“The girl of whom I speak returned to the man who had first ruined her, believing his lies and trusting one who was unworthy of that trust. The next time we saw her, she was bruised and broken, beaten nearly to death for the sin of loving an evil man.” Several women in the crowd murmured in sympathy.

“We could have turned her away,” Mrs. Wells continued. “We could have reminded her that she had betrayed our faith in her. But we followed Christ’s admonition to forgive seventy times seven times, and we once more offered her a haven. And once again she grew strong. We prayed for her, and she began to change. We saw her accept God’s love. We saw her reject the temptations of this world. She worked hard and learned skills that would help her earn her living honestly. One morning, she set out to start her new life, full of hope and promise. It was a promise she would not live to keep. She was only sixteen when she died.” Some of the guests gasped.

“Most of us would consider her sudden death a tragedy,” Mrs. Wells went on. “Had she never come to the mission, had she died without knowing God’s love, her death would have been tragic. But she did come to the mission. She did know God’s love, and now she is in paradise. ‘O death where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?’ ” she added, quoting the Bible.

Several women dabbed at their eyes with lace handkerchiefs, and Sarah felt the sting of tears herself.

“The tenements hold hundreds of girls like this. We’d like to reach every one of them, but we can’t do that without your support.” Mrs. Wells continued with a moving appeal, and then she closed, offering to speak to people individually if they had questions about the mission.

A crowd quickly formed around her. Most of them were female and deeply concerned about the plight of young women in the city. Sarah stood back and watched Mrs. Wells answer their questions for a moment, until she noticed Gina and Maeve had been edged out and were standing alone. Sarah decided to rescue them again.

This time even Maeve looked glad to see her. Sarah ushered them away and got them a plate of sweets to nibble while they waited for Mrs. Wells to finish her business.

“I didn’t know she was gonna talk about Emilia,” Gina said to Maeve after she’d sampled a few of the different cakes. “She never did before.”

“Emilia wasn’t dead before,” Maeve reminded her impatiently. “She wasn’t nothing to talk about until she was dead.”

“Mrs. Wells probably thinks her story will touch people’s hearts,” Sarah said.

“You mean make them sad?” Gina asked with a frown.

“That’s right,” Sarah said.

Gina still didn’t understand. “Why would they care? They didn’t even know her.”

“And the ones who did know her are glad she’s dead,” Maeve informed Sarah importantly.

“I’m not glad,” Gina protested.

“You said you was,” Maeve reminded her. “Everybody was.”

“Just like they’ll all be glad when you’re dead,” Gina taunted.

Sarah tried not to let them see how they’d shocked her. But, she reminded herself, the young didn’t really comprehend death, not the way older people did. They saw it only as a solution to a problem. If they hadn’t liked Emilia because she bossed them around and was Mrs. Wells’s favorite, they’d simply be glad she was gone.

Or maybe one of them had decided to solve the problem herself.

Sarah recalled what she had been discussing with the girls earlier, about Emilia going out to show someone her dress. Perhaps someone had invented that story, someone who wanted to cast suspicion on another. “Girls, would you do me a favor?”

They both looked up. Gina was curious and Maeve, suspicious.

“Mrs. Wells said one of the girls heard Emilia say she wanted Ugo to see her in her new dress. Ugo was her former lover.”

“The one who beat her up, we know,” Maeve said in disgust.

“Could you find out which girl it was?” Sarah asked.

Maeve just frowned, but Gina was still eager to please her. “Sure,” she agreed.

Sarah had arranged to meet Opal Graves at the mission at one o’clock the next afternoon so she would have time to accomplish her other goals that morning. She’d debated asking Malloy to help her with her first errand, but she knew he’d just be angry that she was still involved in Emilia’s death. Since she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, she found the small Catholic church herself. The building was nestled between the tenements a few blocks from Mulberry Street.

St. John’s was well kept, in spite of the poverty of its parishioners. She passed an elderly Irish woman coming out and held the door for her. The woman looked at her curiously, as if she could tell just by looking that Sarah wasn’t a Catholic. Or maybe that was Sarah’s overactive imagination.

The interior of the church was cold and quiet and dim. Paneled in dark wood, the room was lit by a few candles in a rack at the rear of the church and whatever sunlight seeped through the tiny stained glass windows. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as she walked down the aisle, looking for someone who could help her. She should have asked the old woman, she realized, then she heard a sound to her right.

The door to what appeared to be a closet opened and another old woman came out. She said, “Thank you, Father,” and carefully closed the door.

Could the priest be in the closet? Sarah started toward the door as the old woman hobbled away, but before she reached it, another door just beside it opened, and a priest emerged. He was young, his light brown hair plastered down so he would look more dignified, but it didn’t help.

“Excuse me, Father,” she called before he could walk away.

He looked up in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was waiting.” He turned and started back into his closet.

“Could I ask you something before you go?” she called to stop him.

He turned back and frowned. “Didn’t you want me to hear your confession?”

For a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about, and then she remembered what little she knew about the Catholic faith. “Oh, no,” she said with an apologetic smile as she finally reached him. “I’m not even Catholic. I’ve come to ask you about one of your parishioners.”

“Which one?”

“Emilia Donato.”

His frown deepened. Sarah sensed his disapproval and hastily defended the girl.

“I know she’d behaved shamefully, but she repented in the end. She was a fine Christian girl when she died, and it would be a great comfort to her family to give her a decent burial,” she added, painfully aware she was lying in church. Sarah and the residents of the mission were the only ones likely to be comforted.

“Maybe you’d better talk to Father O’Brien,” he suggested. “Come.”

Sarah followed him out a side door into what appeared to be the priests’ private area. He took her to an office door and told her to wait while he went inside. In a moment, he returned and directed her into the room. An older priest rose from behind his desk. He was a large man whose face gave evidence of the years he’d spent bearing other people’s burdens.

“How can I help you, Mrs. -?”

“Mrs. Brandt,” Sarah said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Father O’Brien.”

He offered her a seat in one of two comfortable wing chairs by a window. The window overlooked an alley, but at least it let in some natural light. The young priest waited by the door, as if ready to rush to Father O’Brien’s aid if necessary.

“Father Ahearn said you’d come about some Italian girl?” the old priest began when he had seated himself in the other chair.

She didn’t like the way he said “Italian,” but she said, “Emilia Donato. She was murdered last week.”

The priest nodded. “Oh, yes. Her mother was here. She’s the girl who went to the mission,” he explained to Father Ahearn. Their disapproval was obvious.