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Sister Rotrude, with her eyes like flint, entered the confessional with a sweep of her habit, the old wooden door creaking

shut behind her. Bernadette slipped into the other booth, which was separated by the larger priest’s chamber in between. She

closed the door with a soft click and waited her turn, hands clasped together as if they could hold back the tide of her own conscience.

In the dim interior of the confessional, Bernadette couldn’t help but wonder what Rotrude had to confess. Although only a

few years older than Bernadette, Rotrude exuded confidence in all that she did. She never wavered. Bernadette tried to be

a stoic, but sometimes she let out the occasional hushed sob as she poured out her sins.

While she composed herself and considered her recent transgressions—pride, envy, covetousness, carelessness—she listened to the full-throated tones from the organ.

The music paused at a rest, and in that moment, Bernadette thought she heard a noise of some sort.

She frowned and cocked her head. A strange thunk echoed through the confessional, and her frown deepened.

As the music started up, Bernadette wondered what she’d heard.

It was unseemly to leave the confessional before making her confession and act of contrition, but Bernadette pressed on the

handle to take a look outside. Oddly, the door wouldn’t budge. She tried again, pushing with her shoulder. It seemed to be

stuck, or perhaps jammed.

Feeling the heat of a blush on her cheeks, she tapped on the privacy screen that separated her booth from the priest. “Father,”

she said, then cleared her throat. She was going to have to speak louder to be heard over the organ. “Father, I’m so very

sorry to interrupt, but the door is jammed here. I can’t seem to open it.”

The screen slid aside, and she could make out Father O’Flaherty’s silhouette on the other side.

“What’s that you say?” His voice was taut with annoyance.

“The door, Father. It won’t open.” Her pulse sped up, driven by nerves.

The priest murmured something, then said, “I’ll come help you in a moment.”

Bernadette could hear him bumping his shoulder against the middle door.

“What’s happening here?” the priest demanded, his tone now edged by bafflement. “The door won’t open.”

“Something has blocked it.” Rotrude’s strident voice could be heard over the organ music. “Someone, help us!”

The music swelled, masking the cry, as Sister Mary John played on.

Bernadette’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps while she pressed herself more forcibly against the door. The stout wooden

structure wouldn’t budge. Panic welled up inside her as seconds stretched into eternity. Her thoughts flashed on an image

of the closet where students were confined as punishment, and she felt a surge of new empathy for the girls who were forced

to stay locked away for hours on end. After only a few minutes, Bernadette was ready to crawl out of her skin.

There were narrow louvers on the upper part of the confessional door, and by climbing up on the kneeler, she could peer out.

There was no one in the chapel that she could see within the limited view.

Angling her gaze downward, she saw that a long rod of some sort had been run through the handles of all three confessional doors, effectively locking her, the priest, and Sister Rotrude inside.

The stout rod was ornately carved, and she realized it was the staff of the processional cross used during mass.

“It’s barred from the outside,” she called to Father O’Flaherty. She couldn’t get her hand through the wooden slats of the

door.

Rotrude was blustering in a fury about an act of defiance or mischief. “We’ll have to break it down,” she declared.

The entire confessional creaked as she slammed herself against the door. But the polished oak held firm.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the music died into silence.

“Help!” Rotrude shrieked. “We need help down here. We’re locked in!”

“In the confessional,” the priest called after her. “Someone has blocked the door.”

At long last, Bernadette could hear rushing footsteps. The chapel erupted into chaos, the air now filled with clamoring voices.

The processional staff was pulled from the door handles. Gasping as though she’d been starved for air, Bernadette exited the

booth. Nearby, Father O’Flaherty and Sister Rotrude blinked in confusion.

Then she bustled over to the priest. “My goodness me, Father. It was a mere prank by some of the girls, I fear. When I find

the culprits, they’ll pay dearly, I can promise you that. Please, come with me to the refectory for a calming cup of tea.”

Father O’Flaherty mopped his brow and demurred, making a hasty exit. Once he was gone, Bernadette noticed that Rotrude’s face

was contorted with rage and worry. Her strides were long and agitated as she whirled toward the exit. “We’ll get to the bottom

of this,” she said.

In the foyer, they saw Mrs. Jenkins pacing back and forth, her face florid. She looked uncomfortable in the chapel, as most

Protestants did when they entered a Catholic church.

“Mrs. Jenkins.” Sister Rotrude bustled forward. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting. There’s been—”

“Ma’am. I mean, Sister. I’m not sure what’s... Well, I’m afraid the van’s gone.”

Sister Rotrude exchanged a glance with Bernadette. “Sorry, what?” she asked the woman.

“My van. Er, the library van. The bookmobile. It’s not where I parked it in the usual spot. D’you think... Did somebody

move it?”

“I don’t understand,” said Sister Rotrude.

“It’s just... gone. Like, stolen, maybe?” The woman knotted her fingers together.

“From our parking lot?” demanded Sister Rotrude. “That’s preposterous.”

“I understand, ma’am. But I did take a look around, and it’s nowhere in sight.”

