EMMA
I hadn't realized that part of responsibilities at St. Agnes would be calming down after Deacon Girard had gotten me all riled up. I didn't know that was going to be a regular part of the gig. Yet here I was . . . again.
I'd managed to grit my teeth through the rest of the afternoon, doing my best to hide any residual frustration about my spat with Deacon. I knew it shouldn't matter. He'd disagreed with something I'd done-which, apparently, he hadn't even known about because he hadn't bothered to read my notes on the file. It was infuriating-and over something so stupid.
As I drove home in the setting sun, still in a little bit of a funk, I called Jenny. Today was her day off, so I hadn't seen her. Actually, I hadn't seen much of my friend since Nico had swept back into her life.
