The heat presses against me. I feel myself getting lost inside it. Red doors. Locked doors. Spaces that go unused in summer. But surely a CCD teacher or youth pastor would have a key to the basement if they taught down there. Anyone who works at the church could have a key. An office assistant. A janitor. Didn’t I hear of a case at school once, predating my time there, where a student began to feel creeped out by the custodian at her temple? Didn’t her parents call the school to warn them in case he showed up? I glance back at the red door behind me.
“Can I go down there?” I ask.
Father Murphy tilts his head again, skeptical, but he smiles a little, and even in the shadows, I can see that his eyes look kind. “Are you a parishioner? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
“No, I’m not,” I admit. “Is that okay? I’m here because of Astrid Sullivan. I’m… I knew her. When we were kids.”
His face instantly changes. His mouth tightens and his smile, small as it is, goes sharp. “Ah, Astrid,” he says. “Tragic, what I’ve been hearing about her these days. You were a friend of hers?”
“Um. No. Not friends exactly.”
He blinks at me.
“I lived on her street,” I add. “On Bleeker.”
I cringe at the lie, but Father Murphy doesn’t see. He’s just removed a handkerchief from his pocket and is running it along his forehead. “I see,” he says. He folds the cloth into a tiny square before putting it back. “And what brought you to St. Cecilia’s today?”
An arm around a waist. A girl who reaches and pleads.
“I’m worried about her,” I say. “Being missing again. And I, um, moved away—before her first kidnapping. I know she went here and everything, for church, and classes, so—” I struggle to keep connecting the dots I’ve created, but I don’t know how to explain my presence with anything but the truth. I let out a breath. “I’m just looking for answers about what happened to her.”
Father Murphy scrutinizes me. My posture stiffens as his eyes linger on my face. “That’s understandable,” he finally says. “I’m sure a lot of people are looking for answers. From God, from the police. In a way, it’s a blessing that her parents aren’t here to endure this all over again. What they went through last time…” He shakes his head. “I was there the day she went missing. At the Confirmation party.”
My pulse thumps in my neck, but I lean against the wall. Cross my arms. Try to look casual. “Wow,” I say. Then I inhale. Exhale. Load my Social Worker Voice back into my throat. “Can you tell me about it? That day, I mean.”
He shrugs, and his white collar scrapes against his neck. “What would you like to know?”
I shrug too. Casual. “Whatever you remember.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, “it’s been such a long time.” But when he continues, it doesn’t seem like he’s forgotten much at all. It seems like he’s told this story again and again.
“I remember it was a lovely party. A lot of parishioners were there. I think the Sullivans—God bless them—invited the entire church. They were clearly very proud of her. Confirmation is an important sacrament, you know.”
I nod, but I don’t know. As a child, the closest I ever came to praying was when I blew the puffy head off a dandelion stem and wished for Ted to open his door.
“I remember speaking to Astrid for a bit,” Father Murphy adds, smiling slightly. “She had some questions for me. About God and faith. I was happy to hear she was continuing to think about these things. It’s no secret that some people only get confirmed because their parents push them into it—and then I never see them on Sundays again. It’s supposed to be the opposite, of course. It’s supposed to be a strengthening of the grace received at Baptism, a deeper commitment to the Church, willingly made, so that you may be sealed with the gifts of the Holy Spirit. But I’m not naïve. I’ve been doing this for a very long time.”
“Right,” I say when he doesn’t continue. “I, um—I remember Astrid being… pretty religious?”
I mean to sound confident, but it comes out as a question. I’m trying to picture this dim hallway, this cavernous echoing church, as a sanctuary for her. But all I can think is sanctuaries that become