Moving swiftly, her face taut with exasperation, Sister Rotrude instructed some of the nuns and laywomen to head off in search

of the bookmobile. Her face was dark with fury. “I imagine this is the work of the same mischief-makers who caused havoc in

the chapel.”

Bernadette hurried across the compound to the parking lot gate and looked out onto Best Street. Even a few steps outside the

refuge, the world looked different, the afternoon light deepening to gold. She saw a few people going in and out of their

houses, or sitting on their front stoops, smoking and gossiping. She returned to the main building. “There’s no sign of it.

Perhaps some of the students took it.”

“That’s impossible,” Sister Rotrude said. “The girls are children. Even the senior girls haven’t learned to drive. They certainly

couldn’t drive that vehicle.”

“Mrs. Jenkins, did you leave the key in the ignition?” asked Bernadette.

Her face reddened and she shrugged. “Reckon so. I always do.”

“Well. I’m so very sorry for this inconvenience.” Sister Rotrude’s temper burned in her eyes. “Please, come to the office

and we’ll sort this out. In the meantime, Sister Mary John, summon the girls—all the girls—and question them until you get

to the truth. Sister Theresa, organize a door-to-door search of the neighborhood. Mrs. Jenkins, someone will give you a lift

back to the library.”

“But the bookmobile—”

“We shall take full responsibility for it, of course.” Sister Rotrude gestured for Bernadette to follow her to the office.

“I would not want to have to alert the authorities,” she murmured.

Bernadette suspected that she knew the reason for that.

The local juvenile courts were a major source of funding for the Good Shepherd, sending girls in need to the refuge.

But fear held her tongue captive. Although she’d clearly had nothing to do with the fiasco, Bernadette dreaded the idea of a reprimand.

She lived in terror of finding herself ostracized or, worse, cast out.

She could tell that Rotrude had come to realize that the bookmobile was well and truly gone. And after assembling all the

girls from the junior and senior classes, Sister Mary John reported that six of them were missing.

“When Mother Gerard returns,” said Rotrude, “we shall have to go to the authorities and make a report. Oh, those girls will

burn when we find them.” She whirled to face Bernadette, and Bernadette flinched at the rage in her eyes. “Stay by the phone,”

she instructed.

“Yes, Sister.” Bernadette dipped her head in reverence. Deep inside, she felt an unbidden flicker of admiration for the girls’

boldness.

“And while you wait, pull the records of each of the missing girls. I’m confident they’ll be found.”

“Yes, Sister,” Bernadette said again.

Footsteps rang down the hallways, but the main office seemed eerily quiet. Bernadette picked up the roster of missing girls,

wondering what could have possessed them to pull such an elaborate prank.

She carefully noted the information on each of the fugitives. Their real names reverberated through Bernadette’s mind. It

was as if their true identities could not possibly be erased, even by the iron will of the nuns here. Mairin O’Hara, enrolled

by her mother and stepfather for lascivious behavior. Angela Denny, whose pregnancy and tragic delivery were still a mystery.

Helen Mei, awaiting news of her parents in China. Denise Curran, sent by the juvenile court after multiple arrests for brawling

in foster homes. Janice Dunn and Kay Collins were both wards of the state.

Bernadette’s gaze lingered over Angela Denny’s record. Did she know that she had turned eighteen yesterday? It wasn’t likely.

With no clocks or calendars in the common areas, birthdays slipped by unnoticed.

Shaken by the events of the day, she went to the prie-dieu and knelt down to murmur a prayer that the missing girls would soon be safely returned.

When she finished her prayer and stood, something caught her eye. At the edge of the reliquary stand lay a key. Just an ordinary

key, the sort that was kept in a special drawer in Sister Gerard’s desk. But it was out of place. Both Bernadette and the

Mother Superior were meticulous about keeping things in their place.

Bernadette picked up the key, turning it over in her hand. On closer inspection, she noticed that flecks of something like

dried paint littered the floor under the reliquary stand. Flecks of paint from the reliquary. She looked through the glass

front of the coffer at the monstrance inside. Had it always sat precisely like that, or had it somehow moved slightly off-center?

Something was not right. She felt the back of her neck prickle. Almost without forethought, she reached for the palm frond

button on the drawer and slid it open.

A gust of relief burst through her when she saw the bills in place. Perhaps she’d been careless last time she’d accessed the

drawer and had dislodged some of the old paint. But no. Bernadette was never careless. Even as a tiny child, she’d learned

to be vigilant and precise to protect herself from the chaos of her mother’s life.

Her hand shook as she checked the drawer more thoroughly and made a horrifying discovery. Some of the money had been removed.

She was sure of it.

Shaking with fear, she checked the ledger sheet under the cash drawer. Her record-keeping was impeccable. Now it only verified

her suspicions.

Perhaps Sister Gerard had used some of the money. Maybe she’d taken it with her to her meeting today. But no. She was always

meticulous about recording withdrawals.

Bernadette returned to the prie-dieu and sank down, squeezing her hands together, her eyes shut tight. Dread was a physical

pain, stabbing her with the realization that she would have to explain to Sister Gerard that the library van full of girls

was not the only thing missing.