My hands still their nervous drumming against my thigh.
Beside me, Adrian’s jaw clenches so tight I hear his teeth grind. Marcus shifts his weight, his tattooed arms crossing over his chest defensively. Charlie’s breath catches, her hand moving unconsciously to flutter at her throat.
The Bishop pulls another folder from his briefcase, this one thicker, more worn. “The initial complaint came to the diocese six weeks ago. Vague concerns about ‘inappropriate familiarity’ between clergy and a young female volunteer.” He opens it, revealing pages of Mrs. Delacroix’s handwriting. “Mrs. Delacroix’s jealousy over losing the parish bake-off twisted into righteous concern about Charlie’s presence here.”
Mon Dieu.We had suspected her, but the confirmation still stings. Mrs. Delacroix’s bitter expression after Charlie’s pie disappeared while her lemon meringue sat untouched.
The way she’d been watching us during Mass, her pen scratching across that leather notebook.
The calculating looks she’d given Charlie whenever they passed in the hallway.
“But Mrs. Delacroix’s complaint was general,” the Bishop continues. “Concerning, but not actionable. No specific allegations, no concrete evidence. Just observations about how much time Miss Davis spent with the clergy.” He pulls out more documents, and my stomach drops as I recognize Sarah Chen’s handwriting. “Then Sarah escalated everything.”
“Sarah found Mrs. Delacroix’s notebook,” the Bishop explains, his voice dropping to something that sounds almost sympathetic. “Detailed observations about the four of you. Times, dates, locations. Mrs. Delacroix had been documenting everything for weeks, building a case in her own mind about Charlie being an inappropriate distraction.”
He spreads photographs across the desk, and I recognize them immediately. The manipulated ones of our misconduct. Sarah’s work, using Mrs. Delacroix’s observations as a blueprint.
“Sarah used that information to write additional letters to the diocese,” the Bishop continues. “She forged her parents’ signatures on formal complaints about Brother Moreau’s conduct. She documented ‘evidence’ through carefully timed photographs.” His steel-gray eyes find mine, and I see understanding there. Not judgment. “Her teenage obsession combined with Mrs. Delacroix’s bitter observations created a perfect storm.”
My throat tightens.
I think about Sarah’s face when I rejected her in the choir loft, the way her expression twisted from hope to humiliation to rage.
I’d been kind, professional, and appropriate.
And she’d weaponized that kindness into something that could have destroyed me.
“We need to confront them,” Adrian says, his voice rough with barely contained fury. “Both of them. With you present, Your Excellency.”
The Bishop nods slowly. “I’ve already arranged it. They’re waiting in the sanctuary.”
The sanctuary feels like a courtroom as we file in. Mrs. Delacroix sits in the front pew, her steel-gray hair pulled into its usual severe bun, her hands twisted together in her lap.
She looks smaller somehow, diminished by the weight of what she’s done.
Sarah sits across the aisle with her parents, Robert and Linda Chen.
Sarah’s face is pale, her dark eyes red-rimmed from crying. Her parents look devastated, their expressions cycling between confusion and horror.
The Bishop takes his position at the altar, his presence commanding immediate attention.
Sister Margaret stands to his right, her notebook finally closed.
Adrian, Marcus, Charlie, and I arrange ourselves in the second pew, a united front against the accusations that have been tearing us apart, and off-center just enough so we can still see Mrs. Delacroix’s and the Chens’ faces.
“Mrs. Delacroix,” the Bishop’s voice cuts through the heavy silence. “You wrote to the diocese six weeks ago expressing concerns about inappropriate relationships at St. Michael’s. Do you stand by those concerns?”
Mrs. Delacroix’s thin lips press together, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I…I was concerned about the girl. About how much time she spent with the clergy. It seemed…improper.”
“Improper,” Charlie repeats, her voice steady despite the tremor I can see running through her body. “Or were you just angry that people preferred my baking to yours?”
The accusation lands like a stone. Mrs. Delacroix’s face flushes red, and I watch shame war with indignation in her expression. “That’s not…I was genuinely concerned about?—”
“About what?” Marcus’s accent thickens with barely contained rage. “About a young woman who’s been nothing but kind and professional? Or about your wounded pride?”
The Bishop raises his hand, silencing the argument before it can escalate. “Mrs. Delacroix, did you give Sarah Chen access to your notebook? The one where you documented observations about the clergy and Miss Davis?”
Mrs. Delacroix’s face goes pale. “I…she asked to borrow it. Said she wanted to understand how to serve the parish better. I thought…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I was helping her grow in faith.”
