“Oh, the church did handle it,” she tells him. “The police did next to nothing. Our parents all received minor settlements without anything ever approaching a court of law. Father Terry was moved to another assignment. And Sister Margaret ended up dead.”

“You think it’s connected?” I ask her.

“Seems a little too convenient, doesn’t it?”

“What happened to the others?” I ask now. “That you knew?”

“Nancy went away to college up north. Last I heard, she was living in Minnesota somewhere with a family and her own law firm. I didn’t know her well, but it sounds like she overcame a lot.

“Carol stuck around town like I did, but she never married. She killed herself twelve years go. She was heavy into drugs. She might have burned the building down, but we can’t ask her now.”

I mumble an apology as though Carol’s suicide is my fault.

“And then there is your mother. I always wondered what became of her. Worried, if I’m honest. At that time, she was reckless in a way the rest of us weren’t.”

I let this stir between us like dust motes in the air. And then I rise from my chair and thank Sabrina for her honesty. I take her number down and tell her I will have my mother call her when she can. And I apologize for taking time out of her day. Daniel and I head out the door.

Just as the screen slams, I turn to Sabrina one last time. “Real quick,” I say. “You said my mom was troubled, and that’s why Father Terry picked her. Did you know her before the rape, what she was like?”

Sabrina shakes her head. “Oh, honey, there is no before. There is just the rape and everything that comes after.”

I look at Sabrina, breathe in sharply. I open my mouth to form a question, but she cuts me off before the first word.

“We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says sadly.

XXXIII.

I SEE NEW ORLEANS WITH NEW EYES AS WE PULL INTO the city. A riot of artificial lighting holds the night at bay, yet every building purples in the growing shadows. Our little town, the one I’ve left behind, so quaint and predictable, is like a monster hiding its face behind papier-mâché. It’s not a sanctuary from sin, as Moony thought. And the secrets it keeps are every bit as dark and visceral as any this city is built upon. Here, the demons don’t lurk in grim corners but stalk the street openly. At least New Orleans has the courage to be itself, I think as we pick our way through the Quarter, however broken, however misunderstood. In this way, the city is like my mother. And I have wronged them both.