Free Bitter Recoil by Steven F. Havill

not sure I understand how that is relevant to the investigation of the accident,” Parris said without much conviction.
    “Do you know?”
    He pushed away from the bookcase and sat down on the only straight-backed chair in the room. “I can’t imagine what good these explorations into Cecilia’s private life can do now.”
    “Father Parris, a hit-and-run is homicide.” Parris’s face flushed, and his shoulders sagged a little. “So you see, information of any kind might be helpful to us.”
    Parris bowed his head, and for a moment I was afraid he’d sunken into one of those hour-long prayers. Eventually, he looked up at me. “Yes, I know who the father was. Or I should say, I know who she said he was.”
    “And who’s that?”
    “A fellow by the name of Finn.”
    “First name?”
    “I’m not sure. They’re just initials I think. H.P. maybe. Something like that.”
    “Are you aware of where Mr. Finn lives?”
    “Oh, he lives around here, all right.” Parris almost chuckled, the sound coming out like more of a snort. “Up at the hot springs. He and a
friend
camp out there.” He stressed the word
friend
.
    “Do you know the friend?”
    “No. But I’ve seen him once or twice. And Cecilia mentioned him now and again. A younger man, I believe.”
    “And so you think Finn is the father?”
    “Cecilia said he was. She said he paid one or two of her bills at the health clinic.”
    “Did Cecilia Burgess have any other children?”
    The question seemed to catch Parris off-guard. He watched the rug patterns for a long minute, then settled for a simple shake of the head. A very small shake.
    “So the little girl who’s staying with Finn—Daisy, I think her name is—isn’t Cecilia Burgess’s child?”
    “No, not as far…” Parris stopped abruptly. His face was anguished. “No, I’m not going to do that.” He was speaking more to himself than to me, and I remained silent. His features twisted with some internal struggle, and I thought for a moment that the young priest was going to weep.
    He closed his eyes again for a while, then got out of the chair, limped to the door, and gently closed it.
    “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Forgive me. This is hard.” He made his way slowly to the chair nearest mine. I said nothing, letting him take his time. He surprised me with a faint grin. “I feel as if I’m in the confessional.”
    “Some different laws apply,” I said gently.
    He nodded sad agreement with that. “The girl living with Finn is my daughter.”
    “And Cecilia’s?” I prompted.
    “Yes,” Father Nolan Parris said. He looked relieved.

Chapter 9
    Over the years, I’ve had lots of practice at not looking as surprised as I felt. This was one of those times. I leaned back in the chair and regarded Parris with interest. Then, trying to sound fatherly instead of intimidating, I said, “So tell me.”
    He shrugged. “It’s no long story. As I said, Cecilia’s brother was a close friend of mine. My best friend. We’d known each other since we were two. We went to school together, all the way from kindergarten through college and seminary.” He stopped, arranging his mental cards.
    “I wish some of his willpower and discipline had rubbed off on me. I drink too much, Sheriff. Or at least, I did.” He clasped his hands tightly together. “I guess that I was an alcoholic by the time Richard Burgess was killed. That’s what they tell me. Anyway, his death…the stupidity of it…the waste…was all the excuse I needed.
    “I don’t remember all the grim details, and I don’t think I ever want to. The next eighteen months were my own private hell. They say a drunk has to hit rock bottom before he’ll admit to being in trouble.” He shook his head. “Do you know where they found me, finally?”
    I shook my head and Parris said, “I was living in a cardboard box under an Albuquerque overpass—downtown, where the old railroad station used to be. And
living
is probably the wrong