Adrian stares at the inspection reports, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles go white.
I watch him wage an internal battle, the priest who wants to turn the other cheek versus the underground boxer who knows sometimes you have to fight back.
“If we do this,” Adrian says finally, his voice quiet but steady, “we do it right. We expose the truth, not to destroy him, but to protect our community from his corruption.”
The men exchange weighted glances, each thinking the same thing.
We’ve been trying to stay above the fray, to maintain our moral high ground. But maybe it’s time to get our hands dirty.
28
CHARLIE
POV:
Sister Margaret’s sensible shoes click against the tile floor with the precision of a metronome as she approaches me after morning Mass.
I’m arranging leftover bulletins in the narthex, trying to look busy, trying to be invisible.
Yesterday’s image of Isabella crying in Marcus’s arms still burns behind my eyelids every time I blink. The way his hand rested on her shoulder. The intimacy of their bent heads.
“Miss Davis.” Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “A word, please.”
My stomach drops.
Her sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses miss nothing, and right now they’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Of course, Sister.” I set down the bulletins with hands that want to shake.
She moves closer, her traditional habit rustling with each step. “I’ve noticed you’ve been volunteering here for several months now, yet I don’t recall seeing you attend confession.” Her thin lips press into something that might be a smile on someone else. “It’s expected of all parish volunteers. Spiritual health is just as important as physical service.”
The words land like stones in my chest.
I can’t refuse without raising suspicion, but the thought of confessing anything right now, with everything so tangled and dangerous, makes panic claw up my throat.
“I…of course. You’re right.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I’ll go today.”
“Excellent.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Father Cross is hearing confessions this afternoon, but I believe the Bishop has graciously offered to assist as well. Such a blessing to have him here.”
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the empty narthex with my heart hammering against my ribs.
The confessional booth smells like old wood and decades of whispered sins when I slip inside hours later after a shift at the diner.
My palms are sweating as I kneel on the worn cushion, the carved screen between me and the priest a barrier that suddenly feels far too thin.
I can see only shadows through the intricate woodwork, the outline of a figure on the other side.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words taste like ash. “It’s been…a while since my last confession.”
“How long, my child?” The voice that responds makes my blood turn to ice.
It’s not Adrian’s rough timbre or Marcus’s accent-tinged warmth.
It’s the Bishop’s distinctive baritone, measured and authoritative, and I realize with horror that I’ve walked directly into a trap I should have seen being set.
My mouth goes dry.
I’ve already started.
