A Way to Atone

by Sally Castillo

He was handsome, the policeman sitting at the end of the bar. Slim and muscular, he regarded his scotch glass with concentration, one brown curl resting on his forehead. Maureen had been staring at him for almost five minutes, and he still hadn’t looked up. And she was wearing her red cocktail dress today, the one with the scoop neck and hem falling midway down her thigh that she had shoplifted last week. It had already elicited two drink offers from other men at the bar, and seven whistles as she walked down the street, but the good-looking police officer had not so much as glanced her way.

She sipped her drink, wondering if she should just walk over to him, when a hand grasped her elbow. “Looks like you could use a refill.”

Maureen looked up to see a man grinning down at her. He was wearing a stained shirt and smelled strongly of beer. “Sorry, already taken,” she said, flashing an indulgent smile and raising her left hand to expose the diamond on her ring finger.

His smile widened as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver wedding band. “What does that have to do with buying you a drink?” His grip had tightened.

Maureen felt a flash of annoyance travel through her body and her voice hardened. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

“Not until I buy you a drink.”

“Did you not hear me?” She stood up, her three-inch heels bringing her eye-to-eye with him. “I told you that you need to leave.”

“Maureen. Fancy meeting you here.”

She spun around, the tall man and the hand on her arm momentarily forgotten. The policeman stood there, smiling warmly.

“Hi, Don.” The hand holding her arm fell and she grinned at him. “I was going to go over and say hi, I just…” she watched the man retreat to his table, “…got distracted.” When she was sure the man was no longer looking at her, she added, “Thanks.”

“Not that you needed it.” He sat down on a stool, motioning for her to do the same. He was no longer smiling. “I did that for him, not for you.”

Maureen shrugged, finishing off her drink.

“You were going to hurt him, weren’t you?”

“Only a little. He deserved it. Hitting on an engaged woman.”

“We both know that you’re not really engaged.” He sighed heavily and took a sip from his glass. “Maureen.” He turned to face her. “Do you remember my wedding?”

She tensed. “I was hoping that we wouldn’t talk about that.”

“So you do?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’m surprised. You had enough alcohol that day to erase your memory entirely.”

“Can we not talk about my drunken behavior at your wedding?”

“I only want to ask if you remember what I said that day.”

“About how you never wanted to see me again? Yes, I do. Needless to say, I was a little surprised by your phone call this morning.”

“Well, you did ruin my wedding quite spectacularly. I was very, very angry.”

Maureen rolled her eyes. “You sound like my father.”

He ignored the comment. “I’ve found a way for you to atone.”

She made a face. “Atone? God, I hate that word.”

“I know. But you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.” She ran her finger along the rim of her empty glass, letting the silence hang between them. “What do you want?”

“Are you agreeing, then?”

“Yes, Don, I’m agreeing, okay? Do you really have to make me say it?”

“I do. This is serious.”

His face had changed in the time they had been talking. What had been pure formality was now almost worry. In the eleven years Maureen had known him, she had never seen worry on his face.

“Don?” Her voice softened, and she impulsively reached for his hand, then abruptly stopped and let it fall back into her lap. If he noticed, he pretended not to. “Don, what is it?” He took a deep breath. “It’s Grace.” He was staring determinedly down into his scotch glass, purposefully not looking at her, and his voice sounded raspy, almost as if he was fighting back tears. “Something’s happened.”

Maureen didn’t know what to say, so she just watched his face. “She was murdered.”

“Oh.” She fumbled for something to say. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” His voice was brusque again, and he turned to face her. “And I want him to be sorry too.”

“Oh.” She understood why he had called her now. It hurt, just a little bit, knowing that it wasn’t for sentimental purposes.

“It was in the South Side, about one o’clock in the morning three days ago.” He took a pen out of his pocket and started writing on his napkin. “I have a friend who owns a coffee shop down there. I’m not sure how much help he’ll be, but it’s a starting point. Say that I sent you. This is his address, and that’s the name of the coffee shop. His name is Eugene. She was killed on the corner of Bell and Harvey. I’ll write that down too.” The pen flew across the napkin. “There was a slip of paper in her pocket, and it had this phone number on it. I tried calling it and the line just rang and rang and no machine picked up. I also got you the lab and autopsy reports.” He slid a manila envelope across the counter in her direction. “Normally, I would tell you the circumstances myself, but…” He trailed off.

Maureen frowned. “Why was she in the South Side at one in the morning?”

He looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Silence settled on them once more as she folded the napkin and turned the information over in her head.

He finally broke the silence. “Maureen, will you do it?”

“Of course I will. I already told you.” She paused, thinking about how to phrase her next statement. “Don…I don’t get it. You’re a cop. Why not go after him yourself?”

“You know the answer.”

“Oh.” She looked at the napkin one more time, then slipped it into her purse. “I was hoping I was wrong.”

“You’re too smart for your own good, Maureen.” As she stood up to go, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “Can you do one last thing for me?”

“What?”

“Please don’t tell me anything.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” She didn’t look back as she walked out of the bar. She didn’t need to look to know that he was lost in the bottom of his scotch glass again, and not even watching her leave.

***

She didn’t wait until she got home to open the lab report. She sat in her car, splaying the sheets of paper on the passenger seat and dashboard. It was clear why Don hadn’t wanted to talk about it. The description itself was gruesome, and the crime scene photos almost too much for her to stomach. They showed a pretty woman in her early thirties lying naked on the sidewalk, staring blankly up at the sky. She had been slit open from her neck to her groin, then stitched back up with black wire. In her hands, she held her own heart.

The autopsy report was even more disturbing. Bruising on her wrists and ankles were apparent, suggesting that she had been tied down tightly to something. Furthermore, abrasions were found on top of the bruising, indicating that she had struggled. The cut itself, when inspected, was jagged with many rough parts and not at all continuous. The bastard had cut her open while she was alive and conscious.

There was absolutely no excuse for such a brutal murder. Maureen felt her temper start to rise, and pushed it down. When she found the killer, she would let it surface.

***

Maureen had hoped that Don’s contact would be young and handsome with a dashing smile and sparkling eyes. Instead, she found herself speaking to an overweight, balding man in his late forties at a table in a small, shabby coffee shop.

“Don’t know why he sent you.” The man was chewing a wad of tobacco which squelched with each word he spoke. “I already know who did it.”

“Do you?” Maureen was feeling frustrated. She’d driven for thirty minutes to get to the South Side, and spent another twenty looking for the coffee shop, which was a door squeezed between two buildings. It had taken the boy at the counter fifteen more minutes to locate Eugene, who had stepped out for a moment. And the coffee, which Eugene had insisted that she order, and then pay for, was terrible.

“Yup.” He shifted the wad of tobacco into one cheek and beckoned her forward. Reluctantly, Maureen leaned in. “Nicholas Greevy,” he half-whispered. He sat back, a smug look on his face.

Maureen reached up to wipe bits of spittle off her ear. “Nicholas Greevy? Don didn’t mention him.”

“Not that he would. He doesn’t know, see? But Grace…” He beckoned to her again, but she shook her head emphatically and he continued in a low voice, “…was having an affair.”

She couldn’t help but scoff. Don’s wife had been a shy and timid creature who went to church every Sunday and never so much as raised her voice. The thought of her having an affair was laughable.

“I’m sorry…sir,” she said, putting on her most charming smile. “I just find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true, I’m telling you.” He paused to spit some tobacco juice into his coffee cup. “She was having an affair with Nicholas Greevy and she didn’t wanna follow through with it anymore and then he got mad so he snuffed her.”

There was no way to know if there was a sliver of truth in the statement, but Maureen knew that she had to leave then or she was going to make the number of murders on the South Side that week two. “Okay,” she sighed, “I’ll look into it. Can I have his address?” She took a pen out of her purse, poised to write the information down on the back of her hand.

“Oh, I don’t have it.” He shrugged. Maureen was about to reach across the table to strangle Eugene and his mouthful of tobacco when he said, “But he’s sitting right over there.” He pointed to a table in the farthest corner of the shop, which was hidden in shadow. Maureen hadn’t even known that there was anyone else in the room besides them. Suddenly, Eugene’s determination to whisper in her ear seemed much more reasonable.

“Well, then, I’ll just go talk to him.” She rose quickly and crossed the room, intent on getting as far away from the repulsive Eugene as possible. As she approached, Nicholas Greevy looked up and smiled. She was taken aback by how good-looking he was. He was obviously over forty, but at the same time, he seemed young. He was slim and fit, and, although his black hair was flecked with gray, his teeth flashed white and there were no lines on his face. He stood up as she approached.

“Can I help you with something?” His voice was smooth and calm and he never stopped smiling. Maureen felt a shiver of distrust slide down her spine.

