He pauses before we reach the door. “You know,” he says, pointing away from the office. “I’ll wait out here.”

I start to argue, but decide I don’t need him. “Fine.”

I creep to the door, and the second I peek in, someone shouts, “Shit!”

Father Brady rips a page from the typewriter, crumples it into a ball, and tosses it. It bounces off my head and lands at my feet.

He sees me and covers his face with his hands. “Oh dear.”

There’s a trash can behind me. I bend over, grab the discarded paper, and drop it in. “Um, Father Brady?”

He nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here. My secretary called in sick. Flu. So I’m trying to type out these marriage certificates.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know how to use one of these?” he asks, feeding a paper into the typewriter. He slumps down in the chair. “Of course you don’t. You probably don’t even know what a fax machine is.”

I shake my head.

Father Brady would’ve been attractive in his youth. He’s probably about forty, with a stomach pooch and a bit of a bald spot. He motions me to sit in the old upholstered chair across from him and stares determinedly at the typewriter. When I perch on the edge of the seat, he says, “And what can I help you with, Miss…”

“Ward,” I say. “Hailey Ward.”

His eyes snap up, and he regards me again through his bifocals, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Declan’s Hailey?”

I nod, pulling the jacket tighter across my body.

He takes his hands off the keyboard. Removes his glasses and a handkerchief from his pocket, and starts to polish the lenses. Without them, he looks oddly young, like a different person. “I was wondering when you were going to come see me. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I mean, it’s been a year. So I don’t need your help. I mean, spiritually. I’m good.”

Oh gosh. I’m babbling.

He seems surprised. “I think we could all use God’s help, whether or not we think we do.”

I nod along. Probably. “What I mean is, there are some things that still puzzle me about his death, and I was wondering if he’d said anything to you that could help shed some light on it. Since you two spoke often.”

He nods and pushes his glasses onto his nose. “I have to admit, when I heard the news, I thought it was a mistake. Did you think the same?”

I nod. “Yes. That’s why I thought that maybe you had some idea what was troubling him.”

He shakes his head. “Not a clue. Nothing that seemed to be troubling him enough to do what he did. He had guilt over his father, of course.”

“Over his father?”

“Yes. He felt responsible for his death.”