The sound of my own humming is what saves me from hearing his footsteps.
I don’t know he’s there until I turn to leave, my purse heavy with stolen money and heavier guilt, my eyes still wet from tears I didn’t realize I was crying.
Father Adrian Cross stands in the doorway of the vestry.
His gray eyes lock onto the purse clutched against my chest, and the world stops.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that makes you want to confess sins you haven’t even committed yet. Salt-and-pepper hair cut severely short.
Sharp jawline shadowed with stubble that suggests he shaved this morning but it’s been a long day.
His cassock is perfectly pressed, every button fastened, every line crisp. A man who uses control like armor.
But it’s his eyes that pin me in place. Piercing gray, the color of storm clouds, seeing straight through to every secret I’ve ever kept.
They drop to my purse then rise slowly back to my face, and I watch understanding dawn in them like a terrible sunrise.
He knows.
My breath catches in my throat. My fingers tighten on the purse strap until the leather cuts into my palm.
I should run.
I should drop the money and beg forgiveness. I should do anything except stand here frozen like a deer in headlights, watching this man of God realize I’m a thief.
But I can’t move. Can’t speak.
Can’t do anything except stare back at him, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it echoing through the empty church.
His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I notice they’re strong hands, calloused, the hands of someone who’s done physical labor. Not the soft hands of a man who’s spent his whole life in churches. There’s something dangerous in the way he holds himself, something barely restrained, like violence wrapped in priestly robes.
He’s beautiful in a severe, untouchable way that makes my stomach flip despite the terror flooding my veins.
Or maybe because of it. There’s something electric in the air between us, something that has nothing to do with the money in my purse and everything to do with the way his eyes haven’t left mine, the way his jaw clenches like he’s fighting some internal battle I can’t see.
“Miss Davis.” His voice is deep, measured, each word carefully controlled. He knows my name. Of course he knows my name. Small parish.
Grandma Rose probably mentioned me a thousand times before the stroke stole her words.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
What can I possibly say? I’m sorry? I’ll give it back?
My grandmother is dying, and I’m desperate, and I don’t know what else to do?
All of it is true. None of it matters.
Father Cross takes a step forward, and I take a step back, my body moving on instinct. His eyes track the movement, something flickering in their depths that I can’t name. Not quite anger. Not quite pity. Something darker, more complicated.
“I think,” he says slowly, his gaze dropping once more to the purse pressed against my chest, “we need to talk.”
2
ADRIAN
I stand in the doorway of the vestry, my gray eyes locked on the woman frozen before me. The Sunday collection money meant for the parish’s crumbling roof is clutched against her chest in a purse that has seen better days.
I’d heard the rustling from my office, the soft footfalls of someone who thought themselves alone.
