Even the gray drained out of her face, leaving her white. “How you know?” she demanded in an agonized whisper.

“You hated Emilia because of the sailors, because of what they did to you,” he said ruthlessly. “You thought one of them was her father, because she had yellow hair.”

She was staring at him as if he were a poisonous snake ready to strike. She couldn’t stop him, so she simply braced herself for the pain.

“Poor Emilia, she never did anything wrong,” Frank lamented. “She didn’t know why you hated her, but you hated her from the minute she was born, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. The woman was too terrified to speak. “Now that’s the sad part. That’s really sad, because there was something you didn’t know about Emilia. Something your husband didn’t tell you.”

“Antonio know nothing!” she insisted.

“He knows Emilia isn’t your baby,” Frank said.

Her face wrinkled in confusion. “Emilia my baby.”

Frank shook his head sadly. “Your baby died.”

She shook her head frantically. She knew this couldn’t be true.

“Your baby died,” Frank repeated relentlessly. “But the midwife had another baby, a baby nobody wanted. She was going to take her to an orphanage, but Antonio took it instead.”

She was shaking her head harder now. She didn’t want it to be true.

“Antonio didn’t want you to be sad because your baby died. He didn’t know about the sailors. He didn’t know you wanted the baby to die. So he took the baby girl that nobody wanted, and he gave her to you. The baby with yellow hair. Emilia.”

“Vi trovate!” she cried. “Lies!”

“You know it’s the truth. That’s what Antonio would do, isn’t it? He’d do anything to make you happy, even take a bastard child nobody wanted. Did he ever ask you why Emilia had yellow hair? Did he ever wonder? Did he ever suspect you had betrayed him?”

She was moaning and still shaking her head, but he could see the horror in her eyes. She knew it was true, and now she had to face what she had done to that poor child.

“You hated her for no reason. She was innocent, and all she wanted was her mother’s love, but you hated her instead. You drove her out, and when she tried to come back, you killed her!”

She threw her arms over her head and screamed, slumping to the floor.

Behind him, Frank heard doors opening and feet running. He turned to see several women rushing to rescue their neighbor.

“Police,” he announced loudly, stopping them instantly. They eyed him cautiously, torn between fear of him and a desire to help their friend.

Mrs. Donato was writhing on the floor, babbling in Italian.

“What’s she saying?” he demanded, wondering if any of them spoke English.

They hesitated, afraid of him but afraid not to answer him, too.

“Something about Emilia,” the youngest of them finally said. Then she looked at Frank in amazement. “She says she killed Emilia!”

Sarah couldn’t believe she was back at The Tombs again so soon. Less than three weeks ago, she’d visited another woman here. Another woman who had confessed to murder. She still wasn’t sure why she’d come today. When she received Malloy’s message this morning that Mrs. Donato had confessed yesterday, she should have felt relieved. Emilia’s murder was solved, and justice would be done. If Malloy was satisfied, she should be, too.

Except she wasn’t. For some reason, she had to see the woman herself, just to make sure. Maybe she simply couldn’t accept the idea of a woman killing her child. Even if Emilia wasn’t really her flesh and blood, Mrs. Donato hadn’t known it then. No matter how painful their relationship had been, murder was a drastic solution. Sarah supposed she needed to know exactly what had happened that morning to compel the woman to take her daughter’s life.

Or maybe she was simply nosy. Too nosy for her own good, Malloy would have said.

The City Jail had been designed to look like an Egyptian tomb, hence its nickname. The interior was kept immaculate, although the stench from the sewers permeated the building no matter how clean it was. The women’s section was just as she remembered. The female prisoners were free to leave their cells during the day, and they sat around the central courtyard area, visiting and doing needlework or knitting. A few enjoyed visits from family or friends, and others just sat and stared, perhaps contemplating their fates.

Sarah told the matron she was looking for Mrs. Donato, and the woman frowned.

“There’s a priest with her right now,” she said.

“A Catholic priest?” Sarah asked in amazement. Was it possible one of the Irish priests had overcome his prejudice enough to visit an Italian woman in prison?

“I expect that’s the only kind there is,” the matron told her humorlessly. She was a large woman with pitted skin and a hairy mole on her chin. “Better give ‘em a few minutes. We had to send for him ’cause she almost died last night. She probably needs whatever mumbo-jumbo they do.”

“Is she ill?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Does she need a doctor?”

“No, she ain’t ill,” the matron said mockingly. “She tried to hang herself. A lot of ’em do when they get in here and see what it’s like. You ask me, they should’ve let her. Save Old Sparky the trouble,” she added.

Sarah shouldn’t have found the reference so distasteful. She’d been instrumental in getting Mrs. Donato arrested in the first place, after all. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until the priest is finished,” Sarah said, moving off to find a place where she could wait without disturbing anyone. She tried to imagine the kind of despair that would cause someone to put a noose around her neck and choke herself to death. She imagined killing one’s child could produce it.

Sarah had to wait only a few more minutes before she saw a black-clad figure emerge from the cell the matron had indicated. She recognized the young priest from St. John’s, the one who had been so hostile to her request for money to bury Emilia. His expression was grave, and he started when he saw Sarah looking at him so expectantly.

Plainly, he couldn’t place her.

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she reminded him. “I came to the church to ask for help to bury Emilia Donato.” She saw the recognition in his eyes, but his expression didn’t lighten. “How is Mrs. Donato?”

“She’s alive,” he said grimly.

“Did she really try to hang herself?”

He pressed his lips together. “She made a noose out of her undergarments. I guess she didn’t realize that she wouldn’t die instantly. Someone heard her choking, and they were able to cut her down. Thank God they did. Suicides can never see the face of God, Mrs. Brandt. They can’t even be buried in consecrated ground.”

The priest was acting as if Sarah were responsible for this outrage. “Can murderers see the face of God?” she countered.

The color rose on his neck, but he managed to control his temper. “Repentant sinners can, and we are all sinners. But if you’re referring to Mrs. Donato, she isn’t a murderer.”

“She told the police she killed her daughter,” Sarah reminded him.

“No, she didn’t.”

Sarah stared at him in amazement. “She wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t confessed.”

“I have no idea what happened when the police arrested her, or what they forced her to say, but she didn’t kill her daughter.”

“But she confessed!” Sarah insisted. She knew Malloy would have made sure of her guilt before he put the woman in jail.

The priest gave her a pitying look. “Not to me. I’ve heard many confessions in my life, Mrs. Brandt. People seldom lie to a priest – what would be the point? My job is to absolve them of their sins, and I can’t do that unless I know what they are. People also know I can’t reveal their secrets, and those who are dying are especially careful to bare their souls before facing the final judgment.”