“It’s not what you think,” I say, even as I know it’s exactly what he thinks.
He gives a tight smile.
“That’s what they all say. You were always the parish’s golden boy. Never a hint of trouble until now.” He pauses, tapping the table. “Is she worth your soul, Michael?”
I feel the heat climb my neck. “She’s not a seductress.”
Donovan waves me off. “You’re not unique. But you are disappointing.”
Gregory intervenes, softer. “Michael’s been a servant of this diocese for fifteen years, Your Excellency. His record is spotless. Maybe we should consider his proposal; at least in the interim.”
Donovan looks at Gregory as if he’s betrayed a secret code. “You’re advocating for this?”
Gregory shrugs, but his eyes plead. “We’ve lost too many men to scandal. Michael’s proposal is… creative. If it saves a soul and keeps the papers quiet, isn’t that a mercy?”
Donovan turns back to me. “You’d be a lay counselor. You’d surrender your collar, your title, your sacramental authority.”
I meet his gaze. “If that’s what’s required.”
Gregory speaks up. “We could place Michael in a community outreach position. Two years. If he maintains conduct, wereview. It keeps him under the tent. Better than losing him and his gifts completely.”
Donovan nods, but I can tell he hates the taste of it. “You’d start in the city. No direct parish contact. You’d report weekly.”
“Thank you.” Those conditions are acceptable to me.
He glances at the proposal, unopened. “I’ll review this with the council. We’ll meet again in two weeks.”
He makes a motion of dismissal, and Gregory gently squeezes my arm as if in comfort. I feel empty, like the time I first put on the collar and realized it didn’t make me better, just different.
The drive back to the hotel is all straight lines and muscle memory. I barely see the city. The parking lot is nearly empty by late afternoon. I kill the engine and let my hands rest on the steering wheel, breathing in the hush. The lobby is the same as always, except the clerk doesn’t look up when I pass. The elevator smells faintly of burnt coffee and carpet glue. I watch the elevator numbers tick upward and try to steady my pulse.
The hallway is a still-life: nobody, nothing, except the distant whine of a vacuum from housekeeping. Our door is cracked open, not enough to be welcoming, just enough to be wrong. The safety latch sticks out, caught on the frame. I stop, heart pounding. Maybe Sarah needed ice, or maybe the lock just failed.
I call her name once, low, not wanting to spook her if she’s napping. No answer.
When I open the door, the scene inside is all wrong. Sarah’s overnight bag is on the floor, contents upended and scattered. Drawers yawn open. The bedding is stripped halfway off themattress, and the pillows are on the ground. A chair by the window is overturned, the cheap leg splintered. On the wrinkled bedspread, I find a single sheet of lined paper, torn from a spiral, folded twice.
My name is written on the outside, in block letters I don’t recognize. I unfold it.
She’s paying for your sins.
It’s not random. It’s personal.
My breathing turns shallow. I know I should call someone—police, maybe, or Gregory—but I can’t move. I just sit there, staring at the words, waiting for the room to right itself.
But it doesn’t.
She’s gone.
And it’s my fault.
I press the note to my forehead, eyes squeezed shut. I try to pray, but the words stick in my throat.
I will find her, I promise the ceiling. I will make this right.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the note clutched in my hand, and let my mind spin out every possible ending. None are good, but as long as there’s a chance, I have to believe I’ll see her again.
I stare at the collar in the mirror. It’s just polyester and plastic, but it might as well be a noose. Still, I keep it on.
