“Which church?” But I already know. The smirk on his face tells me everything.
“Client confidentiality.” He reaches for a manila folder on his passenger seat and pulls out a photograph. “But I think you can guess.”
The photo makes my blood run cold. Charlie and Adrian in the garden, standing close enough that the intimacy is unmistakable.
Adrian’s hand hovers near her face, not quite touching but the intention clear.
Her head is tilted back, looking up at him with an expression that anyone could read.
Nothing explicitly damning, but suggestive enough to raise every question we’ve been desperately trying to avoid.
“That’s nothing,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction. “Father Cross was probably brushing something off her face.”
“Sure.” Ray’s smile widens. “That’s one interpretation. But I’ve got about fifty more photos that tell a different story. You and her in the parish hall, standing too close. Brother Moreau touching her shoulder during choir practice. The way all three of you watch her during Mass.” He taps the photo. “Individually, these are nothing. Together? They paint a pretty clear picture.”
My hands shake as I grip the edge of his car door.
I want to reach through the window and grab him by his cheap tie, want to make him understand that he’s playing with people’s lives, that Charlie doesn’t deserve to be hunted like this.
“What do you want?”
“Five thousand dollars.” Ray says it casually, like he’s discussing the weather. “I lose the photos, forget I was ever here, and your little secret stays safe.”
My fists clench until my knuckles go white, and I see Ray’s eyes flick to my tattooed arms, calculating whether I’m actually going to hit him.
“Vete al infierno,” I spit. Go to hell.
“That’s a no, then?” Ray shrugs, tucking the photo back into his folder. “Your choice. But these photos are going to my client. The only question is whether you want to control the narrative or let Victory Life do it for you.”
I step back from his car before I do something I’ll regret. Ray rolls up his window, starts his engine, and drives away like he hasn’t just threatened to destroy everything we’ve built.
I find Adrian in his office, reviewing parish finances with the kind of intense focus he uses to avoid thinking about anything else.
Elijah sits in the corner chair, sheet music spread across his lap, but his blue eyes track my entrance with immediate concern.
“We have a problem,” I say, closing the door behind me.
Adrian looks up, and I watch his expression shift from distracted to alert in seconds. “What happened?”
I tell them everything.
Ray Kowalski. The surveillance. The photos. The five-thousand-dollar demand.
With each word, the temperature in the room drops. Adrian’s jaw clenches tighter, his gray eyes going dark and stormy. Elijah sets aside his music, his angel face hardening into something I rarely see.
“Victory Life,” Adrian says, his voice carefully controlled in that way that means he’s barely holding himself together. “They’re not just competing. They’re actively trying to destroy us.”
“The photos aren’t explicit,” I add, leaning against the door. “But they’re suggestive. Enough to raise questions.”
Elijah stands then moves to Adrian’s desk. “Did he say how many photos he has?”
“About fifty, apparently. All of us with Charlie. Nothing damning on its own, but together…” I trail off, the implications clear.
Adrian’s control fractures. His fist slams into his desk with enough force to split the wood, the sound echoing through the small office like a gunshot.
“Mierda,” I breathe, staring at the crack in the desk. “Adrian.”
He’s breathing hard, his knuckles already bruising. “They’re hunting her. Hunting all of us. And I’m supposed to just…what? Pray about it?”
