“Yes.”
He had given me absolution, but I’d had to find a way to carry it myself . “I still feel terrible about it. And now this. The visions. It’s a lot.
“It is. But Katherine. That is not your fault. You did not cause his suffering. You did not choose for him to become an oracle.”
“I know.
“You have done much good in this world.” His voice was firm now, the voice of the priest who had trained me, who had believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. “You have saved lives. Protected innocents. Raised a remarkable daughter. You have earned the right to happiness.”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer. Almost teasing. “And when that which makes you most happy is practically offered up on a silver platter, perhaps you should not run from it. Perhaps you should embrace it.”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. Actually smiled, for the first time all day. “You always see too much, Father.”
“It is both my gift and my curse.” I could hear the warmth in his voice, the affection that had sustained me through so many dark nights.
“Stuart will be an asset here in Rome. The oracles are eager to work with him, to help him understand and control his abilities. And he will still be in touch with his son. This is not an ending,Katherine. It is a transition. A door closing so that another may open.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am old and occasionally wise. Trust me in this, if nothing else.”
When I hung up, the office was quiet around me. Stuart’s books still lined the shelves. His handwriting still covered the calendar. His absence still filled every corner of the room.
But something had shifted. Some weight I’d been carrying without realizing it had lifted, just slightly. Just enough to breathe.
My eyes drifted to the corkboard on the wall above the desk. Stuart had pinned various things there over the months—schedules, notes, reminders, a few photographs. But tucked in the corner, almost hidden behind a flyer was something else.
A drawing. Small. Crayon on construction paper.
I stood and crossed to the board, pulling the paper free.
Red door. Gold doorknobs. The same image Timmy had been drawing for weeks now, over and over, scattered around the house like warnings I’d been too busy to read. But this one was different.
This one had the shadow.
Behind the door, pressing against the frame like something trying to get out, was a dark shape. Darker than the other shadows Timmy drew. More defined. More deliberate. It had eyes, two small circles, carefully filled in with black crayon. And it was looking at something.
A small figure stood in front of the door. A stick figure with yellow hair and blue dots for eyes.
A little boy.
Standing right in front of the thing that was trying to get through.
The knocking man is happy today, Mommy.
Timmy’s voice echoed in my head, casual and unconcerned, the way kids are when they don’t understand that the things they’re saying should be terrifying.
He’s happy. He was knocking really loud last night.
I’d asked him about it that morning, crouched down to his level in the kitchen while he fidgeted and asked for pancakes. He’d shrugged like it was nothing. Like everyone heard knocking from behind doors that shouldn’t exist.
I stared at the drawing. At the shadow with its careful crayon eyes. At the little boy standing between it and the world.
My son. My baby. Drawing pictures of the thing in our basement.
I was out of the office and halfway up the stairs before I even realized I was moving, the drawing still clutched in my hand, Timmy’s name on my lips like a prayer.
I found him in the playroom with Elena, the two of them building a lopsided tower out of wooden blocks. Fran sat nearby with a book, glancing up when I burst through the door.
