Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I didn’t mean to—really, I didn’t. I just never expected temptation to come in that form. And ohhhh, what a form it was! Who knew keeping my vow of chastity would be so hard? Now, now—it’s not what you think, but still, it’s bad just the same. Confusing, I know, but trust me, you’ll understand when you hear me out.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Cece Monroe said, hearing the gravity in her own voice but plunging ahead nonetheless. She couldn’t stop now. If she did, she’d never find the courage to say what she must. “It’s been a while since my last confession,” she managed in a shaky voice as she sat on the other side of the confessional in Our Lady of Glory Church.
“Sister Mary Cecelia, is that you?” the priest asked, sounding surprised.
Cece closed her eyes and her pulse picked up, matching the tempo of the organ keys as the organist pounded out the hymn for this Sunday’s mass. Twisting her black robes, Cece struggled to find the right words. “Yes, Father, it’s little ole me,” she squeaked. Just her luck she’d get Father Flannigan. She’d never been very “nun-like,” no matter how hard she’d tried. The poor man was always bailing her out of trouble.
Hence, confessing this sin would be that much harder.
“You can talk to me any time, my child. Why choose to do so in the confessional?” he asked in his kind, gentle voice.
Cece stifled a groan. “Oh, trust me, Father. When you hear what I have to say, you’ll be glad you don’t have to look into my eyes.” She felt the heat of her blush climb her cheeks, and she hadn’t even said the words yet.
“Go ahead; I’m listening,” his soothing tone filtered through the screen. She could hear the smile in his voice, even though she couldn’t see his face that well. He probably thought she’d used a cuss word or had eaten a second helping of supper or—God forbid—longed for some fancy trinket.
If only!
There weren’t enough Acts of Contrition or Hail Marys out there to absolve her of this one, she feared. The guilt pressed down on her shoulders, weighing on her heavily, as she sought the courage to continue.
“It’s okay. Nothing you could have done would warrant God striking you dead with a lightning bolt, so have no fear; tell me what’s on your mind.”
Ha! She wasn’t so sure about that. “Okay, Father, but you might want to ground yourself.”
The lights in the confessional were low, the benches sideways, granting Cece a dim view of the priest’s profile. This was meant to put the sinner at ease, but there was nothing easy about what Sister Mary Cecelia had to say. She took a deep breath. The aromas of wood polish, candle smoke, and a faint dusty “old” smell filled her senses, calming her nerves a bit.
After a moment she blurted, “Dreams, Father—I’ve been having dreams.”
“Is that all? We all have dreams.”
“I sincerely doubt we all have these kinds of dreams.”
“And what kind of dream would that be?”
Cece looked around, knowing full well there was no one in the confessional with her except the priest, yet she still felt as though the whole world were listening. She whispered, “The kind that involves doing the Humpty Dumpty.” There. She’d said it. She let out a huge sigh of relief as she awaited Father Flannigan’s reaction.
Father hesitated then asked, “The Humpty What-y?”
Great. He had no clue what she was talking about, but what had she expected? The man was in his seventies. It had been quite some time, if ever, since he’d done the Humpty Dumpty.
She tried again. “Um, well, you know, the Humpty Dumpty. Let’s just say it involves a little bumping and grinding and a bit of twisting and shouting.” Okay, so she’d done a whole lot more than a bit, but he didn’t need to know all the details.
“Ah, I see. You dreamt about dirty dancing. That’s not—”
“Oh, for the love of God, Father, I had sex. S–E–X. Sex, Father. Seeeeeeex!” she said, drawing out the word.
The organist hit the wrong key and then stopped playing altogether. The shuffling in the choir section ceased. Even the janitor quit banging about as he cleaned the pews, judging by the tomb-like quiet that had settled over Our Lady of Glory.
Oh, boy, what have I done? Cece thought.
Father cleared his throat in such a manner that all activity within the church resumed, full force. In fact, the mumbling grew so loud that Cece was positive the news of her indiscretion had already spread from New Hope, Massachusetts, all the way to the West Coast.
“Sister, are you saying you broke your vow of celibacy?” Father sputtered.
“Not physically, but my dreams are so steamy they’re hot enough to curl my habit. My habit, Father. I’m actually wearing it in the dreams, by the way. That has to be wrong. Has to be.”