“You might be able to. Are you Nicholas Greevy?”

“Indeed.” He sat down. “Please, sit with me.”

She would have preferred to remain standing, but pulled out the chair and slid into it. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Maybe. It depends on the questions.”

It irritated her, the confidence in his charm. But it was either Nicholas Greevy or tobacco-chewing Eugene. “Do you know a woman named Grace Blake?”

“Yes.” He heaved a very heavy, very false sigh. “Let me guess: she didn’t give you the money?”

Now that was interesting. “No, in fact, she didn’t,” she replied, sighing just as falsely as he had. “And she’s a week overdue.”

He locked his fingers together and laid his chin on top of them, examining her from across the table. She let him stare. She could tell that he was making up his mind about something.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll cut the bullshit if you cut it, too. What’s your name?”

“Maureen.”

“No last name?”

“If I do have one, I’m not about to tell it to you.”

He half-smiled. “My kind of woman. I suppose you’re a detective?”

“In a manner of speaking. But I don’t have what you would call a…legal mandate.”

“Maureen, I am liking you more and more.” He took a sip from his coffee cup. “I’ve decided that I like you enough to tell you that I loaned Grace Blake twenty-five thousand dollars exactly two weeks ago.”

“You’re a loan shark?”

“I really hate that title. Though I suppose I am, more or less. But I’m not a mobster; make no assumptions.”

“Mr. Greevy, I wasn’t about to. Though that man over there,” she motioned to Eugene with her head, “seems to think that the two of you were having an affair.”

“Eugene is the type of person who thinks that any woman who talks to me is sleeping with me. And I don’t do anything to discourage his suspicions. Better that he suspect a lie than know the truth. He’s perfectly harmless that way. He’s crude enough to suspect an affair, but not heartless enough to tell any woman’s husband his suspicions.”

“Oh.” Eugene did seem the type of man to jump to conclusions. “Did Grace say what she was going to use the money for?”

“Of course not. But I did hire someone to follow her. I want to make sure that my money is not used unscrupulously, see. The day I gave her the money, she went to the Patriot Hospital.”

“The Hospital? What would she ever use the money for there?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Do you have any more questions?”

He was getting bored. She would have to wrap up. “Just a few. Did Grace say that she would pay you back, Mr. Greevy?”

“Yes. In a month. Two weeks and odd days from today.”

Maureen frowned. “Do you still expect her to pay you back?”

“If you don’t arrest her, then yes. Though the fact that you’re asking me questions about her makes me suspect that she will be a jail in a short amount of time and I will not be seeing my money again.”

“Mr. Greevy, Grace is dead.”

“Ah. Too bad, too bad. That’s a twenty-five thousand dollar loss for me, not including interest. Can I ask how she died?”

“You can ask, but I won’t tell you, Mr. Greevy. I’m sorry, but my client has made me promise to keep the circumstances confidential.”

“I don’t believe you for an instant, my dear Maureen. I would have preferred the real reason – that you don’t trust me – but you chose to lie. So now I think it is time to end our conversation. Good day.” He rose from his chair and extended his hand. She shook it briefly, then turned and walked back to Eugene.

“Well?” he asked. “Did he spill?”

She didn’t bother answering. “I need the address of Patriot Hospital,” she said.

***

Patriot Hospital was a lonely gray building on the corner of Watterson and Baker Street, about a mile from the coffee shop. Maureen surveyed the building from across the street, taking in the bleak cement walls and empty windows. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would ever use this hospital, especially prim and proper Mrs. Grace Blake. It was a hospital for drug addicts and hookers, not well-to-do ladies. But she had come here two weeks ago, and Maureen was determined to find out why.

She crossed the street and pushed open the door, which whined ever so slightly as she stepped inside. It looked like a hospital: green linoleum floors, a check-in desk, light blue walls. Black plastic chairs were provided for the waiting patients. A few people were sitting there: a lady knitting a pink scarf, a man dozing off, a priest reading a Bible. Maureen walked up to the receptionist sitting at the desk. “Hi there,” she started, but the woman raised a hand, cutting her off.

“Please take a number,” she said, pointing to a dispenser on her right, her eyes not moving from the screen of her computer monitor.

A bit irritated, Maureen scowled. She didn’t want to wait: she had been to enough hospitals to know that the wait would be long and she hadn’t brought anything with which to pass the time. But she also wanted information, and information was more willingly given when the questioner was polite. So she took a number and, after some scrutinization of the other occupants of the room, took the chair next to the priest.

