Michael looked up at the ceiling. What on earth was he getting into? He didn’t know, but he suddenly couldn’t wait to fall at Nora’s feet and do anything and everything she told him to. Wearing bruises she gave him would be an honor.

Griffin stretched out his long tanned legs and crossed them at the ankles.

“Trent worshipped the ground she walked on after that. We all did,” Griffin said and Michael saw a shadow of something cross Griffin’s eyes. “Except Søren, of course. Those two were at war after that. But only because he wanted her back more than ever.”

“Can you blame him?”

Griffin said nothing at first and Michael saw all the fire and fun momentarily leave Griffin’s face.

“No. I can’t.” The spark came back in Griffin’s eyes. “Anyway, the domme training you is a real, live legend. Cool, right?”

“Very cool,” Michael said. “Can’t wait for tonight.”

“She won’t get you until sunset. She’s all about atmosphere and the mind-fuck. So you’ve got a couple hours. What do you want to do?”

Michael knew exactly what he wanted to do. He moved to the middle of the bed and faced Griffin.

“Tell me more about Nora.”

Michael listened in awe as Griffin regaled him with story after story about Nora’s legendary exploits as a dominatrix. He couldn’t believe some of her clients were so famous, so powerful. It made him feel a little better that so many men the world looked up to were sexual submissives just like him. Time passed so quickly in Griffin’s company that Michael barely noticed the room darkening as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky. He couldn’t recall ever having so much fun actually talking to somebody. He hated talking. Or thought he hated it. With Griffin, however, things he never thought he’d like—answering personal questions, showing his art off, talking—he discovered he enjoyed. Griffin was a good two or three inches taller than him, had at least forty pounds of pure muscle on him and was a dominant. So why did Michael feel so safe around him?

“So if she ever gets arrested again,” Griffin concluded, “they have to call the paddywagon and get police backup since it’s on her permanent record that she can get out of handcuffs so easily.”

“That’s amazing. Does Father S—” Michael started but a knock on the door interrupted his question. He turned around and saw Griffin’s British butler standing in the doorway.

“Mister Dimir,” the butler said in his perfectly snooty accent. “The mistress requires your presence.”

Michael’s heart leapt in his chest. Thirteen months since he’d been with Nora. Thirteen months since he’d been with anybody. And now, right now, the one and only Nora Sutherlin had summoned him.

He turned to Griffin, who flashed him such a wicked grin that Michael, not even standing, felt his knees buckle.

“Go on, Mick. It’s showtime.”

11

Once she arrived at Sacred Heart, Suzanne tried to figure out what the hell she was doing there. Her brief encounter with Father Stearns had only stoked her fascination with the man. As a reporter she had a highly sensitive internal bullshit meter. Father Stearns said he could spot a lapsed Catholic at a thousand yards. Maybe so. But she could tell the truth from a lie just by watching someone’s eyes.

I haven’t performed an exorcism in  weeks.

Bullshit.

My office is always open, Father Stearns had said with far more sincerity.

Truth.

After dark on a Saturday night, Suzanne doubted anyone, including Father Stearns, would still be at Sacred Heart. Maybe she’d peek into his office and see if she couldn’t get a little insight into the target of her investigation. She parked on the street about fifty yards from the church. As she walked toward the side entrance she studied her surroundings. A lot of New York commuters lived in Connecticut towns like this one—they were safer, cleaner and had better schools. Wakefield seemed like a charming little suburb, the perfect place to raise a family. Small but well-appointed houses, orderly streets, historic shops and no real crime of any kind…such a perfect little town. Too perfect, Suzanne decided.

Suzanne didn’t trust perfect. Adam had been perfect—perfectly happy, perfectly content, perfect life—until he’d committed suicide.

Closing her eyes, she pictured Adam’s face, something she tried very hard never to do. They looked alike, really. Everyone always said that. But apart from their shared dark brown eyes, red-blond hair and oval faces, they had almost nothing in common. She was the skeptic, the cynic, the hot-tempered pistol in the family. Adam was the angel, her parents’ perfect firstborn. Sweet, kind, even-tempered and so devout she didn’t even tell him when she stopped believing in God, knowing how much it would break his heart. And all that time he had this horrible thing inside him that someone else put there…a darkness, a contamination, as the note he’d left behind called it. God, the note.

I’m unclean, contaminated. I can’t face  taking one more shower knowing that no matter how long I stay under the hot  water, I’ll still be dirty when I get out.

Suzanne forced the memories away. For Adam she would do this…for Adam and Michael Dimir and any other kid who’d been hurt by the Church.

She slipped through the side door into Sacred Heart and made her way past small classrooms. Even in the low light she could read the notices on the bulletin board:

Choir practice—7:00 p.m. on Tuesdays—Don’t  forget your sheet music, Gina.

Suzanne laughed a little through her burning tears. Poor Gina.

The Knights of Columbus wants you! Email  [email protected] for more information.

Her dad had been a Knight of Columbus. Such an imposing name for a group of usually overweight fathers who didn’t do much more than have charity barbecue cook-offs.

All couples planning to marry must meet  with Father Stearns at least six months prior to their wedding. Make an  appointment with Diane.

A celibate priest doing marriage counseling? Suzanne shook her head. What on earth would a Catholic priest know about sex or marriage or romantic relationships of any kind?

