“No. There are only two other men living here now, both new arrivals. Father Adamu arrived from Kenya only three weeks ago. The other, Danilo Lucas, is a twenty-one-year-old seminarian from Brazil. He’s in his first semester at Notre Dame, at school from dawn ‘til dusk. I don’t believe he’s even met Isaac yet.”

“Did Father Ike have any close friends?”

She looked up, almost an eye roll. “The Archbishop.”

“Shit. Sorry.” So much for that line of questioning. No way was he going to the Archbishop. Katherine would lose her job in a minute.

“I understand.” She smiled kindly. “They’re old friends from seminary. They went hunting together every November. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who knew him better than I did.”

“I believe that.”

“You saw him on television tonight?” she asked. Cyrus nodded. “He wants everyone to think Isaac was depressed. Isaac was not depressed. He loved his work, his life. At least I thought he did.”

“You said you found something?” he gently prompted.

“Yes. This way.”

Cyrus followed her up the steps. She had a nun’s way of walking—head bowed low, clinging to the side-wall so people could pass her coming down the stairs with ease. A humble walk for a humble servant.

As they neared a door at the end of the hallway, Sister Margaret pulled her keys from a pocket in her voluminous skirt he hadn’t noticed until her hand was deep inside it. That took him back to Catholic school—the sisters with their habits and all their hidden treasures. Hidden rosary beads, hidden keys. Hidden candy for students who impressed them. Hidden apples and packages of crackers for students who’d come to school hungry.

“This is his apartment?”

“It is. Was,” she said, correcting herself. She paused outside the door and briefly rested her forehead against the frame in a moment of quiet grief.

She stood up again and opened the door. Inside Cyrus found a neat little living room, not much bigger than the sort he’d seen in your average three-star hotel suite. Green love seat, green and brown rug, coffee table, side table, a few books on a wooden bookcase with a bottle of Scotch and a shot glass on top. Either a brand-new bottle or Father Ike wasn’t much of a drinker.

“The bedroom’s through this door.”

She led him to another room with little in it but a full-size bed covered in a red and white quilt, a closet, a floor lamp, a cross hanging on the wall and a nightstand.

“I found it in the nightstand when I went to look for an address book, phone numbers. I suppose no one has those anymore.”

“You never know,” Cyrus said. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. Sister Margaret went into the living room and closed the door. He had no idea what he was looking for, no idea what he would find, but whatever it was, Sister Margaret clearly didn’t want to see it again.