He very much looked his role. He was wearing a black robe, the traditional white collar, and even had a cross on a chain around his neck. The Bible was open to the first page of Mark. As he read, his lips moved along with the words.

Maureen cleared her throat quietly, hoping to grab his attention. He looked up at once.

“Good day, sister.” He smiled warmly.

She returned the smile. “Good day.”

“Can I help you with something?” His voice was warm and welcoming and calm.

“I have a question, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not any trouble at all. Please, ask away.”

“I was wondering why you’re here.”

“Ah. I suppose you mean at the hospital.”

“Yes, I do.” This was why she avoided talking to anyone deeply involved in religion as much as possible. You could ask them a simple question and they would respond with their interpretation of the meaning of life. But the priest had seemed more interesting than the knitting woman or the sleeping man.

“I come here to offer guidance and support to the patients. As you may be able to tell, this is a humble hospital, and they are terribly understaffed. Doctors have very little time to look after their patients, the same with nurses. I try to give patients a bit of company, and maybe even some hope.” He tapped his Bible. “After all, Jesus says that we are the light of the world. I am happy to give some of my light to others.”

“I’m sure that the staff here appreciates it,” Maureen said.

“I hope that they do. I try. Some doctors, I find, appreciate it more than others. But I am a firm believer in taking care of the sick. It is part of my duty, as a shepherd, to oust any sickness that I can. I even made some business cards.” He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a card, which he handed to Maureen. “Shepherd Gale Sharp, ouster of sickness.” He smiled good naturedly.

She glanced at the card briefly, then slipped it into her purse. “Did you, by any chance, ever meet a patient here by the name of Grace Blake?”

“Ah, yes. A charming young lady. We had a very nice conversation in this very room.”

“Did she mention why she was here?”

“A simple case of wooziness, I believe. As I remember, she didn’t want to discuss it.”

Maureen was about to speak when the receptionist yelled, “Next!” The dozing man jolted awake, and the knitting woman dropped a stitch. Maureen stood up. “That’s me,” she said, and strode to the counter, just cutting off the man who had risen to go check in.

“Number?” The receptionist put out her hand and Maureen placed her scrap of paper into it, ignoring the man glaring at her as he returned to his chair. The receptionist didn’t so much as look at the piece of paper Maureen had handed her. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I want to ask you a few questions about a patient of yours.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but all patient information is strictly confidential.” She wasn’t even looking up.

“Ah, yes, I’m aware of that. But see, I’m a detective.” She extracted her badge from her purse and laid it on the counter. Back when she had decided to become a detective, she had asked Don to get her a badge. He hadn’t been crazy about it – she refused to get a license or even take a class – but she wheedled him enough that he eventually pulled a few strings for her. Being friends with a police officer certainly did have its benefits.

The receptionist finally looked at her. “A detective?”

“Yes. That means that I can ask questions about patients and get answers.”

“Who do you want to know about?” She seemed suddenly nervous; her tone changed and she sat up straighter. This was why Maureen loved being a detective.

“Her name is Grace Blake.”

The receptionist typed the name onto her computer. “I can’t get her file,” she said, “but I can get you the name of her doctor.”

“That’s fine.”

“Here.” She wrote a name on a piece of paper, then handed it to Maureen. “It’s Doctor Douglas Peterson. He works on the second floor.”

“Thank you very much.” She pocketed the information, and headed for the stairs.

***

“Grace Blake, yes, she was in here a few weeks ago.” Doctor Peterson was a man who could almost be considered handsome, but he looked too tired. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his body seemed to sag under an invisible weight. His face was a little too thin, as if he hadn’t been eating. “She was very desperate.”

Maureen leaned forward in her chair. He spoke quietly, and even though only his small desk separated them, it was hard for her to hear. “Desperate?”

“Yes.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a file, and took out some papers. “She came to me very worried because she had been feeling weak and shaky, oh, a month ago. I ran some blood tests. Her T cells were much too low.” He showed Maureen a chart. “It was HIV.” He sighed heavily. “She was flabbergasted. Fainted on this very floor. I had to revive her, then I asked a few questions. She’s been receiving blood transfusions for a few years not about every three months – she’s seriously anemic, you see. It must have been that. Such a tragedy. They’re so careful these days…” He paused and collected the papers, putting them back into the folder. “As you can tell, Miss, we’re a small hospital, with not very many resources. I recommended that she go to a newer one for treatment. I also recommended a support group that meets on Wednesday. I don’t know if she ever went, though.”

