“Is Mrs. Donato dying?”

“She will most likely be executed for murder,” he reminded her impatiently. “She was very anxious to confess after attempting suicide. As a priest, I can’t reveal the secrets of the confessional, but I can tell you what she didn’t say. She didn’t confess to killing her daughter.”

“She might be too ashamed to admit it,” Sarah tried, as dread formed a hot lump inside her. “And why else would she have tried to kill herself?”

“I don’t speak Italian, so I didn’t understand all of it, but she did something to the girl, treated her badly. I couldn’t understand the reason, but she’s sorry for it now. She blames herself because the girl is dead, but she didn’t kill her. Although what that will matter now, I have no idea. The police have her, so they aren’t likely to keep looking for the real killer. Why should they bother?”

“I need to speak with Mrs. Donato,” Sarah said, knowing Malloy would bother if he knew Mrs. Donato was innocent.

“Why?” he asked, losing control of his temper at last. “So you can force her to say she’s guilty?”

“Father… O’Hara, is it?”

“Ahearn,” he corrected.

“Father Ahearn, I’m not interested in seeing an innocent person convicted of murder. I wanted justice for Emilia, and falsely accusing her mother won’t accomplish that.”

“And what good will it do if she does manage to convince you she didn’t kill the girl?” he scoffed.

“It could get her out of jail, for one thing,” Sarah snapped back, losing her own temper. “Have you forgotten I came to you for help – help you refused to give me? You’ve got no more right to judge me falsely than I do to judge Mrs. Donato. I’m surprised that you are here.”

He sighed. “You judge me too harshly, Mrs. Brandt. As to Mrs. Donato, speak to her, then,” he said, “for all the good it will do. I don’t know what she can tell you that will save her. Everyone in this place claims to be innocent. Proving it is another matter entirely.”

“I’ve had some experience doing that, Father,” she informed him.

“Have you had experience convincing the police they’ve arrested the wrong person?” he challenged.

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

She’d shocked him. He stared at her for a long moment, probably trying to judge whether she was lying or not. Apparently, he decided that she wasn’t. “I wish you good fortune, then, Mrs. Brandt.”

“Perhaps you should pray for me instead,” she countered.

He nodded solemnly. “I will.”

“And let me know if you learn anything that might help Mrs. Donato.”

“You mean if the real killer confesses to me?” he asked with the ghost of a smile.

“I know you couldn’t tell me that, but any other information you find, anything at all…”

“Of course,” he promised. “I’ll speak to Father O’Brien, too.”

“Thank you.”

He hesitated a second, and then he made the sign of the cross over her. “A blessing,” he explained. “Now see what you can learn from Mrs. Donato.”

Sarah felt a chill when she entered the narrow cell, which had been literally carved out of the stone. The single window high in the wall let in little light, and Sarah could barely make out the figure sitting huddled on the thin straw mattress covering the bed.

“Mrs. Donato?”

She was rocking back and forth, probably to comfort herself, and she gave no sign that she had heard.

“Mrs. Donato, I’m Sarah Brandt. I knew Emilia at the mission. I brought you some food after she died,” she reminded her.

“Go away.” The woman’s voice was hoarse, but whether from weeping or from the near-hanging, Sarah didn’t want to guess.

“I spoke to your priest outside, Father Ahearn. He asked me to help you.” This wasn’t exactly true, but Sarah figured the blessing would cover a few white lies.

Mrs. Donato didn’t say a word, but at least she turned to look at Sarah. “Why you help?”

A fair question. “I don’t want to see an innocent person punished, and I don’t want to let a killer go free,” she explained.

“Why you care?”

A better question. “Because I liked Emilia.”

She was studying Sarah more closely. “I tell you about sailors,” she remembered.

“Yes, you did. You told me that Emilia was the child of the devil.”

Mrs. Donato closed her eyes and moaned, a sound drawn from deep in her soul. Almost instantly, the matron appeared in the doorway. She’d probably get in trouble if Mrs. Donato tried to harm herself again. Sarah gave the woman a reassuring wave, and she withdrew.

Mrs. Donato was rocking more vigorously now, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

“That isn’t true, Mrs. Donato,” Sarah said. “Emilia wasn’t your daughter at all.”

She didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she said, “Poliziotto, he say this. Then Antonio, he come, last night. He say my bambino die. He say midwife bring Emilia.”

“That’s right. Emilia wasn’t your child. Your husband didn’t want you to be sad because your baby died.”

Tears were running down the older woman’s face, but she didn’t make a sound. She just kept rocking back and forth.

Finally, Sarah forced the issue. “Mrs. Donato, did you kill Emilia?”

“She die,” she said bleakly. “My fault.”

“Why was it your fault?” Sarah prodded.

“I no want. Never want. She run away. My fault.”

“Where were you the morning Emilia was killed?”

“Sell flowers.”

“Where?” Sarah asked. “Were you at the park?”

“Si, park. Sell flowers.”

“Did you see Emilia that day?”

“No, no see,” she insisted.

“City Hall Park isn’t that large,” Sarah reminded her. “And she went there looking for you.”

But Mrs. Donato was shaking her head. “No City Hall. Sell flowers, Washington Park.”

“Washington Square?” Sarah asked.

“Sì, sell flowers. Washington. No City Hall. No there, long time.”

“You sell your flowers in Washington Square now, but you used to sell them in City Hall Park?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Donato nodded, obviously not understanding the significance of this.

“Why would Emilia have thought you’d be at City Hall Park that morning? Did she know you’d changed the place where you sell them?”

Mrs. Donato shrugged.

“Did anyone see you at Washington Square that morning?”

“Much people see,” she said. A flower seller would have spoken to many potential customers, but how could any of them say they’d seen her on a particular day over a week ago?

“Would anyone remember seeing you on that day? Someone you know, maybe?”

“Signora Tomasetti. We go together. Always together.”

The lump of dread in Sarah’s stomach began to dissolve. “Where can I find Mrs. Tomasetti?”

Sarah was exhausted by the time she reached the mission that afternoon. Unwilling to subject Malloy to yet another round of harassment by leaving him a message at Police Headquarters, she had decided to ask one of the girls from the mission to take it over this time. She also felt obligated to update Mrs. Wells on what was happening. She must be getting anxious.

When she reached the front door of the mission, she heard the sounds of an argument coming from inside. She opened the door without knocking and hurried inside to find Maeve and Gina screaming at each other in the parlor. Maeve was wearing Sarah’s old hat, the one Emilia had worn the morning she died.

“It’s mine now!” Maeve was telling her. “You don’t have any right to it!”

“The lady gave it to me!” Gina screamed back.

“Mrs. Wells would’ve given it to me! Ask her!”

“I don’t have to ask her! It’s mine!”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Wells you stole it from me!”

“Give it back!” Gina screamed and lunged.

Maeve ducked out of reach and grabbed the hat. Or at least that’s what Sarah thought she was going to do. Instead she jerked out the hat pin and raised it as if to strike.

“No!” Sarah shouted, and the girls jumped apart. Maeve dropped the hat pin and clutched the hat, which she was still holding in her other hand, to her thin chest.