ELIJAH
POV:
The morning shatters before it even begins.
I’m halfway through my coffee when Adrian bursts into the rectory kitchen, his gray eyes wild with barely contained fury.
His cassock is only half-buttoned, his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it.
The sight of him this undone sends alarm shooting through my chest.
“The website,” he says, his voice rough. “Someone hacked it overnight.”
Marcus appears behind him, already pulling up the site on his phone.
I watch his tattooed arms tense as he reads, see the muscle jump in his jaw.
He turns the screen toward me without a word.
Where St. Michael’s homepage should be, there’s only a stark black screen with white text: This church is currently under investigation for pastoral misconduct. Parishioners are advised to seek spiritual guidance elsewhere.
“Mon Dieu.” The words escape before I can stop them. My hands shake as I set down my coffee cup, the ceramic rattling against the saucer. “When did this happen?”
“Sometime after midnight.” Adrian’s fists clench at his sides, and I see him fighting the violence that’s always simmering beneath his priestly exterior. “Parishioners have been calling since dawn. Confused. Concerned. Some are angry.”
The phone in Adrian’s office starts ringing again, the sound shrill and insistent. None of us move to answer it. We just stand in the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of coffee and the weight of everything falling apart.
“It’s Victory Life,” Marcus says, his accent thickening with rage. “It has to be. This is too coordinated to be random.”
Before any of us can respond, there’s a knock at the front door. Official. Authoritative. The kind of knock that means trouble.
The fire marshal stands on our doorstep, clipboard in hand, citing anonymous reports of code violations. Within the hour, the health department arrives with concerns about unsanitary conditions in the parish kitchen.
I watch Charlie’s face go pale as they inspect the space where she’s been baking, where she creates those perfect cinnamon rolls that taste like home and comfort and everything good in this world.
The inspectors are thorough, professional, finding minor issues that exist in every building this old.
A loose handrail.
Outdated electrical panels.
Nothing serious, but everything documented, photographed, added to reports that will be filed with the city and, I’m certain, forwarded to Victory Life’s attorneys.
Marcus spends the morning dealing with inspectors, his jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack.
I watch him maintain his composure, answering questions with careful precision, but I see the fury burning in his dark eyes.
He wants to throw them all out, to tell them exactly where they can file their reports. Instead, he’s polite, cooperative, everything a deacon should be while his world crumbles around him.
Adrian handles damage control, calling parishioners one by one, his voice steady despite the chaos.
I hear him through his office door, explaining, reassuring, promising that everything is fine, that the website was hacked by vandals, that the inspections are routine.
Each lie costs him something.
I can hear it in the strain beneath his careful control.
I retreat to my laptop, checking our online presence, and my stomach drops further.
