They ate quietly, both men deep in thought.Then, in sync, they stuffed the aluminum foil, napkins and uneaten garlic pickles into the plastic lunch bags and tossed them in the wastebasket. As they sipped the last of the coffee, they looked at each other.“What’s your take on the Widow Ryan?” Jack Brennan asked.“Scared. Worried like crazy about something. She ran like a rabbit caught in Farmer McGregor’s cabbage patch when she saw us.”“What’s she got to be afraid of?”“Whatever it is, she wants to get it off her chest.”Brennan smiled. “Catholic guilt? The need to confess?”Both men were practicing Catholics, and they had long ago agreed that anyone raised Catholic had been bred to confess sins and ask forgiveness. They joked that sometimes it made their job easier.Outside the church after the Mass, Jack Sclafani had been closer to Lisa Ryan than his partner when she looked past Nell MacDermott and saw him approaching. She was panicky, he thought. That was fear I saw in her eyes.
