IT’S WARM FOR A MARCH evening when Father Wayne opens the door and we step out of the Residence.
But the iciness coming from Helen chills me to the bone.
She says nothing to me as we walk to her car. She does not so much as look in my direction. Out of the corner of my eye I see her looking ahead, spine straight, jaw set.
It’s going to be a long drive back to Myerton.
In the car, I say nonchalantly, “Well, that was fun.”
Helen shoots me a look that could freeze fire, but says nothing in reply.
“Look,” I say, “I know I’m in trouble. What can I do to make you not mad at me anymore?”
Definitely not the right thing to say.
She doesn’t answer me but instead drives very sedately up the Archbishop’s driveway. Once she’s at the street, she guns the engine and peels out into rush hour traff
