I’M RIGHT.
Father Leonard is on his knees before the statue of Our Lady in the Grotto. The moonlight brightly illuminates the statues of both Mary and Saint Bernadette. I can make out Leonard on the ground between Bernadette and the statue. He’s muttering loud enough so I can hear him. He’s saying the sorrowful mysteries of the Rosary.
I try to tiptoe up to him, but I step on and break a small branch. Father Leonard jumps up with a cry, spinning around.
“Who—who’s there,” he stammers. “The police? Have you come for me? I didn’t mean to do it!”
I approach carefully, not wanting to spook the already fragile Father. “It’s me, Leonard,” I say.
“Oh,” Father Leonard says with a sigh of relief. “Father Tom. I thought—”
Walking closer, I say, “You’re right, Leonard. The police are here. The
