Ziva did not go home. The thought of that apartment, of Lucien returning later, of pretending nothing had happened, was impossible. The silver dress was stiff with dried wine. It scraped against her skin with every movement. She walked. The night air was cool on her hot face. She walked without thinking about direction. Her feet knew the way.
She went to St. Brigid’s.
The old church was dark, but a light was on in the small office window. Eliana was there, sitting at her desk. It was as if she had been waiting. She looked up as Ziva entered the garden gate. Her eyes took in the ruined dress, the bare arms, the empty expression.
Eliana did not ask what happened. She did not gasp or fuss. She stood up. She walked to a small cupboard. She pulled out an old, grey sweatshirt. It was soft and
