Chapter twenty-four
“But why? Why kill Brenda Stevenson? I don’t understand.”
We were seated in the kitchen of the guest house; our hands clenched around two cups of tea that were getting cold. My view was blurred, as if I was losing my sight. I felt dumbfounded.
“She was only sixteen years old.”
I had lost count of how many times he had said it. Father Alan looked as old as Methuselah that morning.
“Sebastian’s out of control,” I said, lowering my voice, as if I feared to hear my own words.
“No, no.” He was shaking his head. He didn’t want to believe it. “He’s not a murderer. If he killed Davenport... well, I could understand his motivations. Beware; I'm not justifying him... But not the sweet, innocent, young Brenda Stevenson. She wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“If Sebastian is unaware of
