Divine Crimes: Nic Ward

© 2023 Z.J. Cannon

https://www.zjcannon.com

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Divine Crimes

Copyright

Nothing Sacred

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Broken Faith

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Crooked Idols

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Up Next

Author’s Note

About the Author

Nothing Sacred

A Nic Ward Novel

Z.J. Cannon

Chapter 1

They say helping others is its own reward. That’s true, as far as it goes. Every wrong I right, every injustice I avenge, they all give me a warm glow in my stomach that’s a damn sight better than the helpless burning rage my old job used to leave me with. I waited a long time to wear the white hat instead of the black one, and let me tell you, it was worth every century.

But a man can’t live on warm glows. Neither can whatever I am these days. And the papers stacked in front of me told me Father Keller and I were going to have to find some paying work, and fast. I needed a new client, the richer the better—although anyone with money to burn had better options than the likes of me. And no matter how poor or desperate my next client was, this time I couldn’t afford to give them a break on my fee out of the goodness of my heart.

Then again, that was what I had said the last time. And the time before that.

The light bulb flickered as I spread the balance sheets out over my scuffed wooden desk, all written in Father Keller’s tiny and precise handwriting. Had the power company finally cut us off like they’d been threatening? No, it was just the cheap bulb I’d stuck in the thing. According to Father Keller’s impeccable calculations, the electricity was paid up for the next two weeks, although after that, things were going to get dicey real fast. It looked like next month’s burning question would be whether to keep the lights on or my mouth fed. That’s one of those inconvenient things about having a human body: it gets ornery when I cut off its supply of tacos and Twinkies.

Father Keller didn’t have anything to worry about. I made sure I took out his salary before anything else. And not just because I owed the man more than the pittance I could afford to pay him. He was worth every penny and then some. Take the finances—with his attention to detail, I could trust that every number was accurate down to the penny. Although with the way the numbers were looking, I might have preferred it if he had fudged things a little, let me stay in denial a bit longer.

My phone buzzed against the desk. I glanced down at the number. Juliana again. I declined the call.

I took a sip of black coffee from my old chipped mug, then downed the rest. The bitter was welcome on my tongue. It was too late at night for coffee, but I hadn’t entirely given up my hope of transcending that pesky human need for sleep, and coffee helped keep the dream alive. Besides, if it wasn’t coffee it would be whiskey, and I tried to make it a rule not to drink at the office. I never knew when trouble might show up, and when it did, I preferred to be ready for it.

As if my thoughts had been a premonition, the bell above the door jingled. Someone was here. After midnight was a little late for a client. Late enough that Father Keller—a better man than me in all ways, including taking care of his body the way he should—was at home sleeping instead of out at the front desk. But stranger things had happened. In my life, a lot stranger.

In this part of town, it was either a client or a robbery. I reached for the gun at my belt.

Hello? a high, uncertain voice called. Is, um, is Nic Ward here?

A client. Praise the Empty Throne. With any luck, she was rich.

I’m in the back, I called. Door’s unlocked.

A second later, a woman walked in. She looked like someone’s first-grade teacher who had gotten lost on her way to the milkshake bar after work. Her soft gray skirt hung down to her ankles. Knitted dogs cavorted across her fuzzy sweater. Her blond bangs curled in slightly at the sides, making her wide, nervous eyes look even rounder.

She had her head down and her shoulders drawn in, like she thought someone was going to pull out a gun and start shooting at her if she looked at them wrong. To be fair, around here, that wasn’t so remote a possibility.

I swept the papers to one side of the desk and motioned to the seat in front of me. Sit. Tell me what brings you here so late.

She glanced over her shoulder at the door, like she was having second thoughts. I get that a lot. Maybe it’s the hair that always winds up hanging into my eyes and sticking out in all directions no matter how much I try to comb it into submission. Maybe it’s the stubble I keep forgetting to shave now that these things don’t take care of themselves. Or maybe people can just sense how I don’t fit quite right in my human skin. Whatever it is, I’ve been told I don’t exactly have a presence that screams trust me.

This is why I normally have Father Keller working the front desk. That, and it keeps me from having to talk to people any more than I need to.

You’re Nic Ward? She couldn’t keep the skepticism from her voice.

I wondered what she had expected. The address alone should have told her she wasn’t walking into some high-class downtown office with potted plants on the desks and classical music in the air. I made a halfhearted attempt to swipe a few wiry stands of hair out of my face. That’s me. Now how about you tell me who you are, and how you knew to come looking for me. I don’t exactly advertise.

