The place where people usually prayed.
Confess.
Beg forgiveness.
Tonight it belonged to me.
“You know why I’m here, Uncle Sir,” I said calmly.
His wife shook her head quickly. “You have the wrong idea?—”
Tommy dropped a small folder onto the altar table.
Photos slid across the surface.
Documents.
Names.
Dates.
My uncle’s eyes fell to the evidence, and the silence that followed said everything.
“You had decades,” I said quietly.
His breathing grew heavier. “This isn’t what you think.”
“It’s exactly what I think.” My voice stayed cold.
I gestured around the cathedral. “You hid behind the Delacroix name. You hid behind this church. You hid behind God.”
His wife started crying. “You don’t understand. I never knew?—”
I cut her off. “Silence is participation.”
Sir swallowed hard.
“You cannot judge me,” he said, trying to find strength in the words. “Only God?—”
“God had decades,” I interrupted.
Sir’s shoulders dropped slightly. The power he carried as a priest meant nothing here.
“You had thirty-two victims,” I continued. “I counted.”
His eyes closed. That was confession enough.
I stepped closer. “You built a life behind lies,” I said. “And nobody ever stopped you.”
I pulled the suppressed pistol from my jacket slowly. Sir’s head lifted again.
“You think this will bring justice?” he whispered.
“No.” I raised the weapon. “It brings an ending to the past so I can build the future Delacroix family.”
The shot echoed through the cathedral.
One clean sound, and another.