At the end of the hallway Suzanne found a closed door with an engraved nameplate on it. Father Marcus Stearns SJ, it read. SJ? She’d seen those initials before but couldn’t quite remember what they stood for. Pulling her notebook out of her bag, she jotted them down. With almost shaking fingers, Suzanne reached out for the door handle. It turned. So he had been telling the truth. His office really was always open.

For safety’s sake she left the lights off. From her bag she took out a small flashlight and shined it around the office. Immediately she gleaned Father Stearns was a neat freak. Nothing appeared out of place. Not a stray book or a single sheet of paper. A beautiful office really, Suzanne decided. The big rose window must cast glorious red-and-pink light into the room on sunny days. The ornately carved desk looked like old oak to her—probably weighed as much as Patrick’s Saab. The books on the shelves were lined up with military precision. She studied the titles and discovered she could read very few of them. How many languages could Father Stearns read? It appeared that in addition to the usual Biblical languages—Hebrew, Greek and Latin—Father Stearns had books in French, Spanish, Italian…and a lot of books that seemed to be in a Scandinavian language. She didn’t know two words of Swedish, Danish or Dutch but she could recognize the distinct characters—the a with a little loop on the top or the o with a slash through it. Suzanne picked up what appeared to be the oldest book on the shelf. From the shape and size of its worn leather cover, Suzanne guessed it to be a Bible. She opened it and saw an inscription on the front pages written in a woman’s elegant hand.

Min Søren, min søn er nu en far. Jeg er så  stolt. Jeg elsker dig altid. Din mor.

The only word in the inscription Suzanne recognized was the name Søren. She’d taken a few philosophy classes in college and learned of Søren Kierkegaard, the Danish philosopher and theologian. But if she remembered correctly, Kierkegaard wasn’t Catholic. She pulled out her notebook again and carefully copied down the inscription inside the Bible. In addition she made a note to look up Søren Kierkegaard. Why would Father Stearns have a Bible inscribed to someone named Søren? A relative maybe? she wondered. He certainly looked as though he had Scandinavian blood. But her research had indicated he had an English father and a New England WASP mother. Another mystery.

She put the Bible back on the shelf and turned her attention to the desk. Something seemed off about it, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Then she realized—no computer. Well, maybe he had a laptop. Although she didn’t see any computer accessories anywhere, either—no printer, no power cords, no internet router. She only saw Montblanc pens and high-quality writing paper on his desk. Father Stearns might be something of a Luddite. That would explain his lack of internet presence.

Slowly she opened the desk drawer and felt a distinct sense of disappointment as she found nothing but more pens and paper inside. A few file folders held nothing of interest—only schedules and lists of Bible verses in impeccable male handwriting. The other desk drawers produced no shocking revelations, either. In the bottom drawer she found dozens more Montblanc pens still in boxes. Briefly she wondered if Father Stearns had some sort of ink pen fetish. Then she noticed many of the boxes still had tags on them—gift tags from parishioners bearing messages of affection and appreciation. It reminded Suzanne of her friend Emily, a kindergarten teacher at a private school. Every Christmas her students’ parents inundated her with every conceivable sort of Teacher’s Apple product in existence. Apparently the people of Sacred Heart had learned of their priest’s fondness for high-quality writing instruments and showered him with them every year.

You bless us year after year, Father. Love  in Christ, the Harpers, read one tag.

Thank you for saving our marriage, Father.  Bless you, Alex and Rachel, read another.

Is it a sin to combine a priest’s birthday  and Christmas presents? We’ll talk about it in Confession if it is. Merry  Birthday, Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Keighley, read a tag on a box that held a Montblanc pen and pencil set.

Combine Christmas and birthday? With that sentence, Suzanne realized she’d been right. Father Marcus Lennox Stearns, born December 21st, 1965, was indeed the son of Marcus Augustus Stearns, the English baron who’d moved to New Hampshire and married money. Amazing. So her target had actually given up a title in the British peerage for the Catholic Church? Unbelievable. Not only did he give up his mother’s wealth and his father’s title, he’d given up women for the Church. Most priests she’d met in her day seemed of the “doomed to die a virgin” variety. Humorless, unattractive, socially awkward…the opposite of Father Stearns in every way.

Shaking her head, Suzanne pulled out one last box, this one red, and flipped open the card.

Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer  Box passen. AABYE

Good God, how many languages would she have to deal with tonight? Rolling her eyes in frustration, Suzanne pulled out her notebook and copied the words down. At least this language she could recognize—German. And for some reason the last word, AABYE, rang some kind of bell with her. She searched her memory for whatever it was that seemed so familiar about it but came up empty. Stuffing her notebook in her purse, she scanned the top of the desk once more with her flashlight.

On the desk Suzanne found one item of interest—a photograph. She stared at the picture for a long time. A young woman of only about seventeen or eighteen years old, she looked remarkably like Father Stearns—pale blond hair, gray eyes, strikingly attractive. Suzanne eased the photo out of the frame and flipped the picture over. Jeg elsker dig, Onkel Søren.  Kom og besøg snart, Laila, it read. Again with the Scandinavian inscriptions. Suzanne opened her notebook again and copied every word. Briefly she wondered if she was staring at Father Stearns’s daughter. Had he fathered a child at some point during his years as a priest? Could that be the reason for the anonymous fax and its mysterious “Possible conflict of interest” footnote?