The Mephisto Club

convenient time for you to talk to her. I’ll let her know you called.”
    Jane’s gaze returned to Maura. “Are you sure that writing wasn’t already on your door when you got home last night?”
    “I didn’t see it then.”
    “You used the front door to enter the house?”
    “Yes. Normally, I’d come in the garage. But my car’s still on Beacon Hill.”
    “Did Father Brophy walk you to the door?”
    “It was dark, Jane. We wouldn’t have seen the writing.”
We were only focused on each other. All we had on our minds was getting to my bedroom.
    Frost said, “I think I’ll check around outside. See if there are any footprints.” He went out the front door. Though he was now tramping right outside the house, the sound of his footsteps did not penetrate the double-pane windows. Last night a trespasser could have walked right past her bedroom, and she wouldn’t have heard a thing.
    “Do you think he followed you home last night?” Jane asked. “From O’Donnell’s house?”
    “I don’t know. He could have. But I’ve been present at all three death scenes. Lori-Ann Tucker’s. Eve Kassovitz’s. On any one of those nights, he might have seen me.”
    “And followed you home.”
    She hugged herself, trying to suppress her shaking. “I never noticed. I never realized I was being watched.”
    “You have an alarm system. Did you use it last night?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “I—I simply forgot to arm it.”
I had other things on my mind.
    Jane sat down in the chair across from her. “Why would he draw those symbols on your door? What do you think they mean?”
    “How would I know?”
    “And the message he left—it’s the same one that he left in Lori-Ann Tucker’s bedroom. Only this time, he didn’t bother to write it in Latin. This time he made sure we’d understand exactly what he meant.
I have sinned.
” Jane paused. “Why direct those particular words at you?”
    Maura said nothing.
    “Do you think they were meant for you?” Jane’s gaze was suddenly alert, probing.
    She knows me too well,
thought Maura.
She can see I’m not telling her the whole story. Or maybe she’s caught the whiff of lust on my skin. I should have showered before they got here; I should have washed away Daniel’s scent.
    Abruptly, Maura stood up. “I can’t concentrate,” she said. “I need a cup of coffee.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen. There she busied herself, pouring coffee into mugs, reaching into the refrigerator for cream. Jane had followed her into the kitchen, but Maura avoided looking at her. She slid a steaming mug in front of Jane and then turned to the window as she sipped, delaying, as long as she could, the revelation of her shame.
    “Is there something you want to tell me?” said Jane.
    “I’ve told you everything. I woke up this morning and found that writing on my door. I don’t know what else to say.”
    “After you left O’Donnell’s house, did Father Brophy drive you straight home?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you didn’t see any cars tailing you?”
    “No.”
    “Well, maybe Father Brophy noticed something. I’ll see what he remembers.”
    Maura cut in. “You don’t need to talk to him. I mean, if he’d noticed anything last night, he would have told me.”
    “I still have to ask him.”
    Maura turned to face Jane. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
    “I know what day it is.”
    “He has services.”
    Jane’s gaze had narrowed, and Maura felt her cheeks flame with heat.
    “What happened last night?” Jane asked.
    “I told you. I came straight home from O’Donnell’s house.”
    “And you stayed inside for the rest of the night?”
    “I didn’t leave the house.”
    “Did Father Brophy?”
    The question, asked so matter-of-factly, startled Maura into silence. After a moment, she sank into a chair at the kitchen table but said nothing, just stared down at her coffee.
    “How long did he stay?” asked Jane. Still no emotion in her voice, still the cop, although Maura knew there was disapproval behind that question, and guilt tightened its fist around her throat.
    “He stayed most of the night.”
    “Till what time?”
    “I don’t know. It was still dark when he left.”
    “And what did you two do while he was here?”
    “This isn’t relevant.”
    “You know it is. We’re talking about what the killer might have seen through your windows. What might have inspired him to write those words on your door. Were your living room lights on the