“Curling your habit, you say? That does sound serious. Quite serious, indeed.” He cleared his throat again, more softly this time. “Well, you are on the path to becoming a full nun, so you really shouldn’t be thinking about... about...”
“Doing the naughty?” she supplied.
“Precisely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The conversation sounded like a normal chat over a cup of tea. Cece felt like she was standing outside her body, watching the bizarre events unfold.
“Anyway, you shouldn’t be thinking about having carnal relations with a man—I’m assuming it’s a man.”
“Yes!” The word burst out of her.
“Good,” he said, and she could just make out his frown through the thick screen. “I mean, not good, but—”
“I get it. You were saying?”
“Well, perhaps your dreams will go away.”
“Somehow, I doubt it. You see, they’ve escalated over the past couple months to the point where I’m having them during the day, too.” She paused and then decided she might as well confess everything. “Even when I’m in church.” She pressed her lips together and waited.
Hmmm. No lightning bolt. Go figure.
“Oh, my. I’m not quite sure what to say. Maybe if you talk to this man, get to the root of why you’re dreaming about him, you will stop having dreams of this nature. Celibacy is not easy for any of us. Many people of the cloth turn to vice. Maybe you need another outlet.”
“I’ve tried everything: meditation, exercise, cooking, knitting... nothing works. The dreams won’t stop, and I can’t confront my dream man because he doesn’t have a face.” But based on what he did to her in her dreams, she was pretty sure he wasn’t of heavenly descent. She shivered, thinking about it, and then winced. “I can’t serve God while thinking about ‘doing the naughty’ when I’m in His house. It’s just not right. I’ve let the Mother Superior know I’m leaving.”
“Oh, dear, that’s quite a pickle,” Father said, and Cece wondered in an insane moment of panic whether he’d had a glimpse of her dreams. She shook off that crazy notion and squinted as Father Flannigan tipped his head back and took a swig from what looked like a flask—obviously, his “vice”—then screwed the cap back on. “Medicinal purposes for the rheumatism, you know,” he clarified when he noticed the silence.
“Right. Well, I feel better, having confessed my sins and filled you in on my decision to leave the sisterhood.”
“I know it hasn’t been easy for you, but you’ve made it through most of the steps. Are you sure you don’t want to take that final step and petition for your permanent vows? Nine years of work is a lot to throw away.”
“I haven’t made this decision lightly, and I’m not throwing anything away. We both know I’m more like the Flying Nun than Mother Teresa. I truly believe I have a different calling.”
“What will you do, my child?”
“Well, I’ve decided to move back in with my granny and sister. I’m older and wiser now. Maybe I can help them. In fact, just because I will no longer be a part of the sisterhood doesn’t mean I can’t still help the people of New Hope. I’m thinking about opening a counseling clinic as soon as I find a place and a way to afford it.”
“That sounds like a great idea, dear, but we’ll miss you.” He gave her a penance, and she walked him to a meeting he was running late for.
Halfway there, he said, “Oh, dear me. I forgot my special Bible in the confessional. I’ll never make that meeting if I go back for it.” He stared at her with a meaningful look.
She smiled. “I’ll get it. I know how much you love that Bible. I don’t think I’ve seen you without it since I met you.”
“Bless you, child.”
“And thank you, Father. For everything.”
“You’re very welcome, Cece.”
He hadn’t called her Cece since she was a teenager. It felt a little strange not being Sister Mary Cecelia anymore, but she had no regrets. She truly believed everything happened for a reason. Now she just had to figure out what she was meant to do with her new life.
Father Flannigan winked as he continued on his merry way, with a spring to his step that belied any stiff or achy joints. Cece shook her head and chuckled, strolling back to the confessional.
What a character, she thought. What a day.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Yup, you guessed it. It’s me, Cece. Bet you probably didn’t expect to hear from me again so soon, but this time I think you’ll approve. Not about being an imposter, but about trying to help. It sounds crazy, I know, but I truly believe what I’m doing is right. “What happens in a confessional, stays in a confessional,” right? Besides, I won’t really have to lie; I just won’t tell everything I know.
By the time Cece reentered the church, the choir had taken a break from practice. They probably needed therapy after what they’d heard her shout a little while ago. And the janitor had most likely stepped out for a smoke, as was his usual routine.
Sure, now the church was empty—but bad timing had always been Cece’s luck. Her strong convictions had her sticking her nose where it didn’t belong time after time. Even though she had good intentions, things never worked out the way she planned. She always found herself in bizarre predicaments, struggling to make the best of bad situations.
