Page 110 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Sure, it is. You ever scrub lipstick stains off silk, Padre?”

“Um.”

She throws something made from silk into the basket. I don’t catch what it is because she called me Padre again. It irks me. She knows it.

Mercy gets on her hands and knees to reach under the bed. The T-shirt rides up her thighs. I face the door.

“You know,” she says, voice husky. “This is a blessing in disguise.”

“What is?” I mumble to the wood.

“The sword sparking for Jasmine.”

Every cell in my body rebels at her words, but I don’t let her see it.

“How so?”

“This is the last one. Here.”

I turn, and she deposits another garment into my basket.

“It’s a blessing because it’s what we both wanted.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “I can go back to fucking anything that walks, and you can go back to being a repressed priest and do … whatever that woman gives you.”

No words come. Only fury.

“Mercy,” I start.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Holding my gaze captive, she reaches down beneath her T-shirt. A wiggle here and a sashay there, and suddenly her panties are in her hand. “Here. I owe you a prize, too.”

“You owe me a confession, not⁠—”

“Freshly dirtied laundry just for you?” With a wink, she deposits her panties in the basket, opens the door, and pushes me out.

Don’t look at them.

Sweat clings to my back by the time I reach the laundry room outbuilding. The humid air is thick with soap and bleach. A few of the nuns are here, folding linens. They see me and smirk.

They know. For an abbey filled with nuns who vow silence, gossip spreads faster than prayer.

I nod as I walk past and dump Mercy’s basket on a wooden table. I quickly pull out the contents—yoga pants, shirts, socks—and load the machine.

A loud, deliberate clearing of a voice makes me pause. Sister Helena, the oldest, is shaking her head at me. She’s the one who told me in confession that it is her “great honor” to care for the Sinners. She mimes what I’ve done wrong with the laundry. Something about mixing and heat.

“I’m not sure I understand.” I frown.

A huff later, she pulls out Mercy’s laundry from the machine and starts separating them into categories. Then she points to the hand-washing basin, then specifically to the pile of lingerie.

“I must hand-wash them?” I croak.

One of the younger nuns at the next machine offers to take over.

“No, thank you.” I smile tightly. “This is mine to do. I am a man of my word.”

Mercy could have asked for anything. She wanted this.

With a sigh, I start filling the machine with clothes I’m allowed to put in there. The nuns, satisfied, leave me to my privacy.

And that … that is my weakness. I have always been weak when left unwatched. It is why I chose prison. It is why I ran to the seminary.