Page 66 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

The corner of my lips twitch. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I thought Italians pronounced it, Fran-cesco.”

“They do.” Shame licks my cheeks. “That is the name my mother gave me. When someone in the seminary made a mistake, I went with it.”

“Why?”

“Saint Francis of Assisi was a holier man than I. Someone to aspire to.”

“The monk.”

“Yes.”

For some reason, this brings a twinkle to her eye along with a flash of approval before she locks it down. Still playing games.

“What is Rome really planning?” she asks. “Why send you here to play warden for a bunch of women the Vatican doesn’t even want to exist?”

“They sent me because I am the only thing that can contain what’s coming. I thought you already figured that out.”

“No. I think you’re scared shitless that something here can’t be contained. Maybe that’s me. Or maybe it’s you.”

Panic flutters in my chest. How much does she know about my past? She’s smart enough to figure it out. Smart enough to know I am a risk that needs to be better eradicated.

“You don’t frighten me,” I say.

“Good. Then you’ll have no problem telling me who pulls your strings. Is it the Entity? The Pope? Or are you on your own leash?”

The urge to do something, anything to her, is a visceral sensation beneath my skin. I want to both smother her and kiss her. Consume her, just to be closer. For a wild second, I think I’ll do exactly that, but pivot and stalk to the window. I brace both hands on the frame, knuckles white, and breathe in the tepid air.

“I answer to Rome,” I mutter. “You know this.”

“Except you don’t. Not really. You’re stalling them. You’re lying by omission, covering our asses—why?”

The truth lodges in my throat.

“Why are you lying to all of us?”

“Because…”

I shut my eyes and pray, sending my thoughts to God, asking that He might give me an answer other than what I know. But there is none. I’ve tried, I’ve lied, and now I have nothing left.

Air rushes from my lungs as I slide my fingers into my pocket and retrieve Maria’s rosary. Dried blood from where they cut me last night still coats the dark, chipped beads.

Sweat breaks out on my upper lip and prickles at my nape. The words don’t come. I fumble the beads, staring out the window at the grey sky.

Salty air, seawater, flashes of a pink ribbon sinking.

“Did you know,” she says, “that before the Vatican discovered us two years ago, we managed our penance in-house—no priests? We sought forgiveness for our sins by giving back to the community here. The gardens, the kitchens, the maintenance…”

I turn and find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes downcast, with her back against the wall. Her chin rests on her fist, digging her elbow into her thigh—right over where I know it will hurt.

Without looking up, she continues speaking. “I’ll bet you and your buddies in Rome think we’re all man-haters here. That we teach women to hate men, too. The thing is, Padre, we don’t. We don’t even fear men … but we did.” She lifts her haunted gaze to mine. “Every single woman came here broken, suffering, and gaslit into thinking they’re not bright enough, beautiful enough, or brave enough to belong.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “To breathe.”

My hands curl into fists so tight my knuckles pop. “There were a priest’s things in the belfry.”

“He was our first.” Her lips curve, then drop. “I regret what happened to him. It is an eternal stain on my soul.”

You wouldn’t be my first.