Did you know there’s someone watching your office? she asked instead of answering. I was outside for a while, trying to get up the courage to come in. There’s a gray car outside that didn’t move the whole time I was out there. It looks too nice for this neighborhood.

So I wasn’t the only one working late. Also, my would-be client was sharper than she looked. Good. Nothing makes me reconsider my choice of profession like trying to protect humans who don’t have the brains to protect themselves.

But my history with a certain overenthusiastic police detective didn’t concern her. So I didn’t answer, just kept on waiting for her to answer my question. Most people will fill a silence sooner or later if you don’t give them a choice.

She proved no exception. I’ve heard your name around a few times, she said. They say Nic Ward is the person to go to when you’re desperate, and don’t have any other options left. Well, I’m desperate.

She kept her chin up well enough as she said it. Even gave me a little smile. But she followed it up with the sniff of someone trying to hold back tears. A closer look showed me the telltale redness in her eyes.

I gave her a single nod, steepled my hands in front of me, and waited for her to tell me the rest.

There are people after me, she said. At least three different men so far. They’ve found me at home, out walking, at the grocery store. They say they work for someone called Vick O’Neill. They say I owe him, and payment is due. I’ve never heard of a Vick O’Neill in my life, let alone borrowed money from him. I told them they have the wrong person, but they kept coming back. Her hands trembled against her sweater. When it started, they said I had six weeks to give them what I owe willingly, or they’d take me to their boss so he and I could work it out between ourselves. I’m not stupid—I know they’re not talking about a friendly conversation. And at midnight tonight, my time runs out.

Going by the clock, her time had run out a couple hours ago. And you don’t have any idea what this might be about?

I didn’t like the way her eyes darted to the side just then. I… ran into some trouble at work, a while back. But that’s all over now.

What kind of work? What kind of trouble, was what I really wanted to ask. But if I pushed too hard too soon, even someone who looked as guileless as her might lie. Better to let her come around to the truth in her own time.

A small hesitation. Another flick of her eyes. I teach fourth grade. Wallace Norton Elementary School.

Teacher. Got it in one. There went my dreams of a fat payday.

Did you go to the police? I asked, for form’s sake. People who came to me either had good reason not to go to the police, or had gotten a firsthand look at how little the local cops cared about real justice.

Of course. First thing. But they… Another hesitation. They said they can’t help me.

You’re going to have to tell me about this trouble sooner or later if you hire me, I said. And what really happened with the police. But let’s get the basics out of the way first. I slid smoothly into my well-worn speech. I’m a personal security consultant. The key word there is ‘consult.’ I’m not a bodyguard, or an investigator, or anything less legal. All I can do for you, legally, is dispense advice on how to protect your person and your property. Following through on that advice is up to you. That’s what my contract would say, if I believed in putting things down on paper, and it’s what I’ll say in court if it ever comes to that. Do you understand?

To my surprise, a small, tense smile flickered across her face. You mean if the police come around asking questions, I’ll say I visited your office, received some very good advice, and never saw you again.

She really was as sharp as she seemed. Good. Some people are slower on the uptake, and that’s when the conversation gets awkward. As a general rule, I prefer to speak as plainly as possible, but I wouldn’t put it past the good detective to send someone in wearing a wire one of these days.

The truth is, I get justice for people who have no other recourse. When the cops won’t do their jobs, when Heaven itself turns a deaf ear—and believe me, everyone up there has too many problems of their own to worry about what’s going on down here these days—I do whatever it takes to make sure the good and the evil alike get what they deserve.

Just what that means depends on the client. The one thing I can count on is that it’s never anything the cops would like. That’s okay—I don’t answer to them, now or ever. I’ve put in my time taking orders from a corrupt system. I gave up everything I had, twice over, to make sure I’d never have to do it again. The first when I Fell. The second when I… well, that’s a whole other story right there.

I named a price. It was enough to keep the lights on—if I lived on ramen for the next month—but only just. Even so, she blanched. I fought the urge to revise the number, but knew I’d do it in a heartbeat if she tried to negotiate me down. Not that she looked like the negotiating type.

Half up front, I said. Half when you get what you need, whatever that turns out to be. We can talk details after I have your deposit.

