One more scandal, one more accusation, and we’re done.
I find Elijah in the choir loft, his golden hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it.
He’s sitting at the piano bench, his blue eyes wide with something that looks like panic. When he sees me, he stands so quickly the bench scrapes against the floor.
“Adrian.” His voice comes out rough. “Robert Chen was just here. He said terrible things. Things that aren’t true.”
I close the distance between us, studying his face. “Tell me exactly what happened with Sarah.”
“Nothing happened.” His voice cracks. “I swear on everything holy, nothing inappropriate occurred. She had a crush. I was kind to her because she’s a talented student. I accepted one gift because refusing it publicly would have humiliated her.” His hands shake as he gestures. “That’s all. I never touched her inappropriately. Never made declarations of love. Never gave her any reason to believe I had romantic feelings.”
I want to believe him. Do believe him. But the fear in his eyes tells me he understands how bad this looks.
“She’s seventeen, Elijah. Her father is threatening police involvement. Even if you’re completely innocent, the accusation alone could destroy you. Destroy all of us.”
“I know.” He sinks back onto the piano bench, his head in his hands. “Mon Dieu, I know. But what can I do? How do I prove something didn’t happen?”
I have no answer. We stand in the choir loft surrounded by sheet music and the scent of old wood, and I feel the walls closing in from every direction.
That afternoon, the Bishop summons me to his temporary office. Sister Margaret stands by the door, her sharp eyes tracking my entrance with unnerving precision. The Bishop sits behind the desk, and spread across its surface are photographs that make my blood run cold.
Me watching Charlie during Mass, my gaze finding her in the third pew. The angle makes it look intimate, obsessive.
Marcus’s hand lingering on Charlie’s during communion preparation, their fingers intertwined for just a moment too long.
Elijah sitting close to Charlie in the choir loft, their bodies angled toward each other in ways that suggest more than professional interaction.
Nothing explicitly damning. But the pattern is unmistakable.
“Father Cross.” The Bishop’s voice is cold, measured. “I’ve been patient. I’ve given you opportunities to be honest. But these photographs, combined with the testimonies I’ve gathered, paint a very clear picture.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. “Those images are taken out of context.”
“Are they?” He taps one photograph. “This is you during your homily, staring at Miss Davis with an expression that is decidedly unpriestly.” Another tap. “This is Deacon Reyes, his hand on hers in a way that suggests familiarity beyond professional boundaries.” A third tap. “And this is Brother Moreau, sitting inappropriately close to a young woman who should be treated with pastoral distance.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong.” But my voice lacks conviction because we’ve done everything wrong, and he knows it.
The Bishop leans back, his steel-gray eyes holding mine. “I’m going to be direct, Father Cross. You have forty-eight hours to make a choice. Send Miss Davis away from this parish, permanently, or I will recommend immediate reassignment for you, Deacon Reyes, and Brother Moreau to separate dioceses. You’ll never see each other again. And Miss Davis will be questioned extensively about her role in corrupting three men of God.”
The words hit like physical blows.
My carefully maintained control fractures, and I feel the violence I’ve spent twenty years suppressing surge forward.
My hands curl into fists, and I imagine reaching across this desk and making him understand that Charlie is innocent, that we’re the ones who failed, that destroying her to save face is unconscionable.
But I’m a priest.
I’m supposed to turn the other cheek. Accept judgment. Submit to authority.
Except I can’t. Not when it comes to her.
“You’re asking me to choose between my vocation and an innocent woman’s wellbeing.”
“I’m asking you to do what’s right for everyone involved.” The Bishop’s voice softens slightly. “Miss Davis is young. She’ll recover. She’ll move on. But if this continues, if the scandal breaks publicly, her reputation will be destroyed. She’ll be labeled a seductress, a homewrecker. Is that what you want for her?”
The manipulation is masterful. He’s framing this as protection when it’s really about control, about maintaining the Church’s image at any cost.
“Forty-eight hours,” he repeats. “Make your choice.”
