Page 42 of Someone Knows

Did I start Noah’s engine running and Little Miss Sundress got the ride?

Why is Chief Unger so many places that I am?

How does he always appear without me seeing himapproach?

Will Ivy’s husband’s buttons give way? And who watches the child still in diapers when they all come here?

Curiosity gets the best of me, and before I can think it through, I’m turning off the ignition, getting out of the car, and opening the door to the church.

Inside, I slip into the empty back row. My eyes scan the pews one by one.

Noah sits the closest to me. Eight rows from the rear, last seat from the aisle, Blondie sitting dutifully beside him. I briefly wonder again if she might be his ex, the one who wanted marriage and kids, even though he said she was just a friend. She looks like the type. Noah’s arm is stretched out along the back of the pew behind her, but his hand isn’t touching her shoulder.

One row up, diagonally across from Noah, is Ivy and her family. Her little girl is sitting next to her, picking her nose. Ivy notices and pushes her hand away. The older boy’s head is down—probably sneaking to play his game, shooting people and blowing up cars in church. Bulging Buttons and the other boy are at the end of the row. Her husband’s eyes look closed, though I’m pretty sure he’s not praying, but falling asleep. Can’t say I blame the poor guy.

My eyes ping-pong between Noah’s row and Ivy’s. Do they know each other? Have they met? They’re sitting less than ten feet apart. Ifhe’sHannah, he must have plans for her, too.

Chief Unger sits closer to the front, one row behind my mother.

What’s he up to? I’ve run into him a little too often. Could he be colluding with the authorities in New York?

I scan the rest of the church. As my eyes cross from one aisle to the next, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise as the sensation of being watched comes over me. I look up and realizeI ambeing watched—by Father Preston. Our eyes meet, and he smiles and continues preaching.

A few minutes later, everyone standsfor a prayer. The good father walks to his pulpit and opens a Bible. He says something about forgiveness and marriage. It’s not until I hear the wordharlotthat he snags my attention again.

“‘I will not punish your daughters when they play the harlot, nor your brides when they commit adultery; for the men themselves go aside with the harlots . . .’”

I blink a few times.Is this really in the Bible?

I hear bits and pieces of what he’s saying—it’s almost like certain words are spoken more clearly than others. “Murmur, murmur, murmur—sexual deviants. Blah blah blah—infidelity.”

And . . . is he looking at Ivy right now? Preaching directly to her? Or am I imagining it?

Maybe I’m losing my mind. Being in this place is enough to make me question my sanity. But when everyone drops to their knees for the Eucharistic prayer, I can’t do it. I look at Ivy. She’s kneeling, just like the rest of them. My eyes slant to the big,newstatue on the other side of the church.Saint Agnes.The patron saint ofvirginsandvictims of sex abuse. I can’t take it anymore. My head spins. It feels like my throat is closing, and I’m pretty sure another panic attack is on its way. I stand, suddenly in desperate need of fresh air. But as I rush out of the pew, I trip over my own feet and land with a loudumph.

A few heads turn—including Noah’s.

But I ignore them all, climb to my feet, make a beeline for the door.

Outside, I bend over, hands on knees, and gulp a few deep breaths. Once I’m capable of walking, I lock myself into the safety of my rental car. I need to go home. Today, if possible. Being here is too much. Maybe distance will bring me clarity, at least soothe my paranoia.

Mass seems to take forever to let out after that, but in reality it’s probably only fifteen or twenty minutes more. Mom walks to the car. I can’t tell if she’s acting for the benefit of her flock, or she’s just tired, but she doesn’t look very sturdy on her feet now. So I get out and take her arm.Surprisingly, she doesn’t shoo me away this time. Though maybe she wants me to look the part of doting daughter. Whatever. I’m just glad to help her in whatever little way I can.

I’m closing her car door when Noah jogs over, sans Miss Sundress.

“Hey,” he says.

I walk around the car, not slowing my pace to chat.

He brushes a wayward hair from his face. “I’m glad you’re still in town.”

“Not for long,” I say and reach for the driver’s-side door. “I’m heading home to pack now.”

“You’re going back to New York?”

“My mother is out of the hospital. I need to get back to work.”

“Can I have your number, at least?”

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