“I think she thinks because Ike called her, she’s responsible for figuring out why he killed himself. It’s more than just curiosity, I can tell you that much. She’s taking it as seriously as I am.”

“If Father Murran were still alive, I might kill him for dragging her into this. I can’t say I blame her. If someone had called me right before committing suicide, I would have trouble sleeping until I knew why.”

“It’s more than that. She keeps seeing you in this case. Like when we found Ike’s Bible full of private notes, she said you do that, too. She thinks he was kinky on the side and that somebody drove him to kill himself. I can tell she’s thinking that could happen to you, too, someday. That girl loves you, man. In case you didn’t know.”

“I know. But it never hurts to hear it again.” He smiled to himself. “Any breaks in the case?”

“Right now, I’m running on the theory Ike was being blackmailed, only because it makes sense, not because it fits the evidence. Nothing fits the evidence except he had a secret something weighing on him, and he died keeping it.” Cyrus rubbed fresh sweat off his forehead again. “I’m thinking of going to Dunn and talking to him. He seems pretty convinced Ike was depressed. And they’re old friends.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Archbishop Dunn is more a politician than a pastor these days. He’ll simply hint that he knows more than he can say about Father Murran’s mental state, and he’ll pat you on the head and send you home.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t know trust most members of the clergy. Not because they’re clergy. Because they’re people.”

“We’re on the same page there.” Cyrus exhaled. “You got any other ideas?”

“I’m intrigued by the Rumi poem you found in his Bible.”

“The butterfly poem? Why is that?” Cyrus had wondered about that himself.

“I keep very personal notes in my Bible. Old notes from my high school love. Letters Eleanor sent me while I was in Rome working on my Ph.D. Photographs of my son. The sort of irreplaceable things I would save first in a fire. If Father Isaac and I have anything in common, the poem might be meaningful. You can pick up a copy of Rumi’s poetry in any used bookstore. Why write the poem out by hand on fine paper and slip it in your Bible like some sort of billet-doux?”

“A what?”

“A love letter.”

Cyrus wasn’t too sure about that, but he filed it away as a “maybe.”

“Well, you know priests and their shit better than I do.”

“True. And we have a lot of shit,” Søren said. Cyrus laughed to himself.

“You do. Seriously. You sure you want to be a priest? Don’t take this the wrong way,” Cyrus said, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “But you got Nora. Now she’s not my type, but she’s your type. Why don’t you marry that girl? Hit it for the rest of your life without having to look over your shoulder to see if the archbishop’s watching.”