Confessing her sins and screaming “Sex!” in front of half the staff of Our Lady of Glory really hadn’t been surprising behavior on her part, Cece knew. She only hoped Cece’s Counseling Clinic—for that was what she’d decided to call it—would be a fresh start all around. First, she had one last thing to do before clearing out her belongings and saying her good-byes.
After climbing the steps to the confessionals, she slipped into the side where the priest sat. She took a moment to sit on the bench and adjust her eyes to the dim light, feeling it strange to be “on the other side of the fence.” In a way, this was exactly what she would be doing once she opened her clinic: listening to people’s problems and counseling them on how to improve their lives.
She felt a surge of excitement but reminded herself she was still in the confessional and in no way a priest. “Aha, there you are,” she mumbled as she bent down to pick up Father Flannigan’s Bible. A secret compartment flipped open, revealing a silver flask inside. Why, that stinker. So that’s why he considered this Bible “special,” she thought with a smile.
The confessional shook as someone rushed in on the other side and plopped down on the bench. Cece sat up and struggled to see through the screen, but the hunched-over man wore a suit and an overcoat, with his collar up and fedora pulled down low. She tried to speak up to inform him she wasn’t a priest, but he started talking so fast she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“I’ll tell you, Father, I had no idea anything illegal was going on, or I never would have gotten involved. I trusted this person; never thought in a million years I would find myself betrayed. This will ruin me if it gets out. What am I going to do?”
Cece gasped. She knew that voice. New Hope was a small town. “Senator Sloan?”
His head whipped to the side, his eyes wide with shock, then horror over what he’d just admitted. “Y–you’re not a priest!”
“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t stop talking. I’m sorry,” she said, feeling guilty.
“Y–you shouldn’t be in here,” he stuttered. “Why are you in here? Oh, my God, I’m ruined!” He shot up.
“Wait!” She tried to stop him, but he bolted through the curtain as she finished with, “I’ll never tell, I swear it.” She grabbed Father’s Bible and clutched it to her chest, scrambling out of the confessional to chase after the senator. “Senator! Wait, please!”
Dropping his hat, he kept walking, picking up the pace as he made a beeline for the front doors. “I’ve already said too much. Just leave me alone.” He pushed his way through the double doors, and sunlight streamed inside, blinding Cece.
She shielded her eyes and blinked to regain her vision. The doors closed, granting her one last glimpse of the senator. Rays of sunlight reflected off his shiny black hair like a spotlight, and then he was gone.
Gathering her skirts in her hand, she picked up his hat and ran after him. Her slippers muffled her footsteps along the way. They also hid her hot-pink toenails—another non-nun-like frivolity Cece had never quite been able to give up.
A loud noise came from outside, but it didn’t sound like thunder. It sounded like one of the local teens had set off a firework, but Cece had more important things to worry about—like reassuring the senator that his secret was safe. Cece shoved her way through the doors of Our Lady of Glory, tripped over her robes, and fell onto the steps out front.
Right on top of Senator Sloan.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I... I...” She blinked several times to be sure she was seeing right. That loud noise hadn’t been a firework. It had been a gunshot, judging by the single hole in the middle of the senator’s forehead.
Cece started to shake. She felt for a pulse but found nothing. He was dead. “Somebody call 911!” she shouted, then noticed the expanding pool of blood beneath the senator’s head. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Blood wasn’t the only thing scattered all over the steps of her church. The back of his head had been blown off.
Her stomach heaved, and she jerked back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the senator. Sobs filled her, and then she leaned to the side and was sick. She couldn’t help but think this tragedy was somehow her fault.
The next five minutes felt like an eternity as sirens wailed and chaos ensued. Father Flannigan joined her on the steps, mouth agape and gray head hanging low as a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.
“There’s your Bible,” she said in a quiet voice, pointing with her bloodstained hands to the miraculously untouched book lying on the cement beside her. “Shouldn’t you be in your meeting?” she asked, feeling numb.
“The meeting adjourned after we heard the gunshot.” Their eyes met and held. “Cece, what on earth happened?”
“I... he... I don’t know, Father. He came into the confessional and started talking; then he ran out and someone shot him.”
The priest placed his hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “It’ll be okay, child.” He helped her to her feet and led the way inside the church over to one of the back pews. “You look rather pale. Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll go get you something to sip on.”
