Ray shifts uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the messenger bag. “There’s something else.” He pulls out another envelope, this one sealed with tape. “When I was doing surveillance for Victory Life, I noticed someone was installing recording equipment in your confessionals. Professional curiosity made me look into it.”
My blood runs cold. Adrian goes completely still beside me, and I watch the color drain from his face. Elijah stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.
“What kind of recording equipment?” Adrian’s voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the panic underneath. The diocese never puts recording equipment in the confessionals. It’s forbidden, and a priest who tries is immediately excommunicated.
“Audio. High-quality stuff, hidden in the ventilation grates.” Ray opens the envelope, revealing a small USB drive. “I accessed the files remotely. Deleted everything before anyone could review them. But I kept copies. Just in case.”
He plugs the drive into Elijah’s laptop, and my stomach drops as I see the file names.
Dates and timestamps.
Dozens of recordings spanning weeks.
My mind races through every confession I’ve heard in that booth, every private conversation, every moment we thought was protected by the seal of confession.
Ray clicks on one file, and Charlie’s voice fills the room.
Young. Uncertain.
Confessing to the Bishop about having feelings for us.
My chest tightens painfully as I hear her take all the blame, absolve us of any wrongdoing, and offer to leave St. Michael’s to protect us.
Adrian makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a prayer. His hands are shaking as he grips his rosary beads, and I can see him fighting himself. Fighting the need to go to her, to pull her close and promise she’ll never have to sacrifice herself for us again.
Ray clicks through more files.
My voice, rough with emotion, confessing to Adrian about my feelings for Charlie.
Elijah’s whispered prayers in French, asking God for guidance about desires he can’t control.
Adrian’s own confession to a visiting priest, admitting he’s fallen for a parishioner and doesn’t know how to stop.
“Jesus Christ,” Elijah breathes, his face pale. “They were recording everything. Every private moment, every confession, every conversation we thought was sacred.”
“They sent them to the diocese,” Ray says quickly. “The files were encrypted, waiting for review. I deleted them before anyone could access them. But you need to understand how close you came to complete exposure.”
I stare at the laptop screen, at the list of files that could have destroyed us. My hands shake as I reach for the USB drive, pulling it from the port. “We need to destroy this. Now.”
“Agreed.” Adrian’s voice is rough, and he takes the drive from my hand.
Ray pulls out a lighter from his pocket, and we watch in silence as Adrian holds the USB drive over his metal wastebasket.
The plastic melts and warps, the data inside becoming irretrievable.
The acrid smell of burning electronics fills the office, but none of us move until the drive is nothing but a twisted lump of slag.
“Thank you,” Adrian says finally, his gray eyes holding Ray’s. “For protecting us. For doing the right thing.”
Ray shrugs, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Some things matter more than a paycheck. Whitmore makes me sick. Someone recording confessions makes me sick. I became a PI to help people, not to enable corruption.” He gathers his things, preparing to leave. “Use the evidence I gave you. Destroy him. He deserves it.”
After Ray leaves, the three of us stand in weighted silence.
The evidence of Whitmore’s corruption still spreads across the desk, but now it feels different. More personal. We’re not just fighting to save St. Michael’s anymore.
We’re fighting to protect the family we’ve built in shadows.
The door opens, and Charlie enters carrying a tray with coffee mugs. She’s wearing a light blue dress that swishes around her legs with every step, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. The sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions. Love. Fear. Desperate need. The knowledge that she’s carrying a baby that might be mine makes everything more intense.