Ordinarily I’d want those details first. Especially after the way she suddenly forgot how to make eye contact every time I asked her a question as innocent as what kind of work she did. But I needed that deposit more than I needed to know I wasn’t getting myself into more trouble than I could handle.

And she needed what I could do. Maybe there were things she wasn’t saying, but she wasn’t lying about that much.

She reached into her purse, a little beaded thing with a sunshine charm dangling off the zipper, and pulled out her wallet. She counted out bills, each one with a flinch like it physically hurt, and walked up to lay them on the desk.

Under the worn leather of my fingerless gloves, my scars blazed to life. My palms had been smooth a second ago; now the burns seared my skin as if I had gotten them five seconds ago instead of five years. My skin tugged against the bones of my hands as the glyphs twisted and writhed, trying to escape the prison of my flesh.

I jerked up out of my chair. It fell sideways with a crash.

She jumped. The bills fluttered out of her hand. Some landed on the desk.

I pushed them back toward her. Forget the deposit, I said, my voice rough. I can’t help you.

She grabbed the fallen bills and held them in a crumpled fist. She didn’t put them back. I don’t understand.

I couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t seen what had happened—that was why I wore the gloves in the first place. She might not even know she carried the residue of divine power on her.

Whether it came from Heaven or Hell, I didn’t know. The scars didn’t make that kind of distinction. Neither could I tell how she’d picked it up.

It didn’t matter.

There was one kind of trouble I wouldn’t go near. No matter how much I was hurting for cash. Or how badly someone needed my help.

I righted my chair, but didn’t sit back down. You didn’t tell me everything, I said. Did you?

She looked like she was stranded in the middle of the ocean and I had snatched away her life preserver. Maybe I had. What do you mean? she asked.

I mean the weird stuff.

How did you… She drew a shaky breath. After the first time, I put up a camera outside my front door. I figured that way I could get a picture to show the police. Only when they came around the next day, the camera didn’t pick them up. It was like the porch was empty the whole time. That’s why the police won’t help. They don’t believe these men exist. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to think I was crazy. I know I sound like it, but I swear, this is real.

I know. But most people wouldn’t. Of the few who knew the truth of the world, it was an even rarer few who would care about a schoolteacher who had stumbled into something she couldn’t get herself out of. The ones who did care already had more on their plates than they could handle.

No one was going to save her.

Not even me.

I can’t help you, I repeated. You need to go.

Chapter 2

Time was, divine power flowed in my veins instead of blood, and wrapped around my bones in place of muscle. I didn’t just have magic; I was magic, down to the cellular level. Having power didn’t make me powerful, not when I didn’t have a say in how I used it. Still, I didn’t realize how much I took it for granted. Not until I burned it all away in one desperate attack, and found myself here in this fragile human body that got tired and hungry and sick. A body that would die someday.

If I ever wanted to have any kind of power again besides the kind that came with a gun anyone could buy off the street… if I wanted to have a fighting chance at helping the next person who came to my door with more-than-human problems… I was going to have to get that power the hard way, just like any other human. I was going to have to learn it from the ground up.

It wasn’t going well.

Try again, Margot ordered from behind me.

She had the voice of a drill sergeant and a face that said, Have another cookie, dear. She was a full head shorter than me, with crepe-paper skin and a tight cap of white curls, and looked like a brisk wind could blow her away. But meet her eyes long enough and you’d see no wind would dare try.

She had propped up a cardboard target against her antique divan, right under a picture of the Virgin Mary that was fully half my height. She used to have a dedicated room for this sort of thing back when she used to take students, or so she had told me once, but she had torn out the soundproofing and turned it into a sewing room twenty years ago. I was her only student these days. She took me on as a special favor after I saved her from a problem her magic couldn’t get her out of.

So far it wasn’t paying off for either of us. Probably why she wasn’t too worried about the furniture.

I shook my head at the untouched target and lowered my extended hand. This isn’t going to work.

Margot crossed her arms. You’re the one who insisted on an emergency lesson today instead of waiting for our usual appointment. You’re the one who wanted this badly enough to drag your behind here at five in the morning, when you normally don’t roll out of bed until noon. Try again.

I couldn’t argue with that voice. Especially at five in the morning.

I picked up the rosary she had lent me. In theory, it was supposed to work as a focus to tap me into humanity’s collective supply of faith. Faith was humanity’s only access to the power that used to be as much a part of me as my own wings. And the rosary was full of faith—I could tell by how her fingers had worn the beads to a shine.

