He nods. “Wait…no. I think you and Luisa got into it that night?” A cold gust rattles my Jeep, and icy air infiltrates the tattered soft top. He pulls his fleece jacket closed and blows into his hands. “It was more than a year ago. I can’t remember everything.”

I make a note of that. We fought. Luisa was all sweet sunshine, but when she got pissed, it could get ugly. “I wonder what we fought about.”

He looks at me like it’s obvious. “Me.”

“What?”

“Well, Declan didn’t know about you and me. But Luisa always suspected something.”

I stare at him, openmouthed. Then I reach forward and smack him upside the head. It doesn’t faze him. “If Luisa suspected something, what was to stop her from telling Declan?”

He thinks for a moment. “She wouldn’t.”

“And why not?”

“Because I’d get pissed at her. And you know she loves the shit out of me.”

“Oh my God.” That’s his reasoning? I stare at him as if he’s an alien being. If Luisa told Declan about us… I shiver. I can’t even think about it. “You are so fricking full of yourself, it’s ridiculous. Come on. You need this place.”

I pocket my notebook and push open my door. St. Andrew’s is on a hill, so the wind always whips right across the parking lot, freezing poor worshippers before they can make it through the doors. “What?” He lingers in the Jeep, but finally gives up and follows me.

“You need church, if only to remind yourself that you’re not the bright center of the universe,” I mutter.

He follows after me like a recalcitrant child, arms crossed over his ski jacket. We go inside, and when we’re in the atrium and I’m uncoiling my scarf from my neck, it hits me. I’ve been going to this church sporadically since I was a baby, but I’ve never actually carried on a conversation with Father Brady. Or, really, any religious type. Declan went on and on about him so much, making him seem like a regular guy, but he’s not. He’s a priest.

He might be able to see through me.

Still, I need to do this.

Pulling my coat around myself as if that will better insulate me from his divine power of sight, I walk down the empty hall toward the church office. There’s a light on, and I can hear typing. Real, honest-to-goodness typewriter typing, complete with the bell and zing of the carriage return, slow though it might be. Kane lags behind me, looking up at the pictures on the wall: our bishop, our cardinal, the pope. Kane looks like he’s never seen any of them before. I’ve never actually seen him out of place somewhere, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.