Cece sat in a daze, watching as the police arrived, the CSI guys did their thing, and the ambulance took the senator away. Because the deceased was a high-level government official, cops of all types—local, state, and Feds—swarmed all over the place like hornets zooming in for the sting. They weren’t likely to stop searching until they caught the person responsible.
“They’re going to want to question you, you know.” Father returned and looked at her with concern. “Are you up to it?”
Cece’s head spun. “I don’t have a choice. A man died because of me!”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Actually, it was. If I’d spoken up sooner, he never would have confessed and would have left right away, possibly avoiding the gunman.”
Father stared down at his wrinkled, brown-spotted hands and nodded. “I could say the same thing. If I hadn’t sent you back for my Bible, the senator never would have gone into the confessional to begin with.” His eyes met hers. “For whatever reason, it was Senator Sloan’s time to pass on. There’s nothing you could have done differently to change that, Cecelia.”
“That might be true, but that doesn’t mean whoever killed him should go unpunished.”
“Glad you feel that way, Sister,” a baritone voice said from behind Cece, startling her.
She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, deciding what she was going to do. The authorities weren’t going to like what she had to say. No matter how hard they interrogated her, she would stay true to what she believed in.
Cece turned to face the music and nearly swallowed her tongue as she looked up. Way up. The man standing beside the pew was huge. Of course, any man over six feet seemed like a giant next to her five-foot frame. Still, even beneath his dress shirt and tie, she could see his arms were well muscled, his shoulders wide, and his torso tapered to a flat stomach and narrow waist, followed by long, jean-clad legs. A sports jacket was draped over his arm and his boots were scuffed. The total look was intimidating, but his hands drew her attention.
His hands were big and muscled, and somehow mesmerizing. They fidgeted with the small notebook, turning it over and over, the veins and tendons popping as his fingers moved.
“Ma’am? I asked if you minded if we went outside to talk. You can sit in one of the squad cars.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Cece snapped out of her trance.
“I’m sorry—what?” She looked up at a hard, chiseled face that had started to sweat despite the cool autumn temperatures, and she took in the blond, flattop hairstyle. He could be the model for a military ad any day, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he had served. He had that “commando” look down pat.
Just then a photographer snapped a photo, and the flash momentarily obscured her vision. When it cleared, the detective’s features took shape once more, his sea-green eyes coming into focus. Cece’s jaw dropped, and all she could do was gape at him in shock. It couldn’t be!
A perplexed look crossed his face, and she vaguely heard him say, “Take your time, Sister. I’ll be outside when you’re ready.”
Her mind had focused on one insane, crazy, could-not-possibly-be-true thought as she stared after the hulk of a man taking long strides out of the church...
Her dream man had a face, after all.
Detective Ace Jackson pushed his way out the doors of the church and gulped the cool air in which the crisp bite of Fall could be sensed. He pulled a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his sports coat and dabbed at his forehead, willing his heart to return to a normal beat. After all, the things he’d seen and done as an Army Ranger and then a cop didn’t faze him much. He wasn’t afraid of anything... except churches. Churches scared the hell out of him.
Especially this church.
“Hey, Jackson, what the hell ya doin’—praying to God for clues? This case ain’t gonna solve itself, ya know,” his partner, Rocco Antonelli, said from down on the steps.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear your lips flapping, but only bullshit seems to be coming out.” Ace jogged down the steps, shoving his handkerchief in his pocket. “What do we got so far?”
“Folks in town say Sloan was quite the ladies’ man.” Rocco shrugged, his black leather jacket squeaking as he moved. The gaudy thing was probably pleather.
“Ladies’ man, huh?” Ace arched a brow. “Friend of yours?”
“You’re a regular comedian, Jackoff—I mean, Jackson.”
“I have my moments. Besides, you started it with that crack about praying to God.”
“What are you, five?” Rocco scowled.
Ace just laughed.
“If we’re done playing, ya mind if we get back to the case?” Rocco asked.
“The floor’s all yours.” The wind picked up, swirling leaves of all colors past their feet, but it felt good to Ace. With the fear of Hell and damnation still burning up his insides, he shook off the sensation and focused on what his partner was saying.
Rocco adjusted the gold chains around his neck and pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages. “Most people seem to think some pissed-off boyfriend or husband did Casanova in.”
