But the formal seal stares at me, demanding attention.
I cross to my desk and sit, the leather chair creaking beneath my weight.
My hands shake as I break the seal, and I have to grip my rosary beads to steady them.
The paper inside is thick, expensive, the kind the diocese uses for official correspondence.
Dear Father Cross,
This letter serves as formal notification that Bishop Vincent Carmine will conduct a pastoral visit to St. Michael’s Catholic Church in two weeks’ time. The purpose of this visit is to address concerns that have been brought to the diocese’s attention regarding pastoral conduct and parish atmosphere.
The words blur as I read them again.Concerns regarding pastoral conduct.
The vague language tells me everything I need to know. Someone has reported us.
Someone has been watching, documenting, gathering evidence of whatever they think they’ve seen.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I force myself to keep reading.
Bishop Carmine will conduct interviews with clergy, staff, and select parishioners during his visit. All personnel are expected to cooperatefully with this investigation. Further details regarding the schedule will be provided upon the Bishop’s arrival.
Please ensure all parish records are current and available for review.
In Christ,
Monsignor Thomas Brennan
Vicar General
I set the letter down with trembling hands. Two weeks. We have two weeks before the Bishop arrives to investigate “concerns” about my conduct.
About our conduct.
Someone saw something.
Someone knows something.
And now the full weight of the Church’s authority is descending on St. Michael’s to root out whatever scandal they think is festering here.
I think about the PI’s photos. Pastor Whitmore’s surveillance. Mrs. Delacroix’s bitter expression at the bake-off. The way we’ve been so careful and yet so reckless.
Every stolen glance during Mass.
Every touch that lingered too long.
Every moment we thought was private but might have been witnessed.
My phone buzzes. A text from Marcus.
What did Sister Margaret want?
I type back.
My office. Now. Both of you.
I don’t mention Charlie. Can’t mention her. Not in writing. Not when everything feels like it’s being documented, recorded, used against us.
Marcus arrives first, his tattooed arms crossed defensively over his chest. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
