When he hit Play he heard his own voice speaking.

“Friend of a friend.”

“You have friends who are friends with fifteen-year-old girls?”

The other voice on the tape belonged to Robert Dixon. The tape continued.

“I have interesting friends.”

“I didn’t know you had any friends, Edge.”

“Kingsley? What is this?” Sam asked. He raised his hand to silence her.

“I put my job on the line helping a fifteen-year-old girl get out of going to juvie for stealing cars, I want to know the story.”

“Fine. Old friend of mine is a Catholic priest now. Her priest. He asked me to help her. I owe him a big favor. This is the favor.”

“You’re friends with a priest?”

“Trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I am.”

“Is he fucking her? The priest?”

“What?”

“It’s all over the papers,” Dixon said. “Every damn day there’s a new story about a Catholic priest fucking some kid. Boston’s exploding. Phillie, Detroit, Chicago... I get caught helping a priest with the underage girl he’s fucking and—”

“He’s not fucking her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m fucking her.”

Kingsley shut off the tape.

Sam stared at him.

“I’m not fucking a fifteen-year-old girl, Sam,” he said.

“But—”

“That was a lie. I had to lie.”

“Who is that on the tape with you?”

“A DA. I was bribing him to help someone.”

“He recorded you. He’s going to have copies of that.”

Kingsley tapped the envelope. “Many copies.”

“King, you’re confessing to committing statutory rape.”

“And bribing a public official, too. Don’t forget that.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“No, of course not. I’ve never met her.”

“Then why did you confess—”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve pissed someone off.”

“Who?”

“It’s a long list of suspects.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing tonight,” he said. “I’ll have a talk with Mr. Dixon tomorrow.”

“Why’s he threatening you?”

Kingsley shook his head.

“No idea. I know enough about him to ruin his career and his marriage. It might not be him.”

“Then who—”

“I don’t know. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worried,” she said, looking stricken.

Kingsley walked up to her, put his hands on her face and stared into her eyes.

“Sam, listen to me. You think this is the first time something like this has happened to me? This is nothing compared to what I’ve handled before. This is what I do. This is the job.”

Sam met his eyes. He saw fear in them, real fear.

“You really didn’t have sex with a fifteen-year-old, did you?” Sam asked.

“I didn’t even fuck fifteen-year-old girls when I was fifteen. Sixteen—bare minimum.”

Sam laughed, and Kingsley tapped her under the chin.

“Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

“I have to go. No worrying.”

He kissed her on the forehead and left her in his office. He locked up the tape, changed clothes and by five o’clock he’d pulled into the parking lot of Sacred Heart. Kingsley Edge at a Catholic Church. He wasn’t sure God existed, but if He did, He had a fucking sick sense of humor.

Since March, Søren’s life as a priest had been something only theoretical to Kingsley. He’d seen the collar, the clerics, but had never seen him at work. Every Sunday he thought of Søren saying Mass in this little town. Did they have any idea who their pastor was? What he was? What he’d given up so he could say Mass in this little town to these little people who had no inkling their priest had walked away from wealth and power to serve them? Of course not, and that’s how Søren wanted it. His money was tainted by his father. Power was too easily abused, and Søren’s father was proof of that. As Kingsley stared at the church, a Romanesque pile of stone and stained glass, Kingsley had to wonder...

Had Søren become a priest because he loved God, the Father?

Or had he become a priest because he hated his own father?

Or both?

“Good. You’re here,” Søren said. He had emerged from a side door of the church into the parking lot and was striding toward Kingsley. He had on black track pants and a black T-shirt. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late for football?”

“Late for practice.”

“Practice?” Kingsley asked as they headed down a side street. “I thought we were playing. Just you and I.”

“You’re too good. You need to be on a team.” Søren pointed ahead of them to a soccer field behind a small school. He saw about twenty-five people milling about on the field, kicking balls back and forth. Most of them looked to be teenagers—boys and a few girls. But a few were their age, in their twenties and thirties. One girl with a swinging ponytail wearing short shorts and knee socks jogged past them and waved at Søren.

“What are you doing to me?” Kingsley asked.