The problem was, none of that faith was mine.

My scars writhed across my palms. Margot had been working with angelic power long enough that its residue clung to her all the time, like a whiff of faded perfume. Touching her rosary only made it worse. Margot must have noticed my scars as soon as I had taken off my gloves for our first lesson months ago, but if she had ever wondered about them, she hadn’t asked.

I closed my eyes and pictured the three angelic glyphs that spelled out the formula she had been trying to teach me for as long as these lessons had been going on. They blazed in white fire against a starless black sky, just like she had taught me. As soon as I called the symbols to mind, they began to squirm and twist in my inner vision. This was a language the human brain wasn’t meant to hold.

Once, this had been my native tongue. Now that I was human, it had taken months of painstaking effort just to memorize these three symbols. The angelic script couldn’t be written; the glyphs melted away as soon as they were committed to paper. The ones in my mind were currently trying to do the same thing.

I struggled to hold the mental image in place as I opened my eyes. I extended my hand and shouted into the small, echoey room. "A hasda!"

Before I spoke the first syllable, I knew it wouldn’t work. The glyphs in my inner vision had warped beyond recognition. They ran down the edges of the black background like water. The words hung in the air, flat. The cardboard target sat there untouched, silently mocking me.

Margot shook her head. You need to find your faith. Otherwise we’re both wasting our time here.

You were the one who told me to try again.

And you’re the one who keeps coming back here week after week, even though I tell you the same thing every time. Margot plucked the rosary from my hands. You need your own focus, to start. Borrowed faith won’t get you far. The focus has to mean something to you, or it has about as much power as a toy gun.

I opened my mouth. She pointed a stern finger at me. And don’t you give me that line about how the world has enough faith to fuel your magic without you adding any of your own. Even if I believed in teaching someone how to be a freeloader, there are no free lunches here. You can’t sail to the sea without a river to ride, and you can’t tap into what’s out there without finding it inside yourself first. That’s what the focus is for—to get you on the river. Have you given any more thought to what might work for you? An old family Bible, maybe?

I don’t have any family. And God and I were never on good terms.

I’m going to let you in on a secret. Margot leaned in close and stretched up toward my ear, like she thought the Virgin Mary across the room might be listening in. Whatever they might say in church, it doesn’t much matter what you believe in. God has never let me down, but if you two don’t get along, then think about looking elsewhere. You believe in something, don’t you? The wonders of the natural world, the goodness of the human heart… She studied my face and gave me a small, secret smile. Or maybe all you believe in is yourself. I’ve seen that be enough for some.

I shook my head. I’ve seen too much to have any believing left in me. Sounds like I’ve been wasting your time. I won’t waste any more of it.

Pah. You and your excuses. You think I haven’t seen as much as you? For a second, her bland accent slipped, turning her vowels rounder and her words thicker. The sound of a place I had never been and didn’t recognize. But the angels carried me through it all. They’ve been there protecting you too, even if you haven’t seen them.

I managed to restrain my laughter, but it was a near thing. The angels were out there protecting people, all right. Or they had been. But I doubted Margot had been on their list. And they sure as hell weren’t looking out for me.

But all right, say your faith has run dry and you can’t fill that well again, said Margot. It can’t have always been that way. Go back in your memory. Find the last time you believed in something so strongly you’d give anything for it. It doesn’t matter what—maybe it was the girl next door. That’s still faith. She pressed the rosary back into my hand and closed my fingers around it. Her skin felt like creased silk. You go back to that memory. You breathe that feeling in deep. Then you’ll know what you need to find if you want to do more than waste your breath screaming at the furniture.

I wanted to tell her there was no point in searching for memories that weren’t there. But then I would have dragged myself out here at five in the morning for no reason. I closed my eyes and cast my mind back, already knowing I would come up empty. I had served the Divine Throne once. But what I had felt for the one who had sat there wasn’t faith.

Back when there was a God, He wasn’t some kindly old man watching over humanity from Heaven. He was a tyrant grown fat on praise and drunk on incense smoke. He got off on watching humans run around like frantic ants trying to earn His favor, and locking down His angels’ powers until we could hardly scratch our asses without His permission. Worse, though, was how that lock also worked as a key. When the power took control of me, I had to use it, even when I would rather have turned it on myself than follow His orders.

