The Catechism of Emily Pry

Chapter 1

Fall, 1962, St. Mary’s Academy

The photograph under the headline, “Infant Missing,” captured Millie’s curiosity—and she had more than most. Scanning the elaborate room in the picture, she recognized it. The one with the curved staircase where she watched the other students—aged 12 through 18—descend each Friday, suitcases in hand, for weekend visits with their families. It was where Millie, barely 12, crouched until the brass doors settled and the last happy echo returned to silence.

With nowhere to go and nothing to do, Millie was left to explore empty halls and dark stairwells until the girls’ Sunday return.

“By 6 p.m. Sharp!” Sister Margaret had declared in a staccato clip.

The old wooden desk straddling Millie in the cluttered room smelled like the furniture in her grandparent’s farmhouse that stood under the 70-foot Sugar Maples—where she had fed their old sheepdog “Buckles” and shared a room with her mom.

Tucking the fragile newsprint into the good pocket of her robe, Millie heard faint footsteps in the hall. Then heavy boots thwacking off the linoleum in Corridor E. If she was caught, she’d lose her spot at St. Mary’s. Then she’d really be alone.

Brave as she was, the thought left a chill that didn’t come from the spider web dangling from her hair. It came from her past. Millie had been removed from her mother’s care—if that’s what you’d call it—and placed in the all-girls school in an urgent act of charity. She was on probation from day one—even before she’d earned it.

She was about to.

Scooting out from under the dusty desk, memories of Maple trees and dog licks fading, Millie white knuckled the knob and pushed the heavy door to peek into the darkening corridor, then sped on slippered feet to room D-304, eager to read more about the missing baby.

The third floor residence halls were named after ancient nuns heralded as hermits, helpers of the sick and holy. D-304 was in St. Digna’s hall, a devout girl from the hills of Central Italy—a romantic place for a saint to pray and ultimately perish. Her image hung on the wall, a black brush-stroked background highlighting her gentle face, small pursed lips between full ivory cheeks under lovely, lashless eyes.

When Millie looked back toward the cluttered room she had just left, the moonlight disappeared as the door closed. And someone locked it.

With prayers to St. Digna, Millie ran to her room, threw her meticulously placed pillows aside, and cocooned herself under her pink chenille cover. Fluffy slippers still on, the delinquent Emily Pry quieted her breath and listened for the thwack of sticky boots.

Nothing.

Just the slow approach of soft-soles belonging to Sister Barbara, the nun-on-duty.

“G’night Sister,” she ventured as the rattle of rosary beads came closer and paused, a flash of penlight catching her square in the eyes.

“Ms. Pry,” Sister Barbara said flatly, lingering before shuffling off to other saintly corridors.

Millie was done roaming St. Mary’s tonight, but she hadn’t been alone. And that kept her awake and wondering.

If Sister Barbara was here, who had locked the door in Corridor E?