statue of a serene-looking Virgin Mary, a golden halo circling the bowed head, her long, thin palms pressed together for all time in prayer. Under the statue was an iron stand with hundreds of flickering votive candles.
Lauren waited for the girls to file into their assigned pews and then took her seat at the end of the last row. Across the aisle Alice LaRue gave her a discreet wave.
Someone had found the time to enlarge a yearbook photo of Morgan and it was standing in front of the altar surrounded by huge arrangements of white roses. The picture wasn’t particularly flattering. Morgan stared sullenly out at the congregation, the vivid hair the most striking feature of the photo.
High-pitched voices sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” and the congregation rose en masse as two rows of girls wearing white satin robes and carrying open hymnals led a procession to the altar. They were followed by a single girl dressed in the simple cassock of an altar server; she held a pole with a gold crucifix mounted at the top. Sister Rose was next, dressed in a somber black suit with a satin armband fixed to one sleeve. She carried an arrangement of white lilies and was followed by two more altar servers. Bringing up the rear was an elderly priest, his shoulders hunched as if he carried some burden under his snowy white robes.
After some opening prayers, Sister Rose mounted the steps leading to a beautifully carved and polished lectern. She had to pull the microphone down so she could reach it. “Usually this is a happy occasion,” she began, her voice carrying across the pews. “We gather today just as we gather every year at this time to celebrate the beginning of another academic year. Today, however, our joy has turned to sorrow because we’ve lost one of our own. Morgan Wycoff, one of our third-year students, died this morning.”
There was a murmur across the congregation and Lauren wondered what the students were whispering to one another. Sister Rose waited for the noise to fade away before continuing.
“It is difficult to understand why the Lord would choose to remove Morgan from us in this, the flower of her youth, but we must accept the will of the Almighty.”
It was the will of God that Morgan be tied to a tree and left to die? Lauren felt bile rise in her throat and had to swallow hard. She shifted on the hard pew.
“At times like this, when our community has been torn asunder by tragedy, we must heal by drawing closer together, finding strength, as we always have in times of crisis, in our community.”
Lauren couldn’t help noticing that the headmistress hadn’t mentioned anything about how Morgan died. Did she really believe that what happened in the woods was an accident? Did the police think so, too? It was bizarre.
“We can honor Morgan’s memory by doing our best this year, by approaching our classes with determination, our responsibilities with enthusiasm, our extracurricular activities with joy. We must not let this tragedy cast a pall over St. Ursula’s. Morgan wouldn’t want that.”
The burnished gold of the candlesticks on either end of the altar caught a change of light from the windows and flickered as if they, too, were on fire. “Ave, ave, ave Maria!” Treble voices, some wavering girls marching along with white tapers dripping wax onto small hands.
Lauren pressed a hand discreetly against the side of her head. It was hot in the chapel, the cloying sweetness of the full-blown roses mixing with the faint scents of furniture polish and incense.
She needed to get out, but it wasn’t over. Sister Rose stopped speaking, but before she stepped away from the lectern she signaled to someone in the front row. “We’ll now hear from St. Ursula’s head girl, senior prefect Elizabeth Lincoln.”
Sister Rose stepped carefully back down the steps as a tall, slender girl with long blond hair rose to take her place. The girl made her way gracefully to the front, pausing to bow in front of the altar. It wasn’t the quick bob that most Catholics gave, but a full, reverent bend from the waist that managed to look both dramatic and pious.
She mounted the steps to the lectern slowly, as if she were walking to some internal beat, and she paused in front of the microphone, waiting until everyone’s attention was on her before she spoke.
“Morgan was our classmate,” she said. Her voice was pure, dulcet-toned. “She was our housemate and our teammate. Most of all, Morgan Wycoff was our friend.”
The congregation sat rapt. All the girls’ eyes were on her and Lauren, too, was drawn to that lovely face. The girl was reminiscent of a Botticelli angel, her lightly tanned skin gleaming under the lanterns hanging from the chapel ceiling. The boxy uniform, with its classic box-pleat uniform skirt and Peter Pan–collar blouse didn’t look shapeless or bulky on her as it did on most of the girls.
“This tragic death cannot diminish Morgan’s life. She will be remembered by all of us not just for the girl she was, but the woman she would have become. We are tempted at such times to ask why? Why Morgan? Why now? Why did she leave the safety of our campus at night to venture places out-of-bounds?”
There was another wave of murmurs at this, but it died away quickly as the girl held up one hand. “We are tempted to focus on these things, but we must not. Instead of asking why, we must ask ourselves, what now? What should we learn from Morgan’s life that will help us in our own struggles? What can we take from this experience that will help us grow stronger as a community?”
It was quite an impressive speech and by the end most of the teachers and many of the girl’s classmates were nodding their heads. When she finished speaking, Elizabeth Lincoln was greeted by a spontaneous round of applause. She smiled and bowed her head, the very picture of humility. For a moment, her pose mimicked the statue of the Virgin near her.
Her speech was followed by a less inspired but still heartfelt address by the gym teacher, a square-shaped woman of indeterminate age looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting black pantsuit. She was the only female not wearing a skirt, but Lauren suspected that being out of a tracksuit was probably a big concession for her.
“Morgan was a natural at volleyball. She was a power hitter and the team will really miss her.” She said more about Morgan’s volleyball skills, none of which made sense to Lauren, and then the woman suddenly burst into tears, as if a dam had broken, blubbering into her callused hands until Sister Rose stepped forward with a handkerchief and led her away from the lectern.
When the service ended, the girls filed out of the chapel section by section. Lauren lingered on the steps, trying not to make it too obvious that she was taking deep breaths.
A girl with cascade of curling black hair and clear green eyes approached her. “Are you Ms. Kavanaugh?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Kristen Townson. Welcome to St. Ursula’s.” The girl offered a hand and Lauren shook it, returning the girl’s easy smile.
“You’re the one who found Morgan, right?” Kristen said.
Lauren’s smile faded. “That’s right.”
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, did she say anything? Before she died, I mean.”
“No, that is, not that I know of—” Lauren’s struggle to respond was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Kristen!” Elizabeth Lincoln appeared out of the crowd, frowning at the