Until I Fell, I was a guardian angel. It was a shit job, and we all knew it—a punishment for those of us who didn’t bow low enough before the Throne. My job: protect the humans who had earned God’s favor. The ones who fed His ego by praising Him loudest and longest. No matter how they indulged their private sins on their altar boys or their neighbors’ wives.

A guardian angel protects the innocent and the righteous. That’s what the humans believe, anyway. And that kind of thing seeps into your bones after a while. You start to believe it, even when you know it’s a lie. I started to believe it. But instead of protecting the innocent, I had to keep on protecting the ones who hurt them.

There was no faith to be found in the things I had done.

Except once. When I wielded my sword in the Last War—well, Michael’s sword, but I didn’t leave him in any shape to take it back. When we stormed Heaven and spilled divine blood on its golden streets. When millennia of helpless rage came together in one brief shining moment of ecstatic hate. When at last, I could do what I was made for, and fight for the good. For justice.

The glyphs flared to life in my mind. White flames seared into my vision. I didn’t have to try to force them to hold their shape. They felt as solid as the floor under my feet, burning in three dimensions and setting my scars ablaze with their heat.

The fire spilled out from the symbols and down through my body. It hurt, but it was the pain of driving past a place you used to know and not seeing anything you recognize, or pulling out an old family photo and counting up the people who have died.

I was home.

I had no home anymore. Maybe I never had.

My fingers tightened around the sword I wasn’t holding. I remembered home. I remembered hate.

The white fire of the glyphs turned blood-red. The angelic words roared through me, a sensation more than a sound.

A low boom. The tinkle of shattering glass. My eyes snapped open.

The target was gone. Not hit through the middle. Not blasted into pieces. Just gone. So was most of the divan. A scorch mark two feet across blackened Margot’s floor. A few scraps of charred fabric lay scattered around the edges, along with broken glass from the bottom half of the picture frame. The remains of the picture swung slowly back and forth, Mary’s eyes staring at me in solemn accusation.

One look at Margot’s face told me this wasn’t a success.

That was not what I expected, she said, in the voice of someone holding on to their calm for dear life. I had never heard her shaken before.

I looked down at my scars, which now glowed red as hellfire. I still had the rosary clutched between my fingers. Whatever I had done, it hadn’t damaged the beads any. I handed the rosary back to Margot, who took it back with the hurried care of a cop disarming an unhinged suspect.

You’re sure I did that? I asked.

You did something. What it was, I couldn’t tell you. This is one of the most basic formulae there is. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it used. I know what it’s meant to look like.

Not like that, I guessed, with a gesture toward the ruins of the living room. My forced smile hung at an angle like the remains of the picture.

This is meant to be a precise strike. Done properly, the flame would have burned through the center of the target and left everything else untouched. Done improperly, there should have been no effect.

Like all the other times I’ve tried.

And the flame should have been white. Red is… I don’t know what it is. Nothing I’ve ever seen.

And she’d been practicing angelic magic for more than half a century. Since long before I Fell. Maybe I just need more practice.

No, she said sharply. Then, after a deep breath, I don’t know what memory you called on today, but it’s one best left locked away. For now, go home. Put that memory out of your mind. It won’t serve you in this work.

The rosary trembled in her hands.

I don’t know, I said, trying to sound like her nerves didn’t scare the shit out of me. That kind of thing could be pretty useful if I’ve got my back to a wall.

Hatred can be a force like no other, when it’s strong enough. Her blue-black eyes held mine with an intensity that told me she had gotten more insight from my burst of power than she wanted to admit. And yours may be the strongest I’ve ever seen. You honed your hatred to a weapon once. You accomplished great and terrible things.

I broke our gaze and walked as fast as I could toward the door without running. I’ll send you a check for the damage.

She blocked my way. Faith connects us to something greater than ourselves. What you called on today can’t draw on anything but your own being. You could use it as a substitute for faith. Maybe. For a while. But it will burn away all you have inside you, and leave you empty of everything but despair.

I wasn’t so sure I had anything left to burn away. I’d given it all in the last battle of the Last War. I had no regrets. But I didn’t have much else in me, either. I won’t bother you again. I reached past her for the doorknob.

She stepped aside. I walked out into the gray dawn.

Next week, she called after me. Usual time. And don’t even think about trying to pay for the damage.

I didn’t answer.

