The scarred man’s gaze slid past me again.
To the pews.Then the confessional.
He took a step toward it.
My hand closed around the candle snuffer.The brass was cool against my palm.Heavy enough.Solid enough.
There were three of them, and only one of me.
The scarred one took another step.
Inside the confessional, the woman made no sound.
The church held its breath.The priest in me prayed.
The scarred man reached the end of the pew.
My grip tightened.
For one breath, Father Demitri Marco disappeared.
He was there, and then he was not.
In his place stood the man I had buried under scripture, service, and years of quiet obedience.A man who knew the body as a structure of weaknesses.A man who knew how easily a throat closed under pressure; a man who had once listened to another man beg for mercy and felt only a clean, terrible calm.
The old me rose like I was being pulled from deep water.Cold.Patient.Ready.
The scarred man turned his head toward the confessional curtain.
I shifted my weight.
Then the tall man snapped, “We’ve wasted enough time here.”
The scarred man paused.
The tall one’s face had tightened with caution.Perhaps some long-dead instinct had warned him that stepping closer would turn a search into a confession.
“We are disturbing the Father,” he said.
The scarred man looked annoyed, but he obeyed.
Slowly, my fingers loosened around the brass.
The tall man faced me again and bowed his head.“Forgive us, Father, for the disturbance.”
“There is nothing to forgive if your intentions are good.”
His mouth tightened.
“We will leave you to your prayers.”
“I will pray for the woman you are looking for.”
The young one made the sign of the cross again.
The tall one held my gaze for one long moment before turning away.
They walked back down the nave, their footsteps echoing beneath the high, damp ceiling.None of them spoke.The rain grew louder as they opened the doors.Wind swept in, making the sanctuary lamp flicker wildly.
