They made people disappear.A tight feeling clamped around Sofia’s throat.
“Was it a priest?” Sofia’s voice was hollow. She wanted to scream for the anguish her mother had endured. How terrible it must have been to face everything alone, with no one to rely on, no one to save or protect her.
Sister Helen gave a humorless laugh. “No. Worse.”
“Who, then?”
The nun clutched her cross, knuckles white. “We should let the past stay in the past. There is no joy in life if we keep looking back.”
“My mother ran from her past our entire lives. I’m grateful she had happy moments with me, but there were shadows in her eyes… and pain. Someone awful haunted her. What if he is still out there hurting someone else? How am I supposed to live with that?”
A shudder went through Sister Helen, and she was silent for several beats. Finally, she said, “There was a man who visited St. Agnes often. Too often. Money bought him access. And silence.” Her voice thinned. “Too much silence. We told ourselves the money helped the other children.”
Sofia saw the guilt etched in every line of her face. This wasn’t just a story—it was a confession.
“A donor?” Sofia asked.
“A buyer.”
The word hit like a blow. Not a metaphor—factual, monstrous. Cold dread pooled in Sofia’s gut. “What do you mean, a buyer?”
“You know exactly what I mean,” the nun whispered. “St. Agnes took in the forgotten. No one came for those girls. And sometimes… they didn’t leave on their own.”
Sofia’s nails dug into her palms.My mother was merchandise.The orphanage wasn’t a sanctuary—it was a hunting ground. “She was supposed to be his.”
The room tilted. Sweat gathered at her nape. She gripped the chair until the dizziness passed. “She ran because this man was hurting her,” Sofia rasped. She couldn’t believe that people who claimed to believe in a higher power had allowed such abuse to happen. Disgust and rage twisted inside her chest.
“And she got away,” Sister Helen said softly, a flicker of pride in her eyes. “But not alone. Someone helped her. I was very glad Katya got help. I am ashamed it was not from me.”
“Who helped my mother?”
Sister Helen grimaced. “Only a small number of people knew for certain what was happening. For the rest, it was just rumors and baseless speculation. It was a tight circle; only a few would cross,” the nun murmured. “It would’ve taken someone with access and faith… or a death wish.”
“Tell me,” Sofia said, drawing in a breath to steady her patience, even as she fought the urge to lean across the desk and throttle the nun. “If you cannot tell me who helped my mother, then at least tell me the name of the man who harmed her.”
Sister Helen hesitated, weighing the risk. Then, in a whisper: “Find Father Gabriel. If he’s still alive, he’ll know the rest.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next week passed in a frustrating blur—calls, dead ends, and polite brush-offs. Father Gabriel was always “unavailable,” “in prayer,” or gone. Every excuse sounded like a wall meant to keep Sofia out.
By late afternoon, a little over two weeks since her arrival, her patience was worn to threads. She grabbed takeout from the diner—half-cold fries bleeding through the bag—and headed back to the motel. All she wanted was silence. A shower, bad TV—anything to shut her mind off.
Her arms were full when she reached the door to her room, number twelve. The sun hung low outside, painting the motel’s parking lot in rust-colored light. As she fumbled for the key, a doorclickedopen beside her.
A glance was all it took. She froze while her heart trembled.
Tonio stood in the doorway of Room 13, maddeningly handsome and composed. The fading sun caught the line of his jaw and the slightly carnal quirk of his mouth. He looked less like a man and more like a setup for a bad, dangerous decision.
Sofia blinked. “Is this a coincidence?” she asked, her ingrained mistrust rising fast.
Tonio’s lips twitched. “A happy one. Didn’t expect to run into you again so soon.”
“Room Thirteen?” she said, eyeing the number.
“Didn’t pick it.”
Her brows lifted. “Right. You’re staying here?”
