Page 20 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

And now we’re back to staring each other down, but this time there’s a feral, raw edge to it. I feint to his right, testing. He blocks me with a simple sidestep, arms folded.

“Don’t mess with me, Padre.” My voice is low. Too low. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“Likewise.” Two syllables. It’s almost a challenge.

“What do you want?”

We stare.

He waits.

I wait longer.

At last, something shifts behind his eyes, and he digs a phone out from his pocket and unlocks the screen with a thumb. Then he holds it out toward me.

Eight

Mercy

The last offering I expect from a priest in a dim, tiny room is his unlocked cell phone. But there it is, hovering between us, the luminous screen with what appears to be a text message.

I take it. Glance down. Shove the phone back. “I can’t read this.”

He frowns and checks the screen, then mutters something about being too old for secret codes. It’s almost endearing to see this fit, attractive, and only three years older than me man fumble and bluster over his phone’s settings. He inputs a password he doesn’t even try to hide—0 9 0 9 9 0—knowing full well that I’m watching. Cataloging. It’s almost as if this is a genuine white flag … or a trap.

This time, when he shows me his phone, the encryption is gone. I read the message thread between him and a contact labeled “Friend.” The most recent is something that stirs an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach: Garden compromised. Infestation confirmed. Postpone visit. Will monitor. Further updates soon.

The friend’s reply: Noted.

I narrow my eyes on him. “You called it off last night?”

“I tried to cancel,” he confesses. “A week ago.”

“You did?”

Another reluctant nod. “Check.”

I scroll through his messages, and sure enough, he’s telling the truth. The message is short and clipped: “Signs of infestation sighted.” Cancel visit. It’s timestamped after the dinner … after he found out about the prophecy pairing a Sinner with a Saint. The problem is that his superiors didn’t seem so happy, but as I scroll through the thread, it’s clear to see that Cisco did not seemingly encourage an impending visit. In fact, he ignored many requests for updates.

“Why are you showing me this now?” I ask. “Why not a week ago?”

Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Last week I had just discovered⁠—”

He bites off his words and shakes his head, almost to himself. Eventually, he grits his teeth and says, “I’m telling you now because I want you to trust me.” A pause. “Please.”

An unwanted flush of something soft and … good … unfurls through me. I want to believe him. I really do. It would make saving my Sisterhood and the world thing much easier. But trust is for girls with less rot in their souls. It took him a week to share that he’d delayed the visit.

I glance down at the messages again, scrutinizing them to see if I can read between the lines. The only new detail I pick up is the date.

“That was sent last night.” Alarm spikes my pulse. “Jinx found the rotten fish yesterday.”

“Your team didn’t mention what I found in the garden?”

They probably did, but I’d assumed the reason for Leila’s missed calls was because of my recent theft from her room. I stopped checking my phone early in the night.

“I’ve been … busy here.” To hide the shame coloring my cheeks, I look down and point at the message. “What does that mean, infestation?”

A darkness comes over him, and he grows still. Pained. He studies his hands as if they belong to someone else, perhaps reliving a memory that makes him uncomfortable. Whatever it is, I’ve never seen him so openly conflicted. The notion that I’m privy to such vulnerability does something to me I can’t name. Usually, my body only knows two languages—pain and pleasure. This is neither. I shift my weight to the other foot and fidget, rub the phone down my thigh, trying to scratch the sensation off with it.