Chapter 3

The trek back to my building from Margot’s house was almost an hour’s walk. I could have taken my car, but it had been grumbling at me lately in a way I didn’t much like the sound of, and besides, I needed the exercise. I’d learned the hard way that I had to make myself sweat on a regular basis to keep Father Keller’s daily pastry haul from going straight to my midsection.

Plus, the exertion helped me work off the adrenaline Margot’s reaction had spiked. I hadn’t thought it was possible for anything to shake that woman.

I walked down cracked sidewalks, past crumbling storefronts and shuttered warehouses. My building was an architectural afterthought sandwiched between two hulking monstrosities that had been bustling factories in their time, or so I was told. Now they were the corpses of fallen giants.

One had been empty for years—at least on paper. But not a week went by when I didn’t see someone skulking in or out to make a furtive trade. My walls were thin enough to tell me those trades ranged from drugs to sex to worse. The other had been converted into apartments a couple of years back. I had met the landlord a couple of times. He and I had a lot in common, in that no one came to either of us unless they were all out of other options. The difference was, people left my building in a better situation than when they came in.

Most of the time.

I tried not to picture the teacher from last night. Most of all, I tried not to wonder where she would go next. I wasn’t the only game in town. She had other options, if she didn’t value her soul too highly. For her sake, I hoped she didn’t know about any of them.

The lights were on in my office. Father Keller was in early, which meant there was coffee and breakfast waiting inside. Just the thought made me a little warmer. I paused and used my sleeve to wipe the dust of the city off the small plaque by the door. NIC WARD, it read in letters barely bigger than my thumbnail. Nothing else. Anyone who had any business at my door already knew who I was and what I did.

I pushed open the door. The rich smell of the Daily Grind’s dark roast cozied up inside my nostrils and burrowed straight into my brain. Underneath, I caught the scent of chocolate and buttery bread. Good thing I had gone for that walk.

I hope you saved some for— I stopped dead as I took in the sight in front of me.

Father Keller was where he was every morning, sitting at the front desk with a pair of takeout coffee cups and a white paper bag overflowing with breakfast pastries next to him. As always, he was smiling too much for this time of morning, relaxed and unflappable in his worn denim and an argyle sweater. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back from his face, and he smelled faintly of pine soap.

The man sitting opposite Father Keller turned around in time to watch my hair spring back into its preferred place. He had the square jaw of Captain America and the eyes of the Terminator. He wore a suit that looked like he’d ironed it fresh that morning, and the glow of his white shirt could have saved us a fortune on our electric bill. He held a half-eaten chocolate muffin in one hand. We only kept one chair out here, but Father Keller had found him another: mine. I ground my teeth.

Detective Sullivan, I said, trying not to make the name sound as bad as it tasted. To what do we owe the pleasure?

He set the muffin down on the desk and brushed a nonexistent chocolate crumb off his gleaming shirt before answering. You know why I’m here. You know what questions I’m going to ask. I suggest you make things easy on both of us for once and give me some straight answers.

This again. Instead of responding, I looked over his shoulder at Father Keller. You shouldn’t feed strays. It means they’ll keep coming back.

He’s a guest. And we had food to spare. My waistline certainly doesn’t need it. He patted his small paunch with a smile, then held out a second chocolate muffin to me.

I didn’t take it. He’s a cop. I’m sure he’s not hurting for donuts.

In which case, muffins must be a nice change, wouldn’t you agree? Speaking of which, take this off my hands, please, or I’ll be forced to eat it myself. Even the willpower of a priest only goes so far.

Sullivan fixed me with his steely glare. Are you finished? Or would you rather continue trying to distract me from the disappearance and probable death of an innocent victim with your clever quips? If so, carry on. I have time. He theatrically leaned back, stretched his arms out, and clasped his hands behind his head.

Leaving aside the fact that I’ve answered your questions a dozen times over, I said, you and I both know Kevin Fisher was hardly innocent.

Kevin Fisher. Husband of Lorelai Fisher—a client from about six months back—and perennial thorn in my side. Last year, Kevin Fisher’s twelve-year-old daughter went missing. Found dead two days later in the back of Fisher’s pickup with the back of her skull caved in. Sullivan had been lead detective on the case, and he’d wrapped the case up as tight as it could get. The only way the evidence against Fisher could have been more damning would have been if Sullivan had caught him with a bloody baseball bat clutched between his sausage fingers.

But Fisher had gotten the best judge money could buy, and he’d had it to spare. The man walked. That was when Lorelai came to me. Kevin Fisher disappeared a week later. Walked off his job site one day and never came back.

