“You wouldn’t have to kill yourself,” Cyrus said. “You hurt a kid? I’d do it for you.”

“And I would thank you for saving me the trouble.”

“You think it means anything he did it at that little house on Annunciation Street?” Cyrus asked.

“He would have wanted privacy, of course.”

“He had a car. He could have driven out to the middle of nowhere and done it.”

“True. Perhaps the house holds some special meaning for him?”

“Not that I know of,” Cyrus said. “But I haven’t looked at that angle yet either. The house has been locked up for cleaning. I’ll see if I can get in, nose around.”

They were nearing the parking lot. Cyrus couldn’t wait to get into his air-conditioned car, get home and get in the shower. And then he might take a nap. A long God damn nap.

He whistled softly when he saw Søren’s ride. A black Ducati motorcycle.

“Who’d you have to sleep with to get one of those?”

“This was a bribe,” Søren said as he took his helmet out of the saddlebag. “My father—who was vile in every way imaginable—tried everything in his power to stop me from joining the Jesuits and becoming a priest. Threats of violence. Threats of public humiliation. Threats of harming the few people in my life I loved. In the end, he resorted to simple bribery. Jesuits aren’t allowed to own personal property and everything is owned in common. If I wanted to keep the bike for myself—which I did, of course—I would have to leave the Jesuits.”

“But you got it.”

“My father didn’t know about the loophole—a Jesuit can ask permission to keep gifts. Sometimes it’s granted, usually for small personal things, rarely anything large or expensive. My advisor and confessor, however, gave me permission to keep it. I believe his exact words were, ‘You keep the Ducati. Your father can go to hell.’ And when he died, he did.”

“Damn,” Cyrus said. “You’re pretty cold for a priest.”

“You don’t know much about priests if you think we’re better people than everyone else. I am living proof of that. In fact, if I had one piece of advice to give you as you investigate your case—”

“I’ll take it,” Cyrus said.

“Assume the worst.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The verdict was in. The color was Return to Paradise—a pale blue-green. Kingsley approved, begrudgingly, and Céleste approved wholeheartedly. As always, what Céleste wanted, Céleste got, God bless that girl.

Juliette preferred oil-based paint for its finish, but it stunk to high heaven. Juliette, Céleste, and Kingsley decamped to the Ritz-Carlton for a few days, leaving Nora alone with the fumes. With the windows open and a paint mask on, Nora was fine, more or less. Except for when she hallucinated a young Christopher Plummer, riding on the back of a white horse, coming to carry her away. She’d taken a break after that.

With the family gone, Nora could have simply hired someone to paint the nursery. Though tempted, she’d decided against it. Better to stay busy than sit around obsessing over everything Mercedes had said to her. So she cranked the music—Madonna and Prince were good company for manual labor—and got to work.