harming yourself — or anyone else — until you’re old enough to exercise your own self-control.”
Darren felt a flicker of hope. Was it possible that maybe he wasn’t going to be expelled after all? Was it possible that Father Sebastian intended to try to help him, and not just punish him? Then the priest stood up, and Darren, almost as if drawn by some unseen force, rose as well.
“I shall have to consider your penance carefully,” Father Sebastian said. Then he looked around the room. “No one here has to study? You’re all straight-A students? I’m impressed!”
Everyone but Darren scrambled to leave, and when they were alone, Darren scuffed at the floor. “I’m sorry, Father,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.
“I’m sure you are,” Father Sebastian replied. He laid a gentle hand on Darren’s shoulder and began steering him toward the door. “I want you to go to confession before breakfast tomorrow, and then come to my office after classes.”
The flicker of hope that had been burning faintly inside Darren suddenly flared. “I will,” he promised. “And it won’t happen again.”
Father Sebastian’s brows arched slightly. “I’m sure it won’t.”
As Father Sebastian turned to leave the dorm, Darren headed for his room. His room, and his cell phone, with which he could find out what had happened to Sofia.
His roommate, Tim Kennedy, was waiting for him, leering gleefully now that Father Sebastian was nowhere to be seen. “So you got to first base, eh?”
“Not funny,” Darren shot back. He dug in his backpack for his cell phone and tapped in a quick message to Sofia:
He waited a minute, then another.
Then five more.
No response. Brushing aside Tim Kennedy’s questions about what
There was a soft knock on the door, then Clay Matthews and his new roommate stuck their heads in, Clay grinning even more lasciviously than Tim Kennedy had a few minutes earlier. “Give us the details,” Clay said.
Darren shook his head. “Just go away, okay?” he said, and turned away from them.
They left.
An hour later, Tim Kennedy went to bed.
But Darren stayed up, turning pages in his history book but seeing none of the words. Every few moments he checked his phone, but it was working fine. The signal was strong, the battery was nearly full.
But no text messages had come in.
Finally giving up, Darren went to bed and turned out the light, but knew he wouldn’t go to sleep.
What had happened?
Was Sofia all right? He never should have run away like a scared jackrabbit — he should have stayed, and explained to Sister Mary David that it was all his fault. He could have told her he’d pushed his way into Sofia’s room, and she’d wanted him to leave but he wouldn’t, and—
— and now she was probably in more trouble than he was, and would never even talk to him again, let alone let him kiss her, or touch her, or—
Rolling over and pulling the covers over his head, Darren put the phone under his pillow and tried to sleep.
Maybe tomorrow he’d figure out how to make it up to her.
Assuming she was even still here tomorrow. Knowing Sister Mary David, Sofia’s parents might have had to come and get her this very night.
Darren Bender rolled over again, punched his pillow, and tried to get comfortable. But even as he closed his eyes again, he knew it was futile. No matter what he did, he wasn’t going to go to sleep tonight.
Not with the guilt gnawing at his gut that Father Sebastian had instilled in him.
CHAPTER 18
FATHER LAUGHLIN MOUNTED the steps to the diocesan rectory slowly, feeling the weight not only of the problem at hand, which he was certain had to do with Kip Adamson’s death, but of his age as well. When the summons had come from the Archbishop’s office so late in the day, Laughlin had hurried to shave, change into a fresh collar and shirt, and get into a taxi, yet there had been none of the excitement that years ago had invariably accompanied a summons to see the Cardinal. Of course, the Cardinal was gone now and while Archbishop Jonathan Rand was certainly a competent administrator, it simply wasn’t the same. A Cardinal was a Cardinal, and an Archbishop an Archbishop, and that was that. But it wasn’t just the man at the top that had changed; in the last few years everything in the Boston Archdiocese had changed.
Laughlin hesitated to catch his breath and wipe a handkerchief across his forehead before pressing the bell next to the rectory’s simple front door. Something else that had changed. This was nothing like the Cardinal’s mansion Laughlin used to enjoy visiting. That mansion had been sold off to pay restitution in the unending lawsuits the Boston diocese had incurred, and this far simpler house seemed to Father Laughlin far too humble even for an Archbishop.
He pressed the doorbell and a few seconds later the door was opened by a young seminar student, who immediately ushered him into Archbishop Rand’s office.
An office with none of the luxury the Cardinal had enjoyed. True poverty, it seemed, had finally come to the priesthood, at least in Boston.
“Good evening, Ernest,” the Archbishop said, rising to his feet and coming around his desk to shake the old priest’s hand. “I am so sorry to have called you out so late in the day.”
“Always a pleasure,” Father Laughlin sighed, sinking gratefully into the nearest chair and hoping the words sounded more genuine than they felt.
Archbishop Rand returned to his seat behind the desk. “I wish I could say the same, but just now there seems to be precious little pleasure in this job.” His eyes fixed darkly on Laughlin. “In fact, since Saturday I’ve found no pleasure in it at all.” Father Laughlin nervously folded his handkerchief to a fresh side and wiped his face as the temperature in the office seemed to go up five degrees. “And I must tell you, Ernest,” the Archbishop pressed. “There is more Church business to which I must attend than acting as apologist for your school.”
Father Laughlin shifted uneasily as the temperature seemed to go up again. He was just beginning to formulate a reply to the Archbishop’s words when Rand leaned back and folded his hands together across his chest. “You are as aware as I am how restless the flock in Boston has become the last few years. What you might not be aware of is how hard I have been working to calm the flock. And then along comes the Adamson boy, and in a single evening nearly wipes out the effectiveness of what I have been trying to do for several years. What little time I’ve had not placating people, I’ve been spending in prayer.” He leaned forward, his eyes once more boring into Laughlin, his voice dropping. “Praying, and asking for guidance.”
“Oh, dear,” Father Laughlin began. “Everyone at St. Isaac’s—”
“Ah, yes,” the Archbishop cut in, leaning even farther forward. “St. Isaac’s. That brings us directly to the point, doesn’t it, Ernest?” The Archbishop’s voice took on a sharp edge. “St. Isaac’s mission is to heal the children and ignite the light of the Church within them. Am I correct?”
“Of course that’s one of our goals,” Father Laughlin said a little too quickly as a trickle of perspiration made its way slowly down his cheek. “And I’m sure you understand that we do our best. No one understands what caused the Adamson boy to do this terrible thing. Father Sebastian had been working with him and—”
“Father Sebastian was brought here specifically to make certain that things like this don’t happen,” Rand cut in.
“And he’s doing a wonderful job with the students,” Father Laughlin said, unconsciously shrinking away from the Archbishop’s accusatory tone. “But these things take time. Father Sebastian has only been with us since the
