Page 38 of Rogue

Good enough.

And it was kind of a cute little snore. Francis honked like he had a deviated septum or something.

She closed the bedroom door again, making sure it latched tightly. She padded over to the other side of the room and sat on the floor next to her phone that was plugged into the wall.

Sister Ann’s contact listing in Dree’s phone had both her regular phone number and her favorite social media profile, MakeChat. Dree tried calling her with a video chat through the app.

Sister Ann’s face appeared on Dree’s screen, her eyes wide and startled. “I didn’t know MakeChat did video calls!”

Dree laughed at her softly. “Hey, Sister Ann. There’s some stuff going on. Do you have time to talk for just a second?”

Sister Ann settled herself farther into her chair. She appeared to be holding her phone with both hands and squinting into it. “Of course, Andrea Catherine.”

Sister Ann always called Dree by her first name and her confirmation name. Sister Ann had acted as an extraordinary deacon when Dree was confirmed, but the nun called everybody by their full first and confirmation names. Sister Ann continued, “I have twenty minutes before I need to teach remedial Latin to the Sunday School catechism kids. What can I do you for?”

Dree wasn’t sure where to start. “A lot of stuff has happened to me in the last two days, and I think I don’t know a lot of what’s going on.”

Sister Ann chuckled. “And you want to activate the Catholic Mafia.”

“Could you make some inquiries for me? It would help a lot.”

She adjusted the small gray handkerchief she wore pinned over her schoolmarm bun. She picked up a ballpoint pen, clicked it, and set it to paper, ready to take notes. “Give me information.”

“So, I’ve been dating a guy for over a year. Then, over the last few days, I think he swindled me out of a lot of money. I think I didn’t really know him at all.”

“Is he Catholic?”

She would have asked that, regardless. “He went to Brophy,” a Jesuit high school in Phoenix, “and his parents are members of the Immaculate Conception diocese.”

Sister Ann chuckled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Father Thomas over at Immaculate Conception is an old friend of mine from missionary work. What’s this boy’s name?”

“Francis Senft.” Dree spelled it for her.

“Where’s he work?”

“Peaceful Transitions Hospice.”

“Is that one of ours?”

“It’s not Catholic. It’s private.”

Her mouth creased a little. “No one’s perfect. Does he go to church?”

“Not since I’ve known him.”

Sister Ann fixed Dree through the phone with a steely stare. “Doyougo to church?”

“Twice in the last few months?” Dree guessed.

Sister Ann rolled her eyes. “Do better. What else do you have on him?”

Dree told Sister Ann everything she could remember about Francis, the sleek little sports car he drove, who his friends were, and a rapid summary of the stupid, sad story of her getting wiped out. She kept all the information as dry as she could because Sister Ann was a pragmatic woman who might have been a military aide-de-camp or police investigator in a previous life.

If Dree had said that out loud, Sister Ann would have stared her down, asking, “And doweas Catholicsbelievein previous lives?”

No.No, we donot,not unless we wanted detention and picking up dog poop on the Catholic high school’s athletic field for a month.

Sister Ann raised an eyebrow and squinted through the screen at Dree. “What’s that on your wrist, child?”