He stopped talking for a minute, and rubbed his eyes with his palms. Maureen watched him. “What happened then?”

“Well, she went away and came back three days later talking about an experimental HIV treatment she had stumbled across. In the form of pills. Now, it’s not approved by the FDA, and I don’t even know if it works, but that’s what she wanted. And, in this neighborhood, they’re not that hard to get.”

“But giving her those would be illegal.”

“Exactly.” He paused. “Now, Miss, please understand that this is a very sensitive topic for this hospital. We’re very understaffed and don’t have a lot of money…”

“Doctor Peterson, anything that you tell me will remain confidential. I promise.”

“I told her I would not procure the pills for her, and that taking them was a very, very bad idea. She left, and I thought that I’d seen the end of her. But two weeks later she returned, and said that she wanted to ask me again. She said that she would pay. Twenty-five thousand dollars. She had it all with her, too. In cash.”

“And you agreed.”

“Please don’t judge me. Twenty-five thousand dollars could do such extraordinary things for the patients in this hospital. I couldn’t refuse.”

***

It rained that night, and Maureen went for a walk. She was always able to think more clearly in rain. The stingingly cold drops drove into her with force, soaking her to the skin. She was wearing the red cocktail dress again, but had left her heels at home. She walked barefoot along the street, crouching into the wind. Her hair whipped around her head, flying up into the night. And she mused.

Grace had gone to a hospital because she had been feeling shaky and weak. But not just any hospital. A non-descript, understaffed, slightly untrustworthy looking hospital. Why? She hadn’t wanted anyone else, especially her husband, to know. She hadn’t wanted him to worry. So she had gone to a hospital where she would not see anyone that she knew, and had found out that she had HIV. She had heard about experimental pills used to treat it – most likely from Don. If Maureen remembered correctly, she had read something in the paper a few months ago about experimental HIV pills begin sold on the black market. The local police force had been involved. She didn’t want to tell Don, or anyone else. Of course, she would have had to eventually, if the experimental medication didn’t kill her. But Grace had been proud and surprisingly stubborn for such a dainty woman. So she decided to bribe her hospital into getting the pills. They weren’t hard to get if you knew the right people to contact. But she couldn’t use her own money, because then someone would notice. So she borrowed the money: not from the bank, because then Don would find out, but from a loan shark she had happened across…how? At the coffee shop. She must have thought that it looked discreet enough to step into. Eugene must have noticed, but he didn’t tell Don because he thought she was having an affair. So she had met Nicholas Greevy, borrowed the money from him, and bribed Doctor Peterson. And then she was killed. Her body was dumped at one o’clock in the morning in the South Side not far from the hospital where she was going to receive the pills.

But why would anyone want to kill Grace? Surely not Nicholas Greevy: he would want every cent of his money back, with interest. Perhaps Doctor Peterson. He wanted the money, but didn’t want to do anything illegal. It could have been Eugene. He was repulsive enough. But she had to admit that she could not imagine him slitting anyone open while they writhed underneath him.

She took a shower when she got home, letting the hot water slowly bring feeling back into her limbs. There was a simple solution to Grace’s murder, she was sure of it. She could almost grasp it with her mind. When she got out of the shower, she emptied her purse. Lipstick tubes, a matchbox, gum, a pack of cards, Don’s napkin, two pens, some business cards, coins, her wallet, and various scraps of paper poured out onto her bed. She sifted through the junk, extracting her possessions from any she had accumulated in the case. As she lifted Don’s napkin, something caught her eye. It was the phone number he had written down. The one in Grace’s pocket. She looked at it, frowning. For some reason, it looked familiar. She picked up the phone, started to dial the number, thought again and put the phone down. The shepherd’s business card was lying right in front of her. The numbers matched.

***

She drove back to the South Side, the rain hammering her windshield. She didn’t even bother to turn on the wipers. The world turned into a blur as she sped through the night, headed to the Church of Saint Helen.

It had been right in front of her from the moment she met Shepherd Sharp. Grace had been a devout Christian, never missing a mass. She would of course seek solace from the priest wandering the hallways of her hospital. She would of course tell him all about her worries. And he would of course comfort her.

She pulled to a stop in front of the church, slamming on the brakes so suddenly that they protested with a screech. She hammered on the door of the humble church with the intent of knocking it down. When he answered the door, she pointed her revolver at his face.

