“If you wait a minute,” Sherry went on, “you can go up with your fiancé. I overheard Dr. Patel filling him in on the case over the phone a few minutes ago.”

I stared at her, only half conscious that Peggy, the redhead, had whipped her purse out from under the reception desk and was dabbing on some lip gloss. Peggy evidently had a thing for old souls . . . or at least hot Latino residents.

“Wait. What?”

Sherry smiled. “Yes. I heard Dr. Patel say that Dr. de Silva was just pulling into the parking lot.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s great.” I wondered if my smile looked as frozen as it felt. “I’ll just run outside then and see if I can find Jesse—er, Dr. de Silva. Those three little girls over there by the candy machines—they’re my nieces. Their father is coming soon to pick them up. In the meantime, can you tell them where I went?”

“I’ll keep an eye on them for you,” Peggy volunteered. She was now checking her eyeliner in her compact mirror. “Dr. de Silva must be looking forward to becoming an uncle. He’s so great with kids.”

“He really is.” When he wasn’t trying to send their souls to hell. “I’ll be right back.”

I thanked them and turned to leave, heading like a robot through the sliding doors to the parking lot.

This was a disaster. Not only that Father Dominic was so severely injured, but that I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him before seeing Jesse.

Even though his chosen profession now was healing the little children, Jesse had been raised on a sprawling ranch in the hardscrabble California of the 1800s. He hadn’t spent his youth, as Paul and my stepbrothers had, skateboarding, surfing, and playing video games. Jesse had grown up chopping wood, putting up fences, and killing things—and I’m not talking about chickens. As warm and loving as Jesse was, there was a part of him—a part that had nothing to do with the time he’d spent trapped in the spirit world—that was coldly practical when it came to putting suffering things that couldn’t otherwise be saved out of their misery.

Another good reason never to tell him what had happened between Paul and me that night at graduation . . . or what was going on between us now.

Then suddenly there he was, striding across the parking lot, his head down, his fists stuffed into the pockets of his suede jacket, unaware of my presence.

At first.

A second later I saw that ink-dark head lift slowly, as if we had some sort of telepathic bond—which I prayed we did not, or he’d know the dirty thoughts I was having about the way he looked in those tight-fitting, strategically faded jeans. Our gazes instantly locked.

And then somehow I was across the few dozen yards of pavement that had separated us and in his strong embrace.

“Querida,” he whispered in my hair as he held me. “It’s going to be all right. Father Dominic is going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t, but he’s strong. So much running around, chasing after students and spirits, has kept him healthy all these years.”

“Until now.”

He slipped a finger beneath my chin to tilt my face toward his. “Susannah, are you crying?”

I released him and stepped quickly, though reluctantly, away. His embrace was my favorite place to be, besides his bed, which smelled deliciously of him.

“Of course I’m not crying,” I said, brushing a quick hand against my cheek. “I never cry. It’s allergies. They’re terrible this time of year.”

Jesse gave me one of his lopsided grins, which they should trademark and sell on TV as a female sexual enhancement supplement. They’d make millions.

“It would be all right if you cried,” he said. “I like it when you do. It gives me an excuse to play that overprotective nineteenth-century macho man you’re always talking about.”

“Like you ever need an excuse to do that. I heard you spoke to Dr. Patel. What did he say?”

“He says the father faces a long recovery, but if he can make it through the next twenty-four hours without infection, he should pull through.”

I had to turn away to look very closely at the statue of St. Francis that stood beside the hospital’s entrance, because I sensed a leak from the corner of one eye. Fortunately it was an old-fashioned statue in the same vein as the statue of Junípero Serra in the courtyard outside my office at the school (only the head had never been severed by an irate NCDP), so there was a lot to look at. Gathered at the feet of St. Francis were bronze sculptures of grateful animals he’d saved, instead of the Native Americans Father Junípero had enslaved.

“Susannah,” Jesse said, reaching out to stroke my hair. I don’t think my trick of staring at the statue was fooling him.

“So in other words,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “he really could die. Emily said so.”

“Emily? Emily’s only five, and not a trained medical professional.” Jesse put his arm around me and pulled me close again. His warmth was comforting, especially as the sun had begun to go down, and the air had become cooler. “He’s very badly hurt. But he’s also very stubborn, as you know.”

I shuddered and buried my head against his chest the way Jesse’s cat, Spike, sometimes did on the odd occasions when he was feeling affectionate.

“Jesse, it’s my fault.” My fingers tightened on the soft brown suede of his jacket. It was a coat I’d bought him for Christmas last year, one he’d chastised me gently for spending too much money on, but I’d refused to exchange it for “something more sensible.” “I should never have let him go over there alone. I don’t know what I was thinking. He said he could handle it, that Lucia was angry with me, not him, and so wouldn’t hurt him, and that it was his responsibility because he should have seen her when he married Kelly and Becca’s dad. But I should have known something like this was going to happen. He’s so old, so far from the top of his game, and she’s so strong, I should have—”

“You should have what? Tied him to his chair? You know Father Dominic better than anyone, Susannah. Once he has an idea in his head, no one can stop him. He has to have things his way.”

“I know. But if he dies . . . if he dies . . .”

I couldn’t even form the words out loud. If Father Dominic died, I would have lost the best mentor I’d ever had, and, absurdly enough, one of the best friends I’d ever had, as well. If someone had told me that the first day I’d walked into his office so many years ago, I’d never have believed it. What could an agnostic girl from Brooklyn and an elderly Catholic priest from California possibly have in common?