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“But there is a way for you to reconnect with her.”

I sit up so fast my head spins.

“Not directly,” Brady adds quickly.

“Then how?” I demand.

“Her confessional recordings.” My brother sounds reluctant about the idea, as damn well he should be.

“That’s a violation,” I snarl. “You should be deleting her recordings immediately. Do it right fucking now.” I gesture to his phone on the table, but he shakes his head.

“The leak,” he reminds me.

We still haven’t found our goddamn mole. I grimace, remembering our latest security crackdown.

When I killed that fucker Harrison, I kept my tracks clean. But there’s always a chance his hacker buddies could discover the truth of his disappearance. Then fuck over our systems in retaliation. As a precaution, Brady took us offline as much as possible. There aren’t many areas where we could actually do so, but our bugged confessionals system is one of them.

The recordings are stored locally now. It’s a pain in the fucking ass to retrieve them. And it’s a constant reminder of my broken promise to Brioni.

My brother had no knowledge of my vow, but he could tell how angry I got whenever Harrison was mentioned. So he reframed our crackdown.

“It’s possible the leak is a hacker,” Brady had reasoned. “Maybe not even one of our own guys, but someone who’s tapped into our systems.”

The idea didn’t reassure me in the way he’d intended. Our list of suspects has now increased to everyone in the world with a fucking computer. But in my gut, I know the leak’s close to home.

There’s a mole in our ranks. And finding him via the confessionals just got harder.

I prop my elbows on the scarred wooden table, pinching the bridge of my nose. Since the recordings of Brioni’s private confessions are stored locally, I’ll have to go to the church and demand them from Father Ryan myself.

At least the assisting priest has proved himself trustworthy. He knows about our setup, and he knows to keep that geezer Father Naughton out of it.

* * *

I wait until an hour after Mass ends. Then I storm down to the church.

I find both priests in the back office. Father Ryan sits calmly at his desk, while Father Naughton bellows at him. The old man’s face is red.

“It’s my congregation,” he yells.

When Ryan turns to look at me, Naughton whips around, his ostentatious robes billowing.

“Out,” I tell the old priest. He opens his mouth to protest, but I jerk my head toward the door, and he leaves in a huff.

After the door slams, Ryan gets up, a finger to his lips. He crosses to the door and flicks on a white noise machine. Then beckons me to the far side of the room.

I don’t like being led, but the man’s precaution is a good sign. His discretion is part of the reason we’ve trusted him. To the extent that any of us can trust.

“Mr. O’Sullivan,” he says respectfully. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He’s changed out of his vestments into everyday clothes, a black button-down and dark jeans. Crisp but casual, the new generation.

“Give me every recording of Miss Timmons’s confessions,” I order. As tempted as I am to listen to them, I know the right move is to destroy them myself.

But Ryan’s thick eyebrows draw together.

“I’m sorry, sir.” He spreads his hands. “I turn off the recorder for every O’Sullivan family member.” That went without saying, of course. Our original setup required his deference to our family.

“But she’s not…”

“I know how much she means to you,” he offers gently.