We’re being documented like specimens under glass.
Mass drags on, each moment weighted with the knowledge that someone is watching, recording, building a case against us.
Adrian’s voice remains steady as he delivers the homily, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his rosary beads.
His gray eyes find Charlie in the third pew, just for a moment, and Mrs. Delacroix’s pen scratches again.
When the service finally ends, I remain at the piano, playing soft postlude music while parishioners file out.
Charlie approaches the choir loft stairs, and I meet her there, ostensibly to discuss next week’s music selections.
She’s close enough that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, can smell the stress-baking that kept her up until three this morning.
“The Advent hymns,” I say, keeping my voice professional despite wanting to pull her close. “I thought we could add the French carol you mentioned.”
Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in this light, meet mine with understanding.
We’re performing normalcy, maintaining the careful distance that’s become our prison.
But standing this close, I’m hyperaware of every detail. The way her cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
The swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. The way her teeth worry her bottom lip when she’s nervous.
Mon Dieu, I want to taste that lip and trace the freckles dusting her shoulders with my tongue, to hear her whisper my name the way she did that night in her apartment, breathless and desperate.
A flash of light catches my peripheral vision. I turn just in time to see someone in the crowd below pointing a camera phone directly at us.
The angle is deliberate, calculated to make our proximity look intimate rather than professional.
I move toward the stairs, but the photographer disappears into the departing congregation before I can identify them.
“Did you see that?” Charlie’s voice is tight with fear.
“I saw.” My hand hovers near her arm, wanting to comfort her but any touch will be documented, twisted, and used against us. “We need to tell the others.”
That afternoon, we gather in Adrian’s office like conspirators planning a revolution.
The space feels too small for the four of us and all our secrets.
Adrian sits behind his desk, the split wood from his fist still visible, a reminder of how close his control is to shattering completely.
Marcus leans against the wall, his tattooed arms crossed, dark eyes burning with barely contained rage.
Charlie perches on the edge of a chair, her hands twisted in her lap.
I remain standing near the window, watching the street for gray sedans and camera lenses.
“Mrs. Delacroix had a notebook during Mass,” I report, my French accent thickening the way it does when I’m stressed. “She was writing every time Adrian spoke or moved near Charlie.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches. “I saw. She’s documenting everything.”
“And someone photographed Charlie and me near the choir loft,” I add. “They disappeared before I could identify them.”
Adrian’s hands curl into fists on his desk. “We need to compile a list. Everyone who might be watching us.”
We spend the next hour analyzing suspects like detectives solving a crime.
Mrs. Delacroix tops the list, her jealousy over the bake-off twisted into righteous concern.