“And the cops?” Ace glanced around the bustling area, crawling with uniformed officers, and made some mental notes. A middle-aged man with red hair, wearing a janitor’s uniform, sat smoking a cigarette as he had a conversation with the police. And a blond woman in her forties cried hysterically as she talked to the FBI.
“The cops tend to agree, especially since the entry and exit wounds are consistent with a rifle shot,” Rocco continued. “Small hole in front, half the head and brain matter gone in the back. They think maybe the killer was a hunter.”
“What’s the story with those two?” Ace jerked his head in the direction of the man and woman he’d been watching.
Rocco glanced at them and then at his notebook. “The guy’s some dude named Mumfry Walker. Ex-military with a shady past. Church took him in a few years back. He mostly stays to himself and keeps his nose clean. Says he stepped out back for a smoke, but no one can verify his story. He hunts, by the way.”
“And the woman?”
“Name’s Eleanor Meriwether. She plays the organ for the church, is involved in all kinds of charity, and is rumored to have been smitten with the deceased for years.”
“Smitten?” Ace scrunched up his face.
“Hey, some bystander’s words, not mine. I suspect Sloan was bangin’ her. She spoke to him just before he went into the confessional, but she says they discussed his campaign and the upcoming election. Guess she volunteers for him. Says she didn’t see anyone else except the nun who chased him outside.”
“Interesting. What the hell was—what’s her name?—oh, yeah, Sister Mary Cecelia—doing on the priest’s side of the confessional? Ace had some questions, and that nun had been the last person to talk to Sloan before someone offed him. Someone wanted the senator dead, but why? One way or another, Ace was going to find out what Sloan had confessed before he died.
Rocco broke into Ace’s thoughts. “Hell, for all we know, the killer could be Sloan’s wife.”
“The senator’s stance is pro-gun control and anti-guns. I highly doubt he owned one.”
“What better way to get back at him for cheating on her than to hire a hit man to kill him with a gun?” Rocco knelt down, pointing to the chalk outline of where the body had fallen and to the blood spatter. “Based on how the senator fell and the pattern of the spray, I’d say he was shot from far away.”
Ace squatted beside Rocco and surveyed the scene, then stood and looked at the buildings across the street. “I’d say you’re right, but I doubt the killer is some backwoods, pissed-off husband who happens to hunt. That shot was too exact to be by chance. I’ll bet my next paycheck that when the slug comes back from forensics, it’ll show it came from a high-powered rifle.” His eyes locked onto Rocco’s. “The kind snipers use.”
Rocco’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his black hairline. “A sniper? You’re shittin’ me.”
“I don’t ‘shit’ anyone when it comes to murder.” Ace pointed to the mini-market and the bank across the street. “From the angle of the shot, I figure the sniper watched the senator enter the church, positioned himself between those two buildings, and nailed the poor bastard between the eyes when he came out. Then I’ll bet he slipped into the woods to make his getaway.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t this kind of sniper use a silencer?”
“Not if he wanted to make it look like a crime of passion. Like the killer caught his wife or girlfriend having an affair with Sloan, and then snapped. In a crime of passion, people don’t think; they just react. That shot was too exact. I’m thinkin’ this was premeditated.”
“Jesus, what the fuck was Sloan into?”
“Some serious shit, by the looks of it.” Ace grunted.
“You know what that means?”
They stared at each other, sighed, and then Ace said, “Yeah, the damn Feds are going to be all over this like maggots on a carcass.”
“You know it.”
Ace scrubbed a hand over his flattop and glanced at the church. “What the hell is taking that little nun so long?” He’d figured she was in shock after what she’d seen, especially with that strange dazed expression she’d worn when she first saw him, but he was running out of patience.
The corner of Rocco’s mouth quirked, drawing Ace’s attention. “Impatient to see her, are we?”
Ace leveled him with a disgusted look. “She’s a nun, for Chrissake. Get your sick mind out of the gutter, ass-wipe.”
“Not what I heard.” Rocco smoothed his hands over his slicked-back hair, then squirted a burst of breath mint spray into his mouth. “Rumor is that she was never a full nun and she quit the sisterhood this morning.”
A weird zing shot through Ace, but he attributed it to indigestion. “Same difference,” he declared. “Once a nun, always a nun, in my book.”
“Well, in my book, no habit means not off limits.” Rocco wagged his shiny brows.
Ace just shook his head. “And I thought I was the one going to Hell.”