“Cameras?” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
“Standard equipment now. Most parishes are livestreaming services for homebound parishioners.” Dave gestures to his crew, who are already measuring walls and marking drill points. “We’ll try to minimize disruption.”
I watch them work, my hands gripping my rosary beads. They’re drilling near the confessionals, running cables through walls that haven’t been touched in decades. Installing cameras that will record everything.
Marcus appears at my shoulder. “This can’t be coincidence.”
“It’s not.” My voice is hollow. “The diocese is preparing. Making sure they have documentation of everything that happens here.”
Elijah joins us, his expression grim. “Or making sure nothing else happens that they can’t see.”
We stand there watching the crew work, watching our sanctuary being transformed into something monitored, recorded, and documented.
Every corner that used to offer privacy now feels exposed.
Every shadow that used to hide our stolen moments is now illuminated by the harsh reality of discovery.
A technician approaches the confessional booths, drill in hand.
I watch him mark the wall beside them, preparing to run cables through the very space where we claimed Charlie just days ago.
Where Marcus’s hands gripped her thighs, and Elijah’s mouth made her sing, and I commanded her through the carved screen.
The drill whines to life, biting into ancient wood and stone.
I shudder, my whole body going rigid. Everywhere I turn, things are changing at St. Michael’s.
The church I’ve served for twenty years, the sanctuary I’ve built my life around, is being systematically dismantled and rebuilt into something I don’t recognize.
And I don’t know if any of us will survive what comes next.
19
CHARLIE
The fluorescent lights in the grocery store buzz overhead as I reach for a tomato, my fingers hovering over the red skin while my entire body goes rigid.
Two women stand just around the corner in the produce section, their voices carrying clearly despite their attempt at discretion.
“I’m just saying, St. Michael’s isn’t what it used to be,” the first woman says. I recognize her voice but can’t place the face. “My sister went to Victory Life last Sunday and said the worship was incredible. Modern. Relevant.”
“Well, St. Michael’s has that lovely old architecture,” the second woman offers, though her tone suggests she’s already lost the argument.
“Architecture doesn’t pay the bills. Did you see that article in the paper? Their attendance is down thirty percent. The building is literally crumbling.”
I squeeze the tomato too hard, feeling it give beneath my fingers. Juice seeps through the thin skin, and I quickly set it back, wiping my hand on my jeans.
“And that girl,” the first woman continues, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial that makes my stomach clench. “The one who’s always hanging around the priests. There’s something off about that whole situation.”
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I force myself to examine another tomato, my hands shaking as I pretend I can’t hear every word.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. Just the way she looks at them. The way they look at her. My daughter Sarah mentioned something about it after choir practice. Said the girl seems…possessive.”
I abandon my basket and walk quickly toward the exit, my vision blurring at the edges.
