Scorched Grace by Margot Douaihy

Author:Margot Douaihy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zando

13

THURSDAY MORNING WAS QUIET. Panicked parents continued to keep their kids home from school. The upside was that my usually rowdy classes were manageable.

After the bell, students clipped their guitar cases shut and slung backpacks over their shoulders. They moved through the door slowly, in a cluster. I eyed each of them carefully, as if one would drop a clue out in the open.

I needed a break in the case.

And just a break.

My teaching-sleuthing double act was hard to keep synced. Constant threat of a trap door opening before the curtain.

“You need fire extinguishers in every room and every stairwell,” an officer on patrol that day told Sister Augustine.

The NOPD brass patrolled the campus during school hours to reassure worried parents. They had concluded their locker search during the closure. A tedious process, surely, but I doubted they could be any slower. Besides, the kids were too smart to leave anything incriminating in their lockers.

Rosemary Flynn was discussing an exam grade with a student at the other end of our shared classroom while I collected a tall stack of papers from my desk—my office.

“Ms. Flynn,” I yelled, “lock up when you’re done.”

“Some people dare to say ‘please,’” she projected like a thespian.

“Good to know. Lock up when you’re done.”

I raced out of the classroom into the loud hall, weaving between entranced texting students. Every dent in every locker seemed to shine. Saint Sebastian’s was on the scrappy side, no doubt about that. The building was about the same age as Sister Augustine—eighty. Parents were paying for Christ’s blessing, not lavish amenities. Funds were tight without the safety net of tax dollars. The Diocese loved toying with us, telling us what funds or programs would be up next on the chopping block. The select families who could pay full tuition kept the lights on, poor kids like Prince Dempsey in attendance, and our cafeteria stocked with frozen pizza and tater tots. But our academics were top-notch—the best in the state—thanks to Sister Augustine’s high standards. Rosemary, John, Sister T, even Sister Honor and me, were all excellent teachers, if not crackpots.

Sister Augustine’s voice on the intercom announced a faculty assembly at 4 p.m. that Thursday. I resented the interrogations, police presence, canceled classes, student whispers, and meetings with homicide detectives, especially Grogan, whose syrupy kindness was starting to feel out of place. Before the arson rewrote my rhythms, I worked hard to accept my daily patterns as a Sister of the Sublime Blood. Mass, meals, teaching, praying, sleeping. Repeat. It took more than a year, but I grew to appreciate the sameness. Purity of ritual. I wanted it back.

I turned left toward Sister Augustine’s office. I needed permission to read Prince’s school files.

“Is Sister Augustine in?” I asked Shelly.

“I’m so sorry. You just missed her. As you know, Sister, the Lord’s work is never done.” Her toothy smile made me anxious.

The phone rang and Shelly sprinted to her desk. “Been ringing off the hook. Parents are all sorts of upset. Pardon me, Sister.

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