Page 101 of Boardroom Mask

I haven’t been in a church since I was pregnant. That one was not nearly so grand as this. It was a small chapel attached on a highway upstate, about forty minutes outside of Poughkeepsie, where I spent nine months pretending I was invisible. The chapel had folding chairs for pews and a crooked wooden cross on the wall and a window that looked out onto a parking lot. I used to go there in the evenings, not praying, just resting my belly on my hands and breathing.

I never knew what to say in there. I still don’t.

I fold my hands in my lap now. There’s no pregnant belly to rest them on.

I don’t know who I’m asking for forgiveness. That’s the problem. I’ve been sitting with this for five years and I still don’t know who I owe the apology to. God, maybe, if he’s up there and if he cares. My daughter, definitely, except she doesn’t know I exist. Or myself, which feels selfish but also feels true, because I’ve been punishing myself for half a decade and I’m tired.

I’m so fucking tired.

Up at the chapel in Poughkeepsie, I used to whisper the same thing every night with my palms flat against my stomach:I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m going to do the right thing, and you’re going to hate me for it, and I’m sorry.

My phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I ignore it. I’m not here for the outside world. That can wait.

Or so I thought, until it vibrates again. And again.

The old woman near the front turns around and gives me a look that could curdle milk. “Silence that thing,” she hisses. “This is a house of God, not a telephone booth.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, and fumble the phone out of my pocket. I intended to turn it off, but then I see that the screen is lit up with a text from an unsaved number. It’s a photo.

I open it—and nearly scream.

The photo is of me. Taken from behind and above, maybe fifteen feet back and to the right. My red hair against the dark wood ofthe pew. My green sweater. My hands folded in my lap, just like they are right now.

The photo was taken seconds ago.

I don’t turn around. I sit exactly where I am, staring at the image of myself on the small, bright screen, as my pulse careens out of control.

He’s here.

Kir is here.

I type back with shaking thumbs,Not here. Not now.

Three dots appear immediately.

You came here to confess something. So did I.

A priest walks past in the center aisle, heading toward the sacristy. He catches me looking at him and nods, a small, warm, unhurried gesture of welcome.

I try to nod back. I manage something that’s probably closer to a flinch. Because the wordSINNERmight as well be tattooed across my forehead in block letters. This priest has no idea what he just smiled at. If he did, I would most certainly not be welcome here.

I look around the cathedral to see if anyone has noticed my anxiety spiral. The answer seems to be no. The old woman is still in her pew up front and the priest has disappeared through a door beside the altar. Nobody else is here.

I start to type back,Where are you,and then I stop. Like they’re being drawn by something invisible, my eyes drift to the confessional booths along the far wall. There are three of them,ornate and wooden, with heavy curtains and narrow doors. Two are clearly empty, the curtains pulled back, the interiors dark and still.

The third one has its right-side door shut. As I watch, it moves. Not much. A quarter inch, maybe less. I’d miss if I weren’t already looking for it. But I know what it means.

He’s waiting.

I sit with my hands in my lap for another few seconds, because I need my legs to stop shaking before I can stand. When they finally do, I stand up. My knees dip into a genuflect before I can stop them. Muscle memory doesn’t care that I haven’t believed in anything sacred for half a decade.

I walk down the aisle. Each step echoes up into that painted ceiling and comes back down sounding twice as big. I reach the third confessional and pull open the left-side door, the penitent’s side. The booth is small, dark, and smells like old wood and furniture polish and, beneath that…

Cinnamon.

I sit down on the narrow wooden bench and pull the door shut behind me. The latch catches with a soft click.

The lattice screen between us is old and intricate, the gaps small enough that I can’t make out any real detail on the other side. Just shapes. A shoulder. The outline of a jaw. But I can hear him breathing.