Mortal Sin by Laurie Breton Page B

fifteen hundred miles away from everything that was even remotely familiar. I knew she was unhappy, but I didn’t know what to do about it. That girl’s just starving for love, and God knows, I tried to give it to her. But I couldn’t get through. That’s my failing, and I know it. Now I’m terrified she’ll go looking for it in the wrong place, and it’ll be all my fault.”
    “Have you talked to anyone about this guilt you’re feeling?”
    “Well, Father, in case you haven’t noticed, it appears as though I’m doing just that.”
    There was a brief silence at his end of the phone. “Yes,” he said, sounding surprised. “So you are.”
    “I’m sorry I bothered you. I really wasn’t looking for a therapy session. I’m not even Catholic. And you’re off duty. But I appreciate you listening to me. I guess I just needed to blow off a little steam.”
    “You’re not bothering me. And I’m never off duty. You know, there’s a local support group for families of runaway and missing children. I think it meets somewhere in Lynn. If you’re interested, I can get you information on where and when.”
    “Is that what you think I need? A support group? You don’t strike me as the touchy-feely type.”
    “I think any of us, when faced with a life-altering crisis, can benefit from the wisdom and support of people who’ve already been there.”
    “A cagey response if ever I heard one. All right, Father, you might as well get me the information. I suppose it beats psychotherapy.”
    “I’ll see what I can do for you. Sarah—” He paused, and she waited, breathing a little too hard, still playing with the phone cord, trying to mold it back into its original neat coil. But it was too late for that; the damage was already done. “We’ll find her,” he said. “I promise.”
    “You keep telling me that,” she said. “Maybe one of these days, I’ll start believing it.”
     
    The next time she saw the man who called himself Rio, Kit was hovering at the top of the stairs inside the entrance to the Park Street T station, trying to stay warm. Every time the door opened to let commuters into the old stone building, the March wind sliced through her with knifelike precision. But she was loathe to descend those stairs and part with even a dollar in order to pass through the turnstile and rest her weary body on a bench. Last night, she’d slept in the foyer of a dilapidated apartment building somewhere in the South End. At least she’d been indoors, out of the wind and the cold. But when she woke up, her backpack was gone, stolen while she slept right next to it.
    It was the closest she’d come to crying since she left home. Her clothes were gone, and so was the photo of Momma she’d carried since she was four years old. Her last joint had been in that bag, along with the candy bar she’d bought yesterday afternoon and vowed to save for morning, no matter how much her stomach gurgled and growled in the meantime. Now all she had left was Freddy, who’d been cradled in her arms while she slept, and a five-dollar bill tucked into the pocket of her grimy jeans.
    For the first time, she considered the possibility of going home. Kit was familiar with the concept of hitting rock bottom, and she was pretty sure she was hovering in the vicinity, if she hadn’t already arrived. But to go home now—assuming Aunt Sarah would even take her back—would be to admit she’d failed. Failure was a weakness, and only sissies were weak. Kit Connelly was no sissy. Life with Daddy had toughened her, and she would spit in the eye of anyone who possessed the audacity to suggest otherwise.
    If only she wasn’t so very hungry.
    He materialized out of nowhere. One minute, she was standing alone, squeezed against the wall as harried commuters dashed by in a mad rush to catch the train that had just pulled into the station. The next instant, Rio was standing in front of her, a bagel in one hand, a steaming cup of coffee in the