The parish hall has never felt this small. Bodies press against each other, cameras jostling for position, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of too many people in too little space.
I stand at the makeshift podium we’ve set up near the front, my hands gripping the edges until my knuckles go white.
The cassock feels like armor today, every button fastened, my collar perfectly straight. I need the protection it offers, the reminder of who I’m supposed to be even as I prepare to do something decidedly unpriestly.
My gray eyes scan the crowd. Local news stations have sent their best reporters, notebooks open, cameras rolling.
Parishioners fill the back rows, their faces a mixture of concern and curiosity.
Even Mrs. Delacroix is here, her expression carefully neutral after everything that’s happened.
And Bishop Carmine watches from a distance where he won’t be on camera.
And there, in the very back corner, partially hidden behind a pillar, stands Charlie.
Her auburn hair is loose around her shoulders today, and, even from this distance, I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she fights her nerves.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and the connection is electric.
I watch her teeth worry her bottom lip, see the pulse hammering in her throat.
She’s terrified for me, for all of us, and the knowledge that she cares that much makes my chest tight with emotions I can’t afford to examine right now.
Marcus stands to my left, his arms tense though he tries to look casual with his hands in his pockets.
He’s wearing a black button-down that stretches across his shoulders in the way Charlie likes, and several female reporters watching him with obvious interest.
He doesn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on Charlie in the back corner. I watch his jaw clench as someone moves too close to her, his protective instincts flaring.
Elijah sits at the piano bench we’ve repurposed as additional seating, his gaze scanning the crowd with unnerving perception. He’s trying to look relaxed as well, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drum against his thigh.
We’re all thinking the same thing. All wanting the same thing.
And the knowledge that she’s carrying a baby that could belong to any of us makes everything more intense, more real, and more terrifying.
I clear my throat, and the room falls silent. Cameras focus on my face, recording every word, every expression. This is it. The moment we’ve been building toward. The chance to destroy Whitmore before he destroys us.
“Thank you all for coming,” I begin, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “I’m Father Adrian Cross, and I’ve served St. Michael’s Catholic Church for twenty years. Recently, Pastor Derek Whitmore of Victory Life Church has made serious allegations about misconduct at this parish.” I pause, letting the words sink in. “I welcome any legitimate investigation into St. Michael’s operations. We have nothing to hide.”
The reporters lean forward, pens scratching across paper.
I see skepticism in some faces, curiosity in others.
They’re waiting for the real story, the scandal they came here to document.
“However,” I continue, my voice dropping to something colder, more precise, “I believe the public deserves to know about Victory Life’s own practices. Practices that have been systematically hidden from their congregation and the community at large.”
I gesture to JT, who’s been waiting in the wings.
She steps forward on trembling legs, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing jeans and a simple jacket.
She looks small, vulnerable, but when she reaches the podium and our eyes meet, I see steel underneath the fear.
“My name is Jennifer Torres,” she says, her voice shaking but clear. “I was Victory Life’s bookkeeper for three years. I was fired six months ago for asking too many questions about financial irregularities.” She pulls out a folder, the same one she gave Elijah weeks ago. “I have documentation of embezzlement spanning years. Bank statements showing transfers to Pastor Whitmore’s personal accounts labeled as ‘building funds.’ Invoices for construction work that was never done. Vendors whose addresses don’t exist.”
The room erupts. Cameras flash. Reporters shout questions. I watch Jennifer’s hands shake as she spreads the documents across the podium, but her voice remains steady as she details each piece of evidence.
The numbers are staggering.
