Can I accept a child that might not be mine?
Can I love a baby that could be Adrian’s or Marcus’s, knowing I might never know for certain?
Can I be a father to someone else’s child while pretending it doesn’t matter?
I look at Charlie’s face, at the fear and hope warring in her expression.
At the way her hand rests protectively on her stomach, already loving the tiny life growing there.
At Adrian and Marcus, who are looking at her with the same fierce possessiveness I feel burning through my own chest.
And I realize with devastating clarity that I don’t know the answer, but I will do it for her.
43
MARCUS
The evidence spreads across Adrian’s desk like a roadmap to Whitmore’s destruction, and I can’t stop the satisfaction building in my chest as I catalog each damning piece.
Bank statements showing transfers to personal accounts labeled as “building funds.” Emails where Whitmore jokes about the “stupid sheep” funding his lifestyle.
Invoices for construction work that was never done, vendors whose addresses don’t exist. JT gave us everything, and it’s beautiful in its brutality.
My hands shake slightly as I arrange the documents in chronological order, creating a timeline of systematic corruption that spans years.
Adrian stands beside me, his gray eyes scanning each page with increasing fury.
His jaw clenches tighter with every new revelation, and I watch the muscle jump beneath his olive skin.
He’s still wearing his cassock from morning Mass, but his rosary beads are wrapped so tightly around his knuckles they’ve left red marks.
Elijah sits in the corner chair, tracking our movements as he reviews the digital files on his laptop.
His golden hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window.
A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. Ray Kowalski enters, carrying a leather messenger bag that looks like it’s seen better days. His expression is grim as he crosses to the desk, setting the bag down with deliberate care.
“I’ve got more,” he says without preamble. “Recordings of Whitmore threatening employees who asked too many questions. Photos of him with his mistress at a hotel downtown, paid for with church credit cards.” He pulls out a digital recorder, setting it on the desk. “And this. Audio of him discussing how to ‘eliminate competition’ from other churches in the area.”
Adrian’s hands curl into fists at his sides, fighting the violence that’s always simmering beneath his priestly exterior.
His chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths.
He wants to destroy Whitmore with his bare hands. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine.
Ray presses play on the recorder, and Whitmore’s voice fills the small office.
Smooth, confident, completely lacking in remorse as he discusses embezzlement strategies with someone whose voice I don’t recognize.
The casual way he talks about stealing from his congregation makes my stomach turn.
“The beauty of it,” Whitmore’s recorded voice says, “is that they’ll never question where the money goes. Tell them it’s for missions, the building fund, and helping the poor. They’ll give until it hurts, and they’ll feel good about it. Meanwhile, I’m living the life God intended for his chosen servants.”
The recording ends, and the silence that follows is suffocating. Elijah’s fingers have stilled on his keyboard. Adrian’s breathing has become more controlled, like he’s fighting for composure.
And I’m gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles have gone white.
“This is enough,” I say, my accent thickening with barely contained rage. “This is more than enough to destroy him completely.”
