Marcus and Charlie are already there, still reeling from the Bishop’s interrogations.
The air in the small office is thick with exhaustion and barely contained panic.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathe, and they all turn to look at me. “We have him.”
Adrian moves first, his gray eyes scanning the bank statements with increasing fury. His hands shake as he reads, and I watch his jaw clench so tight I hear his teeth grind. “He’s joking about them. About the parishioners funding his lifestyle.”
Marcus finds the transfer records, his tattooed fingers tracing the numbers. “Two hundred thousand dollars. Straight to his personal account.” His accent thickens with rage. “While we’re struggling to keep the lights on, he’s stealing from his own congregation.”
Charlie discovers the NDAs, her hazel eyes widening with each page. “These women. They were coerced. You can see it in the language.”Her voice breaks slightly. “He destroyed their lives and paid them to stay quiet.”
We work in silence, each of us processing the magnitude of what we’re holding. This isn’t just evidence of financial impropriety. This is systematic corruption, abuse of power, the kind of evil that destroys faith itself.
“We could destroy him,” Marcus says finally, his dark eyes burning. “Release this to the media, the authorities. End him completely.”
“We should.” Adrian’s voice is rough. “Men like Whitmore don’t deserve mercy.”
But I hear the hesitation underneath. The priest who wants to turn the other cheek warring with the man who will do anything to protect what’s his.
I watch his gaze find Charlie, see the hunger flash across his face before he buries it.
Even now, even with everything falling apart, he can’t stop wanting her.
Charlie shifts in her chair, and the movement draws all our attention. Her dress rides up slightly, revealing more of her thighs, and I watch Marcus’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Adrian’s breathing changes, becomes more controlled, like he’s fighting himself.
And I’m no better. I imagine those thighs wrapped around my waist, remembering the sounds she makes when we claim her.
Stop.I force my thoughts back to the present danger. We’re holding evidence that could save us or damn us, depending on how we use it.
“Ray Kowalski,” Marcus says suddenly. “The PI. He seemed uncomfortable working for Whitmore. What if we approach him? Offer him a better deal?”
Adrian’s expression shifts, calculating. “We don’t have money to compete with Victory Life.”
“I have some savings,” I offer. “From before I came here. Not much, but something.”
“I have money from before the priesthood,” Adrian admits quietly. “I’ve never touched it. Kept it for emergencies.” His gray eyes find mine. “This qualifies.”
Marcus nods. “I can contribute what little I have.”
We pool our resources, counting out what we can spare without completely bankrupting ourselves. Three thousand dollars. It’s not much compared to what Whitmore can offer, but maybe it’s enough.
The diner where we meet Ray is the same one where Charlie works, and I can’t help scanning the room for her familiar form. She’s not here, probably at the church, but the scent of coffee and grease reminds me of watching her move between tables, her body graceful despite the exhaustion written across her face.
Ray Kowalski looks older in person, more worn down. He slides into the booth across from us, his expression wary. “This better be good. Whitmore doesn’t like his employees taking meetings with the competition.”
“We’re not competition,” Adrian says, his voice carefully controlled. “We’re victims of his campaign to destroy us.”
Marcus slides the envelope across the table. “Look at this. Then tell us if you still want to work for him.”
Ray opens it, and I watch his face change as he reads. Shock. Disgust. Rage. He flips through page after page, his jaw clenching tighter with each revelation.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes finally. “I knew he was dirty, but this…” He looks up at us. “You’re offering me what? Three grand to switch sides?”
“To help us gather additional proof,” Adrian clarifies. “To document his activities. To be our eyes and ears.”
Ray is quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the table. Then he pushes the money back toward us. “Keep it. I’ll do this pro bono.”
