Twelve
“WOULD YOU LIKE THE same boxes as last week, Father Tom?”
I look at Gwen across the reference desk. “Um, no, I’d like something else. I believe the collection has some papers from Harriet Stirling?”
“Oh!” Gwen says with surprise. “Harriet Stirling? Wasn’t she the wife of the man whose body—or what’s left of it anyway—they found Saturday afternoon?”
“Gwen,” I say firmly, “those remains have not been identified.”
“But that story in the Gazette—”
“—was premature. In any event, I’d like to see her papers, please.”
“Of course, Father. I know right where they are. I’ve served them a few times to Nate Rodriguez over the last few weeks.”
As she goes to retrieve the box, I wonder what I think I’m doing. What do I hope to find, looking in the letters and diary of a woman broken by lif
