Thirty-Seven
IT IS ALMOST 24 HOURS exactly when Helen comes by the Rectory.
The moment I see her face, I know.
“No match, huh?” I say.
She shakes her head, her eyes brimming with tears. She clears her throat before rasping, “I’m sorry, Tom. I failed you.”
Breaking down in sobs, she collapses on the couch. Throwing our Lenten agreement out the window—at least for the next few minutes—I sit and wrap my arms around her, pulling her head to my chest and stroking her hair while she wets my shirt with her tears.
“It’s OK, Helen,” I whisper in her ear.
“I don’t have anything left,” she whispers. “There’s nothing. I don’t have another lead to follow. No other suspects.”
“That’s not quite true,” I say, laying my cheek on her head. Vanilla instantly overwhelms my senses, and for the first ti
