“There’s a chance she’s mistaken,” Himes said.
“I saw it in her eyes.”
They sat together in a café outside the federal building, a place they went when they needed solace, to forget, or maybe to remember why they gave so much of themselves.
Saint had spent the week digging into the life of Eli Aaron. With a little more to go on he’d found a ledger that gave the date he arrived at the home. Only six years old. His mother had a record, a woman who sold her body for money. Addiction. Overdose. A tale so played out she had not flinched as she read.
She got the name of the woman he had followed home from confession a lifetime before. Got no more from her than Sister Cecile had given.
“I really thought I killed him, Himes. He’s already dead,” Saint said.
“So he purchased more rosary beads this year?” Himes asked.
“Yes.”
Himes picked up his burger. “You know what that means.”
She closed her eyes.
“It means you have to kill him again.”