Our Lady of Sorrow High School
Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie couldn’t go into it with Pakula. Not right now when they were here at the school and needed to do this interview. Not when her mind was racing over emotions and memories that were colliding and fogging up her better judgment. Would Cunningham explode when she told him what she had done, what she had agreed to? Or would he simply suspect that she had agreed with Keller for the sole intention of not keeping this promise? Could he read her that well that he would see through her transparent motive of simply getting him back to the States?

“Are you sure you’re still up for this?” Pakula asked again.

She insisted they continue with their morning plans and promised to give him all the details later. Then she motioned for him to lead the way. Pakula seemed to know where they needed to go, down one hallway and past another until he pointed to a staircase. “His office is on the second floor.”

She tried to focus, observing and noticing everything around them almost as if challenging herself to avoid the thought of Keller boarding a United flight in the next few hours and arriving right here in Omaha. She didn’t want to start calculating how many hours, how many connections it would take. How many opportunities he would have to change his mind, to realize she wouldn’t possibly honor this deal. She tried to push it all out of her mind and concentrate, instead, on this small high school with shining wooden floors and elaborate stair railings and cornices over the classroom doors.

Now she noticed that most of the classrooms appeared empty, despite Pakula telling her earlier that the summer session had begun and that was why Father Tony Gallagher insisted they come to the school. In fact, they passed only one classroom with about a dozen kids. The room’s decor caught Maggie’s eye—ancient artifacts and medieval relics including a sword or two lined the shelves and walls.

Maggie glanced up at Pakula and saw that he had noticed, too. He shook his head and said, “The stuff they teach kids these days.”

Father Tony Gallagher was standing outside the doorway to his office, waiting for them; he waved across the vast lobby between classrooms. Maggie couldn’t help thinking he didn’t look like a priest—a perfect smile, handsome, perhaps in his late thirties, maybe forty at the most, his dark hair peppered with gray at the temples. And although he looked athletic, she noted that he was small-framed. She tried to imagine him with a baseball cap on and if he might be mistaken for a young boy.

“Father Gallagher, we appreciate your cooperation,” Pakula said as the priest led them into his office. “This is Special Agent—”

But before Pakula could get out the introduction she heard, “Maggie?”

Both she and Pakula stopped in the office doorway. Nick Morrelli rose from the easy chair in the corner.

“Maggie O’Dell, what the hell are you doing here?”