I take pictures of everything.Email them to myself in case I don’t make it back.Because I can’t help but confront the old snake.I shut the folder, grab it tight enough to wrinkle the cardboard, and storm toward the chapel.
The church takes a breath when I enter.Dark.Cold.Thick with incense that can’t hide the sour scent of decay underneath.And Crowley stands at the altar, adjusting candles as if they’re soldiers and he’s deploying them for battle.His shadow stretches up the ornate wall behind him like it has a life of its own.
“You always did walk like a sinner,” he says without turning.
“And you always seemed like one.”
He faces me, that smug, patient smile tightening the skin around his eyes.
I toss the folder onto the altar.Papers scatter like burned feathers.
“What is this?”I demand.“What the hell are these girls to you?”
He glances at a page.Barely.Calm.Controlled.
“Old records,” he says.“Documentation of charity.”
“Charity?”My voice cracks.“There are pictures of dozens of girls.”
He thumbs through, his voice steady, “Portraits of the orphans.Everything’s digital now.Must have missed this one.”
“You’re funneling girls through your church like livestock.”
Hand balling, his nostrils flare.“You’re upset.You’re imagining sin because you’re a sinner.”
“Upset?”My breath shakes.“Girls are missing.Girls who trusted you.Girls whose only crime was being vulnerable.”
His eyes shoot daggers.“Careful.Anger is unbecoming on a lady.”
“I ain’t here to be a lady.”
“Clearly.”
Pointing a finger into his chest, I step closer.“You used your daughter to threaten my family.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You used all of these girls.”
“Becki chose herself.”He lifts a candle.“Not God.”
“And the girls.The women?”
“All placed in a better situation than the one my daughter’s in.The one you’re in.”
“Some are dead.”
“So many troubled teens come to Pearly Gates.You must know how large the flock has grown.”
I look to the number on the wall, in the thousands now.“All preparing for end times.Brainwashed.And once girls leave.They vanish.Wash up dead.”
“Once they leave, we can’t always protect them.From themselves.Read the paper.That girl they found in Louisville overdosed.Thrown away like trash, probably by her dealer.”
I want to hit him.I want to see blood on this altar.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Sophie,” he says softly, too softly.“You’re pulling threads you’re not prepared to follow.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
