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A stale breeze seeped in through the open door. It cooled his wet, clammy skin and sent a shiver down his back. He gulped greedily at the air, limited to short, asthmatic gasps. Finally, the thunder in his chest eased, leaving behind a tightfisted ache. “God help Ronald Jeffreys,” Father Francis whispered to no one. At least Jeffreys had told the truth. He had not killed all three boys. And Father Francis knew this, not because Jeffreys had said so. He knew, because three days ago the faceless monster who had murdered Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow had confessed to him through the black, wire-mesh confessional at St.

He carried his little black bag, hugging it to his chest as he stepped carefully through the thick mud in fuzzy slippers. If Nick wasn’t mistaken, the slippers had little ears and dog snouts. He smiled and wondered how George had ever made it past the FBI sentries. “George,” Nick called and almost laughed when George raised his eyebrows at Nick’s shoddy appearance. ” He took George’s elbow and let the old coroner lean on him as they plodded through the mud and the crowd. An officer with a Polaroid camera flashed one last picture of the scene, then made room for them.

But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed. She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning.

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