We spend hours reviewing everything, showing him what we’ve found as well, the five of us working as a team for the first time.
Charlie’s sharp intelligence surprises the Bishop.
I can see it in the way his eyebrows rise when she points out discrepancies in the timeline.
Marcus’s tactical experience proves invaluable as we plan how to feed false information without raising suspicion.
Elijah’s attention to detail catches things the rest of us miss.
And through it all, I watch Charlie’s hand return again and again to rest protectively on her stomach.
The gesture is unconscious, instinctive, and it makes something fierce and possessive surge through my chest.
Marcus catches me watching her, and our eyes meet across the desk. I see the same possessive certainty reflected in his dark gaze.
He’s thinking the same thing I am.
That baby is ours, regardless of biology. We’re in this together.
Elijah’s gaze tracks Charlie’s every movement with an intensity that makes my jaw clench. Not with jealousy, but with recognition.
He’s falling just as hard as Marcus and I have.
Maybe harder.
He looks at her like she’s a symphony he’s desperate to play.
The Bishop’s voice pulls me back to the present. “We’ll continue looking for hard evidence tomorrow.”
Charlie shifts in her chair, and the movement draws my attention to the way her dress rides up slightly, revealing more of her thighs.
I force my gaze back to the Bishop, but not before Marcus catches me looking.
His jaw clenches, and I know he’s fighting the same battle. The need to touch her, claim her, forget everything except the way she feels beneath us.
“There’s one more thing,” the Bishop says, his tone shifting to something more serious. He pulls out another document, this one sealed in a separate envelope. “I received this yesterday. Another anonymous letter, but this one is different. More detailed. More…personal.”
My stomach drops as he opens it, revealing pages of handwritten notes. Dates. Times. Specific conversations. Details that could only come from someone who’s been watching us very closely. Written ina slanted penmanship that I’ve read in reports my entire stay at this parish.
Acceptance settles deep inside.
“I’ve been reviewing the evidence all night,” he says quietly. “Cross-referencing the information in this letter with the surveillance logs, the doctored photos, everything.” He closes his notebook with deliberate precision. “And I think you should know who sent it.”
Charlie tenses beside me.
“The person who sent this letter,” he says, his voice dropping to something cold and precise, “is Sister Margaret.”
42
ELIJAH
The Bishop’s words hang in the air like a death sentence, but something about his expression tells me there’s more to this story.
Sister Margaret stands by the door, her sharp blue eyes tracking our reactions with unnerving precision, her notebook clutched against her chest like a shield.
But the Bishop isn’t looking at her with condemnation. He’s looking at her with something that resembles…pity?
“Sister Margaret documented everything,” the Bishop continues, his steel-gray eyes moving between the four of us. “But she wasn’t the original source. She was following orders.”
