Page 80 of Priestly Sins

“And what do you do there, Kay?”

“I’m Mr. O’Shea’s paralegal.”

“And you’re familiar with my business with Bobby?”

“I am.”

“And do you think he was capable—” I look in the mirror to verify that Clara is still asleep. “Of killing himself?”

Sirona gasps near me and flings her hand to her throat.

“I…. Well, sir… he did.”

“Wasn’t what I asked, Kay.” My words come out brusque.

“I, um, well, I would say no.”

“Anything out of the ordinary? Like the note was typed? Anything?”

“Just the handwritten note and the fact that his desk was clean. But that’s in fitting with suicide… Getting your affairs in order and all, but it was a mess this morning, like it normally is. I really wouldn’t think he could or would do this. It seems so unlike him, but… Well, he did it.”

“Kay? Anything else? Anything? God! I need to make sense of this. He’s my best friend.”

“No. Although….” She trails off and I let her because I’m nowhere near accepting this information.

“Although, what? Anything, give me anything, no matter how weird.”

“He had a lunch meeting with a new client. They met out at the client’s insistence. He came back after and that’s when he….”

“Oh, God! He was at the office?”

“Yeah.”

“What did the note say?”

“It says,” she pauses, her swallow audible in my ears. “It says,He’s coming for you.”

My vision goes red. My blood runs like ice in my veins.

I try to swallow but my tongue is so thick I can’t get past it.

“Are you still there?” Kay asks, her voice tremulous.

“Yes.”

“There was one other thing. Mr. O’Shea wasn’t a flowers kind of guy. And there were flowers on his desk, well, one flower—a pink daisy—on his desk when—”

If more is said, I never hear it.

I recheck the rearview and turn to Sirona, using my eyes to tell her to come take the driver’s seat, and I exit the car. I squeeze my phone, wishing it would shatter.

Sirona takes the driver’s seat and I nod and flick my hand up the lane. If I speak, I will scream. She rolls down the window, opens her mouth, closes it upon seeing my face, and slowly meanders up the driveway.

When she’s far enough away, I drop to my knees and scream as loud as I have breath to release. My wailing must be heard in the car, because I see brake lights and then the car slowly reverse back to where I am on my hands and knees, tears falling from my face, body wracking with sobs and silent screams. Two gentle hands rub my back and two knees drop beside me, attempting to lift me.

I shake my head back and forth and all I can say through my tears is, “No. No. No. Not him. Not Bobby. No. No. No.”

Sirona knows it’s not about her or my inability or unwillingness to move so much as it’s about my grief. She gently tries to lift me, and when I’m standing, she envelops me in a hug. When my wracking stops, she leads me to the passenger’s seat and drives me home.