I don't turn. "Maybe I like leaving things unfinished."
Silence. Then, quiet: "That's dangerous thinking."
Now I turn. He's in the doorway, hands gripping the frame like he's physically holding himself back. The light from the hallway behind him throws his face into shadow, but I can see his eyes. They're not safe. They're not pastoral. They're the eyes of a man who's fighting something, and the something is winning.
"For who, Father?"
"For both of us."
The words hang there. Neither of us moves. I'm holding a paintbrush and he's holding a doorframe and the distance between us — his carefully maintained, precisely measured distance — feels like a dare.
I reach for a high corner. My shirt rides up. I know it does. I'm not sure I didn't do it on purpose, and that uncertainty bothers me more than the act itself.
In the doorway, Father Gabriel goes still. Not priest-still. Man-still. Hungry-still. For three heartbeats, the collar is invisible and the man underneath is looking at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in the room.
Then he clears his throat. "I'll get that ladder." His voice is wrecked. His exit is too fast.
I lower my arms slowly, pulse hammering. That was a crack in the glass, and I put it there, and the worst part is how much I liked the sound it made.
I press my thumb to the scar on my inner arm — the old burn from Abuela Rosa's kitchen. She used to say some people run hot, that they need to be careful not to burn everything they touch. I thought she meant the stove.
But this is different from Julian. It has to be. Because Julian took what he wanted and Gabriel is holding himself back, andthe difference between a man who advances and a man who restrains himself is the difference between a cage and an open door. I can want Gabriel precisely because he won't act on it. The collar guarantees it. The discipline guarantees it.
He'll never cross the line.
Thursday night rolls around. At nine PM, I'm finally leaving the church, my hands cramped from painting, the smell of latex and turpentine in my hair. The parking lot is dark and empty except for my car and the soft glow from the rectory window. Gabriel, still working.
I walk toward my car, fishing for keys.
The sedan is parked across the street. Dark blue, Florida plates, engine off. I wouldn't have noticed it — wouldn't have given it a second glance — except for the movement inside. The faint glow of a phone screen. The shift of a silhouette.
My body knows before my brain catches up. That tension I learned in Julian's world — the awareness that kept me alive in rooms full of men who made people disappear. The hair on my neck rises.
Two car doors open. Two men get out. They don't bother with pretense — they're walking toward me across the lot with the unhurried purpose of professionals who've done this before. One thick-necked, heavy through the shoulders. The other leaner, hands in his jacket in a way that's meant to communicate.
The Markovics. Or their people. It has to be. They found me.
My pulse spikes, and underneath the fear, the thing I hate about myself: that electric aliveness, that sick thrill that says danger is here and I'm about to feel real. I am so fucked up.
Keys between my fingers. Makeshift weapon. Church door twenty feet behind me — unlocked, because Gabriel is still inside. I calculate distances, angles, odds. Two professionals, one of me, a dark parking lot, no witnesses.
I turn back toward the church. Not running. Running shows fear.
The rectory door opens.
Gabriel steps out. Jacket on, keys in hand, heading to lock up. He sees me crossing the lot. Sees the men. Reads the entire situation in about one second.
What happens to his face is the most frightening thing I've ever seen. Not because it's violent. Because it's familiar. Because the shift from priest to something else happens with the speed and ease of a man putting on a coat he's worn a thousand times. One moment, Father Gabriel. The next — someone I don't have a name for. Someone whose body rearranges itself into angles I recognise from Julian's security detail. Shoulders dropping, weight shifting forward, hands loose and ready.
He walks toward us. Not hurrying. Covering ground with a deliberate, coiled purpose that makes both men slow their approach. He reaches me, positions himself between me and them.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" His voice could cut glass. Not the pastoral warmth. Not even the dry humour from the food pantry. Something flat and cold and polished, the voice of someone who's delivered threats in rooms with better lighting.
The thick-necked one tries friendly. Boston accent bleeding through. "Looking for an address. GPS got us turned around."
"The church is closed. This is private property."
Boston steps closer. Testing. "Just asking for directions, Father."
