Twenty years of priesthood have taught me to recognize the sound of desperation, and I’d moved silently through the church to investigate.
Now I watch her face cycle through emotions: shock, fear, defiance.
She’s young, mid-twenties perhaps, with auburn hair escaping a messy bun and freckles dusting her nose.
Pretty in a way that makes my jaw clench, the kind of pretty that has no place in my carefully controlled world.
Her hazel eyes meet mine, and something electric passes between us. Not just the tension of caught and catcher, but something darker, dangerous.
She doesn’t look away or immediately beg forgiveness. Instead, she lifts her chin with a pride that has no right existing in a thief’s posture.
The movement draws my attention to the curve of her throat, the delicate line of her collarbone visible above the neckline of her floral sundress. The fabric clings to her curves in ways that make my hands curl into fists at my sides. I force my gaze back to her face, to those hazel eyes that shift between green and gold in the afternoon light filtering through the stained glass.
Behind me, footsteps approach. Marcus Reyes, the deacon, his tattooed forearms visible beneath rolled sleeves. Then Elijah Moreau appears from the choir loft stairs, his angelic face curious at the commotion.
“Father Cross?” Marcus’s voice is low, questioning. He takes in the scene with sharp intelligence—me blocking the doorway, the woman clutching her purse like a lifeline, the open lockbox on the desk behind her.
My thoughts flash back to a night years ago, the three of us sitting in the church crypt surrounded by stone and shadows. We’d each confessed our worst failures, the moments that brought us to our knees.
Marcus had spoken of Isabella, of almost destroying himself for a woman he couldn’t have.
Elijah had admitted to the scandal in Paris, the married vocal coach who’d ruined his career.
And I’d told them about the underground boxing, about the man I’d nearly killed with my bare hands before fleeing to the priesthood.
We’d made a pact that night. No more failures. No more abandonment.
We’d protect each other, protect this place, never again let shame or fear destroy something good.
Now, staring at this woman with stolen money pressed against breasts I absolutely should not be noticing, I wonder if we’re about to break that pact.
“Miss Davis,” I say, my voice measured, each word carefully controlled. I know her name. Of course I know her name. Rose Davis has been a parishioner for decades, and she’s mentioned her granddaughter Charlie a thousand times.
Charlie’s breath catches at the sound of her name.
Her fingers tighten on the purse strap, knuckles going white.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, and I hate that I notice the movement, hate that some buried part of me wants to trace that path with my fingers.
“I can explain,” she whispers, but her voice cracks on the second word.
“Can you?” I take a step forward, and she takes a step back, her body moving on instinct. My eyes track the movement—the way her hips shift, the way the sundress swirls around her thighs.
She’s petite, maybe five-three, with curves that would make a saint stumble. I’m no saint. Not anymore. Maybe I never was.
Elijah moves closer, his blue eyes assessing the situation with unnerving perception. “Charlie,” he says gently, and I notice how she responds to his voice, how her shoulders relax fractionally. “Why don’t you put the purse down?”
She shakes her head, auburn waves escaping her messy bun to frame her face. “I can’t. I need it. My grandmother—” Her voice breaks completely, and tears spill down her cheeks, tracking through the faint dusting of freckles.
Something in my chest clenches painfully. I’ve spent two decades suppressing every inconvenient emotion, every unwanted desire, but this woman’s tears hit me like a physical blow. I want to comfort her. I want to absolve her. I want to pull her against me and promise everything will be okay.
Instead, I grip my rosary beads until they cut into my palm.
“Your grandmother is in the hospital,” Marcus says, his voice rough with understanding. He’s always been the most empathetic of us, the one who feels too much, too deeply. “St. Mary’s, right? The stroke unit.”
Charlie nods, her hazel eyes swimming with tears that make them look more green than gold. “They’re going to transfer her to a state facility if I can’t pay. Five thousand dollars by end of business today, or she goes somewhere she’ll die forgotten and alone.”
The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and raw.
