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He kisses me ear, his breath hot and heavy, his beard pleasantly scratching against my cheek. I fight to catch my own breath.
His hands rub lovingly against my bottom, and it is so affectionate a touch that I focus on it with a piercing awareness because this is tenderness. And it’s unexpected.
We are so close he doesn’t have to move to whisper in my ear, “You’ve undone me, luv. You’ve completely undone me.”
20
DADA
The convent is quiet and dark in the early morning hours during prayers. Back in my nun habit, my head bandaged from the first aid kit in Sean’s car—smelling none too clean—I open the door, then sneak inside. I close it as silently as possible.
“Sister Dee.”
Ah! Spinning, I grab hold of Sister Angelica as a matter of reflex, nearly locking her in a headlock before I regain my composure. I let go. “I’m so sorry, Sister Angelica. I’m not used to being snuck up on.”
“I didn’t sneak.” She briskly brushes down her tunic. “I was standing right here when you came inside. You didn’t see me.”
Well, that doesn’t usually happen. A long night is no excuse for getting sloppy. “Sister, I’m sorry and I’m very sorry to be breaking the rules like this. I can assure you this was about Rosa. I—”
Waving aside my words, Sister Angelica turns on her heel and commands, “Follow me.”
Coño. It looks like Sister Angelica has reached the limits on her patience. I suppose I can’t blame her. A nun sneaking out at night, disappearing during the day, avoiding chores, prayers, and church might be more than she bargained for.
Padding along behind her, I follow her into her compact and well-stocked office—books and more books, a giant standing globe, cherry red desk, and several worn but comfy leather chairs.
Sister Angelica stops by her desk. “I can’t have this, Sister Dee.”
Perhaps it’s the tiredness in me or the desperation or the fear for Rosa, but I instantly feel my stubborn nature rise. I’m not a nun. I’m here to do a job, protect women. “Sister Angelica, I appreciate your situation, but I’m undercover. Surely you knew when Momma asked you to allow me to come here, I’d be doing things that weren’t very nun-like.”
The older woman shakes her head and meets my eyes with something that looks very much like disappointment. “Don’t assume. It’s an annoying American trait.”
I don’t follow my instant and angry instinct to adjust her perception.
Sister Angelica’s foot taps rapidly against the tiles. Realizing she’s giving us both time to calm down, I take a deep breath and read the words stenciled on the wall behind her desk, the words of St. Catherine of Sienna,In the end, nothing that ever caused one pain will exist.
I hope that’s true. I hope pain disappears from the soul, but that isn’t the world in which I now live. Here. Pain begets more pain.
Finally, Sister Angelica pushes her black-rimmed glasses up her nose. “I was going to say, I can’t have you running around trying to solve a puzzle when I may have part of the answer.”
“You know something about the disappearances?”
She leans partly against her desk and partly against her cane. “Yes. There was a man who was accused of making his fiancée disappear: Geraldo Gonzalez.”
“Not to be rude, Sister, but I already know.”
Sister Angelica snaps her cane against the tile floor. I’ve heard less concussive gunshots. “Twenty years ago, Geraldo was left at the convent door with a note saying he’d been rescued from his,” she reddens, “whore mother and needed a new home.”
Whore? It could be coincidence, but Sean told me Armand used that exact same word in describing me. He also said the man is low enough that he’d put nothing past him, including being our killer. That, combined with the nail file… It’s another place to look.
“Do you know who left him?”
“No. We searched for his mother, but she was never found. After a few weeks, we reached out to an older woman in town, Sylvia Gonzalez. She had money, owned apartments, and, at the time, was healthy and active. She took him in and gave him her name.”
Lord and ladies, no one in this town is who they say they are.I’d seen it. Sylvia is a bit old to have a biological son Geraldo’s age. Sensing where she is going with this speech, I hold my tongue.
She says, “I’ve thought of it much over the years, and I believe Geraldo’s mother was the first who disappeared.”
“You’re saying this has gone on for decades?”
