I nearly choke to death on my own spit. Through my bout of coughing, I hear Kiki stammer through an explanation that no, neither one of us is pregnant and that we would only like to talk.

The nun’s brow furrows as she takes in our garb. “You don’t look like acolytes.”

Even after what I confessed to Kiki, I still find this thought almost as funny as the notion of either one of us falling pregnant. I may have considered taking the habit once, but I’m fairly certain I have sinned far too much and enjoyed it far too well to ever be pure enough for God.

“We’re not here for that either.”

The nun’s eyes narrow. That sharpness is back. Even sharper now.

Kiki and I share a look.

“We are searching for answers,” Kiki ventures.

The nun seems to consider this. “So are many who come knocking at our door.” She takes in our garb. Our weapons. “But you two don’t look like penitents, seeking answers from the Almighty.”

“It’s not God’s help we’re looking for.” Kiki reaches into her satchel and retrieves the paper she tore from Magistrate de la Vega’s ledger. The nun’s eyes widen as she takes it in.

She takes a step back, clutching her black skirts as if readying to run back through the open door and slam it shut behind her. “Who sent you?”

“We mean you no harm,” Kiki says in a rush.

The nun shakes her head, gathering up her long wool skirt. She turns to leave us standing there. “I cannot help you. Leave. And never return. Tell no one you set foot here.”

“Please.” There is a plaintive quality to Kiki’s voice that pains me. “We need your help. A woman’s life is in danger, and this is the only clue we have.”

It’s a bit of a stretch to call the ledger page a clue. Kiki herself said that. But she’s proficient at talking her way into situations even if that means stretching the truth just enough to accommodate our needs.

The nun studies Kiki, as if she could discern what lies deep within her heart with nothing but a good, long stare. “And if I do help you, if I provide you the answers you seek, what will you do with that knowledge?”

“I will find the men who took her and make them pay.”

The nun shakes her head. “Vengeance is not yours to dispense. It belongs to the Almighty and no other. To enact it would be a sin most grave.”

“Then let that be between me and God.”

“I’m sorry.” The nun is already stepping through the door, one hand on the iron ring to pull it closed behind her. “I cannot help you.”

I lunge forward, grabbing the side of the heavy wooden door. “Her name is Rosalita.”