So what did Sullivan do when he started investigating the disappearance and my name came up? Send me flowers? No, he came around waving his badge and demanding an alibi, and he hadn’t left since.

There was nothing for him to find. I knew how to cover my tracks. But the man had a nose like a bloodhound, and he smelled trouble on me.

I leaned back against the wall, bit off a dark, melty chunk of muffin still warm from the oven, and resigned myself to wasting another hour of my life telling Sullivan where I had been the night Kevin Fisher had disappeared.

But Sullivan’s glare deepened. This isn’t about Fisher, and you know it.

Huh. If that’s true, it’ll make for a nice change. What’s it about, then?

Sullivan shook off his pretended ease. He lowered his hands to his knees and leaned in toward me, eyes narrowed. Do not, he said, enunciating each word with knifelike precision, play games with me. Not today.

This would go faster for both of us if you just tell me what you’re after.

This is about Holly Bennett. Sullivan pulled a creased photograph from his pocket and laid it on the desk.

I bent down to look—and froze. I straightened slowly, breathing out to the count of four. I couldn’t risk looking like I cared about the photo, but my eyes were done obeying me. They went back to the picture and didn’t look away.

The teacher’s wide blue eyes stared back at me.

I saw this woman leaving your office last night, he said. The next morning, we got a call about a fire down in St. James Circle. A house belonging to none other than Holly Bennett. He tapped the photograph with a single clawlike finger. Someone set the fire. No doubt about it. Someone tried to kill Holly Bennett. There’s a good chance they succeeded. And I’m thinking either you know why someone wanted her dead, or you lit the match yourself.

I’m sure you know more about her than I do, I said. She did come to my office last night. She wanted to hire me.

As a ‘personal security consultant,’ Sullivan said, with a twist of his lips. He’d heard my speech about what I did and didn’t do. He’d seen through it as well as Holly had.

That’s right. But I turned her away. Something didn’t smell right. If I’m guilty of anything, it’s of not doing enough. My voice roughened. Damn it. Do I feel guilty about that? Sure. But that doesn’t make me guilty of arson. Or murder.

You’re telling the truth about one thing, said Sullivan. Something here doesn’t smell right. It hasn’t since the first time I walked through this door. I’ve done some digging into you. The first mention I can find of you anywhere is five years ago, when you bought this building. You’ve got a birth certificate on file, a social security number, but no employment history. No school records. Not so much as a parking ticket.

What can I say? I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. Even when it comes to parking.

You set up shop in the worst part of town. Your business doesn’t exist on paper. You’ve got a former priest answering your phones—

There’s no such thing as a former priest, Father Keller cut in mildly. The vocation is for life.

Sullivan raised an eyebrow at Father Keller. In that case, this is an interesting calling you’ve chosen, Father.

A man doesn’t choose his calling. A man’s calling chooses him. Father Keller took a long, slow sip of coffee.

And he’s not answering any phones, I said. Not anymore. Office phone service got cut off last week. I waited until Sullivan looked back at me with a scowl, then placed my own finger down in the center of Holly’s picture. What else have you found so far? Or were you so sure I did it that you didn’t bother looking for any other leads?

I won’t discuss the details of a case with a suspect. Sullivan tried to slide the picture back across the desk toward him. I didn’t let go.

If I’m a suspect, are you here to arrest me?

The look in Sullivan’s eyes was answer enough. Not that I needed it. I already knew he didn’t have the evidence for an arrest. He couldn’t, seeing as for once I was telling him the truth.

I walked across the room and held the door open. If I’m not under arrest, I suggest you thank the good Father for his hospitality and leave. You’ve asked your questions. I answered. It’s getting toward business hours, and nothing will drive away the clients faster than a cop sitting at the front desk, making himself at home.

I’m sure. He passed his business card to Father Keller. Between the two of us, we must have collected enough of those things to wallpaper the office. You’ll call me if you get any new information, I’m sure. You wouldn’t want to be found concealing evidence.

We have your number, Father Keller said with an easy smile. He slid the card back toward Sullivan.

Free advice, I said as Sullivan stalked stiff-legged to the open door. Be careful with this one. It’s more dangerous out there than you know.

Is that a threat?

It’s all the help I can give you on this. I suggest you take it.

Chapter 4

As soon as Sullivan walked out, I slammed the door on him and rounded on Father Keller. You gave him my chair.