“Shepherd Sharp,” she said, “I want to talk to you.” Then she hit him over the head with the butt of the revolver, and he crumpled to the floor.

***

She tied his arms and legs together and got the lumber from the car. She had hit him hard enough that her hammering did not wake him. It was only when she lifted him and had started tying his wrists to her newly-made cross, which she had leaned against the wall for the moment, that he stirred.

His eyes attempted to focus on her as he came to his senses. He moved his head slowly, and she could tell that it hurt him. When his eyes finally rested on her face, she spoke.

“Shepherd Gale Sharp. You killed the wife of a very dear friend of mine.”

His mouth opened, but she continued talking before he could speak.

“Her name was Grace Blake. She was exactly thirty years old and wasn’t feeling well. So she went to Patriot Hospital and met you. She told you that she had HIV. Understandably, she was worried. You gave her your number in case she wanted guidance.

“She must have called you at some point, and told you that she had just bribed a doctor and wanted your forgiveness. You told her to come to your church. And that is when you killed her. You cut her open while she was still alive and pulled out her heart. Then you sewed her back up and left her on the corner of Bell and Harvey. Let me guess: does the heart represent her sacrifice? Liken her in some way to Christ? Or did you just think that it looked nice?”

He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at much of anything. Maureen positioned herself directly in front of him, bringing her face close to his and meeting his eyes. “I’d like to know why you did it. I have my guesses, but I’d like to know why you killed her. Who knows. If you have a good reason, I might let you go.”

He didn’t respond, and for the longest time the chapel was filled with only the sounds of Maureen’s heavy breathing. But then he spoke. “She sinned.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. I asked her to come and see me. We talked. I told her that she was going to die, she said that she knew. It’s an epidemic: a plague, sent by God to reveal her sin. So I killed her. God had marked her. It was what I was supposed to do. She holds her heart in her hands because she obviously strayed from the path of God. She offers it up to Him now, begging for forgiveness.

His reasoning was sickeningly twisted. It made Maureen slightly nauseous. “You cut her open while she was still alive.”

“To die in pain is a way to salvation. Our savior died in that way.”

The anger which had begun when she saw Grace’s autopsy report had reached a boiling point, and Maureen was tired of pushing it down. “Ah, yes. Your savior. Shepherd, have you noticed what you’re tied to?”

He craned his neck upward. “While you were unconscious, I made you a cross. Much like the one that your savior died on a few thousand years ago. Although you don’t want to admit it, and maybe you don’t even realize it, you’ve sinned. I think you’ll be happy to know that I’ve found a way for you to atone.” She reached down and grabbed the hammer and first nail. “Through the wrist is the way the Romans did it.” She brought back the hammer. “You know, Jesus died for your sins. But in my opinion, there are way too many sins for his death to cover all of them. Sometimes you have to die for your own.”

***

Grace’s memorial service was held on a gorgeous Sunday under a seamless blue sky. By then the hubbub surrounding the brutal crucifixion of a Shepherd Gale Sharp in the Church of Saint Helen had subsided, and it had become an open case in the local police office. Officer Don Blake had been assigned to the murder, but had yet to unearth any leads.

Maureen had not been invited to the service, but she came anyway, standing a respectful distance from the crowd in her long black dress. When the service was over and the people had dispersed, he found her.

“It’s a beautiful spot for a memorial.” She stared out across the rippling lake, inhaling the scent of fresh grass and water. “I’m glad that you opted for the outdoors.”

“Grace would have wanted it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, also surveying the water. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I thought I owed it to Grace. Paying my respects. I did ruin her wedding.”

“Yes, you did.” The silence stretched between them, but this time it was comfortable. “I want to thank you, Maureen.”

“You’re welcome. You know that I would only do it for you.”

“I know.”

They stayed that way a while longer, just listening to the water lap against the shore. It was strangely peaceful and comforting to be standing beside him again.

“How long have we known each other, Maureen?”

“Eleven years. But you’ve only spoken to me for eight.”

“Yes, that’s right. Can you remember how we became friends?”

She thought about it for a moment. “To tell you the truth, I can’t.”

“Neither can I.”

It struck her again how handsome he was, standing there in his black suit. She had missed him for those three years. Missed the sight of him, his simple presence in her life. But, at the same time, she didn’t want to be around him.

“Well, I should be going.” She took his hand and squeezed it briefly, then walked away across the grass. When she looked back, he was still staring at the lake.