Dallas spring, leading to thunderclouds and sudden downpours. Through the glass patio door, Anne watched the silent heat lightning with a sense of dread. She didn’t know what to think about this priest, or any of the men in her life. Dan will hate me for it. And Pat will become a drunk cripple with no one. And so she sat and cried through unwelcome tears.