“We don’t know that. It’s a guess, but we can’t say that for sure.” Cyrus turned the envelope over and looked inside but found nothing other than that one butterfly sticker.
“Doesn’t seem possible it’s just a coincidence though, does it?”
No, it didn’t.
And something else…
“Grand Isle,” Cyrus said. “It has a butterfly dome. Some kind of park, all butterflies. Ike went on vacation there in June. In July, he booked a two-month stay on Grand Isle at a different place, a real secluded place. Lady who met him said Father Ike asked what there was to do around there. She said ‘beach, nature hikes, biking, and the butterfly dome.’”
“So he wanted to go back because he likes butterflies,” Nora said. “Or because he knew someone who did.”
Cyrus needed to think and think hard and think deep.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said.
“You want me to come?”
“No, you stay here. Keep looking. I’m gonna walk from here to where we found the car again.”
“Why? We already found the keys.”
Cyrus turned so that he was facing the street. “You have any trouble getting a parking spot on this street?”
“No. I parked right in front of the house.”
“You see lots of spots?”
“Half the street was empty.”
“Right. Exactly.” Cyrus wagged his finger at her. “Ike didn’t park his car three blocks away because there was no parking here. He parked it there for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“Ike had his own apartment at St. Valentine’s, but he came here to the church’s guest house a mile away, supposedly for ‘peace and quiet.’ Sister Margaret said he likes the neighborhood. What’s so special about this neighborhood?”
“What are you thinking?”
“Maybe the man or woman he gave his keys to lives around here. Maybe that’s why he came here. I just want to see what I can see.”
“Good luck,” Nora said. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
Cyrus left her in the house and headed out on foot. He walked slowly, carefully eying every house he passed. What was he looking for? Something told him he’d know it when he saw it. And something else told him he’d already seen it.
But what was it?
Butterflies. Butterfly poem. Butterfly dome. Butterfly sticker.
Maybe the woman Cyrus was doing kink with had a butterfly tattoo. He knew a whole lotta girls who had butterflies inked on their backs or ankles. He’d even picked one girl up at an Usher concert who had a butterfly tattoo on her upper chest so that the little butterfly’s head was at her throat, the wings on her cleavage.
Of course while he was remembering fucking the butterfly girl, Sister Margaret called him back.
“Sister,” he said. “Thanks for calling me. I know this is terrible to talk about, but I’d like to hear the recording of Father Ike’s message to you. Would you let me do that?”
She took a deep breath. “If you think it’ll help. Let me call you back on our landline, and I’ll play it over the phone. Would that work?”
“That would work fine. I’m out on the street, though. I’ll text you in a couple minutes and you can call me then.”
Cyrus jogged back to the house on Annunciation Street. This time he found Nora in the bedroom going through the dresser drawers.
“No luck,” she said. “And I turned this place upside-down. You?”
“Sister Margaret’s gonna let us listen to the message. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Cyrus sent the Sister a text. A few seconds later, his phone rang. Cyrus put it on speaker and set it on top of the dresser.
“Ready,” he told Sister Margaret.
“All right,” she said. Her voice was hollow. “I’ll push play and hold it up. Here we go.”
A beep, and then a male voice: “Maggie.”
Nora reached out and grabbed Cyrus by the forearm. He knew how she felt.
“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do,” the voice said, “but I’d be sorrier if I didn’t do it. I can’t do this. Anyway. Forgive me. Pray for me, Margaret.”
It was one thing to hear the words repeated by Katherine, another thing to hear the words from Father Ike’s own mouth. His voice was surprisingly strong and steady, a man who had made a decision and there was no going back from it.
“That’s it,” Sister Margaret said. “Did you need to hear it again?”
“No,” Cyrus said. Nora still had him by the forearm. She looked paler than usual. “I got it. Thank you. I’m sorry to upset you.”
“You didn’t upset me. I was already upset. Goodnight.”
She hung up.
“Well?” Nora said. “That’s it then.”
Was it? Cyrus pulled his reporters’ notebook from his pocket and flipped back.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Cyrus read out loud. He looked up. “That’s what Katherine told me. But that’s not what Ike said. He said, ‘I can’t do this.’ Pause. ‘Anyway…’”
There was a world of difference between “I can’t do this” and “I can’t do this anymore.” A simple mistake. One word. But it reframed everything.
“I can’t do this—period,” Nora repeated. “What’s ‘this’? He can’t mean his suicide because he just said he was going to do it.”
“He was talking about doing something else,” Cyrus said. “I’m going to kill myself because I can’t do…what?”
Nora only shook her head. Maybe when they figured that out, this fucking case would finally be over.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Cyrus returned to his apartment. Paulina had asked him over for dinner, and though he’d been tempted to say “yes,” he told her he had to work on the case. He knew they were close. He didn’t want to stop. Not now.
Paulina was a born detective’s spouse. She said, “You do what you have to do. I’ll save you the leftovers for tomorrow.”
God damn, he loved that woman.
Back in his apartment, Cyrus spread out a plain white towel on his kitchen table and placed everything on it in a line.
Pink envelope with the butterfly sticker.
Car keys.
Rumi poem about the butterflies.
The chastity device.
Then Cyrus typed and printed out a timeline of events, beginning with the trip to Grand Isle in June, the engagement party in July, and coming up on today, finding the keys in the mailbox.
He sat at the kitchen chair and looked one by one by one by one at the items on the table. Then he closed his eyes and began to breathe deliberately. Breathe in for four—one, two, three, four—hold it for three at the top—one, two, three—breathe out for four and hold it for three at the bottom.
One.
Two.
Three.
Cyrus did this again and again, until he’d breathed himself so deep into his mind that he couldn’t see or feel his own body anymore.
But he didn’t need his body, just his brain. His brain and the river that ran wild through it.