Sister Amanda woke wrapped in melancholy, the kind that seeped into her bones before her eyes even opened. For a long moment she lay still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, listening to the low hum of the furnace and the distant sound of traffic she didn’t recognize. She missed her aunts. Missed the other nuns and their gentle routines. Missed her students’ eager faces and the comforting predictability of lesson plans, bells, prayer, and purpose. Even the silence here felt wrong.  Too empty, too unstructured.

She padded downstairs to find Luke sprawled on the sofa, one ankle crossed over the other, flipping channels with a bored flick of his thumb.

“Luke,” she said quietly but firmly, folding her arms. “Do you have any updates regarding the murder I witnessed? I want to go home.”

He didn’t even look at her. “That is nun-ya business.”

She stared at him. “You. Are. Ridiculous.”

“But I have these.” He suddenly lurched upright and slammed a stack of yellowed, timeworn books onto the kitchen table. The impact echoed sharply through the room, making her jump. “Can you stop wiping the counter for one damn minute and look at these pictures?” he snapped.

“I wouldn’t have to wipe the counter every ten minutes,” she replied calmly, the cloth still moving in tight, precise circles, “if you’d stop leaving messes behind.”

“My house, my mess,” he shot back. “Is your nun OCD getting out of control?”

She stiffened, her hand pausing mid-swipe. “It’s rude to joke about a medical condition. Especially one that I do not have. I simply don’t enjoy ants invading the place where I live and eat.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees outside,” Luke scoffed. “The ants are underground doing ant things, not throwing a dinner party on my counter.” He pointed at the chair. “Sit, Seester.”

She obeyed, lowering herself into the chair beside the old radiator. She tugged the hoodie off her shoulders, revealing the faded police T-shirt he’d tossed her days ago. Yoga pants clung comfortably to her legs, and her hair was clipped back with one of the barrettes Stacy had thoughtfully packed. To anyone peering through the window, she looked ordinary. Casual. Almost carefree. It irritated Luke more than he cared to admit.

He slid the first book toward her and flipped it open. The faint, comforting scent of old paper rose up, the dust, ink and history. “Look at every picture,” he said. “Tell me if anyone stands out from the street fight.”

She flipped pages carefully while he stood behind her, too close. She could feel his body heat, smell soap and coffee and something faintly meaty. His breath brushed her neck.

“Do you need to be this close?” she snapped. “You’re breathing on me.”

“Oh, should I stop breathing entirely, Your Nun-ness?”

“No, but have you ever heard of personal space, Damien?”

“I am not breathing on your neck.”

“Then why can I smell the garlic sausage you ate for breakfast?” She grimaced. “It stinks.”

“You didn’t complain when you shoved my sausage down your throat yesterday,” he said with a wicked grin, clearly delighted with himself.

She hissed in disgust and stabbed her finger at a photograph. “This is the victim.”

Luke leaned forward, serious now.

Ignoring him, she continued flipping pages, her brow furrowing. “These two were there as well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very.” She didn’t look up. “Despite the frightening circumstances, I have something close to a photographic memory. I don’t miss many details.”

“No,” he muttered, smirking. “You do not. Like the microscopic crumbs on the counter. Or the poppy seed stuck in your tooth.”

Her eyes widened instantly. She ran her tongue over her teeth, panic flickering. “Which tooth?”

His laughter rang out, warm and infuriating. Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her. She remembered the seeded bagel still sitting untouched on the counter, half-defrosted on a paper plate.

She folded her arms and grunted. “You’re insufferable. How do you manage to push all my buttons?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to push your buttons Seester, I was just looking for the mute button.”

“Not today Satan.” She muttered as she climbed the stairs without another word.

Meet Author Lucia Catherine…

Lucia Catherine is an international bestselling and award-winning author. She creates stories about transformation, love and happiness. Her stories are sharp, honest, real, intense and sometimes have a comical edge. She lives at the beaches of Lower Delaware, where she finds most of her inspiration. Lucia loves spending time with her family and friends. She’s addicted to coffee, chocolate, good books, being on the water, and her dog.

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