Page 99 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

For a crazy moment, I meet its fearless gaze.

Before I can squash it, Sister Martha charges over with a frying pan and upturns the bowl. The instant the giant fly is free, she slams down the pan, splattering the bug into oblivion. A wet pop, and then a blackish streak of innards flings across the steel counter.

She grunts with satisfaction, wipes the pan clean, then mimes the action of being bitten on her neck, and then points to Sister Edith, who flutters away in the dining room setting tables.

“It bit her?” I ask.

Sister Martha nods and mimics walking with a cane, but rolls her eyes as if to say, the fly is just another pain in her ass.

I raise my brows. “The Reverend Mother, too? Are they okay?”

But Sister Martha has moved on to another topic. She points at the apple still in my hand, shakes her head, and swaps it for a new one from behind her back. Only the best, her eyes promise. Then she squints and waits for my reaction.

I bite. It’s crisp and sweet.

“Perfetto.” I thump my fist to my chest in thanks.

The burly woman slaps my shoulder and bustles away, already moving to break up a silent scuffle at the bread oven, as if nothing happened. The bug’s remains are gone, dumped in the bin like a bad dream.

But I can’t shake it. The weight of that stare. The way the flies at the oratory’s window seemed to know me. Bugs are biting the nuns. Fruit is rotting from the inside. It’s not random. I should tell Mercy about this.

I thank the nuns for the food and head for the archives.

I take the stairs two at a time, letting the ache in my muscles burn off the shame still clinging to my bones. The dormitory level is one below the archives, and eerily quiet. I pause at the landing. The halls are lined with closed doors, the faint thrum of forced air, and nothing else.

Except her.

Mercy slips out of my old room, dressed in her usual Sinner black hoodie. Unlike when she interrogated me, she is now zipped up and modest. No slouching shoulders revealing a glimpse of lace. She’s distracted, yanking the band of her yoga pants higher on her hips. The instant she notices me, her hands drop, her spine straightens, and I catch a flicker of surprise in her eyes before the scowl descends.

“Are you well?” I ask, concern threading my voice.

Before she can respond, all hell breaks loose on the stairs behind me.

Screaming. Little feet. A blur of short black curls and arms flailing.

It’s Lucia. She howls and swats at her hair, tears streaming, pure panic as she runs up the level.

Mercy jogs over just as the orphan barrels into my legs, shivering and trembling, face buried at my hip.

“Whoa, babe,” Mercy coos. “What’s wrong?”

Lucia flings her slim hand out and points at her head.

“What is it?” I drop to a crouch, taking the writhing girl’s shoulders gently. “Lucia? What is the matter?”

I hold her back to see her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. Buzzing starts and stops nearby. I tense. She does too, eyes wide as the moon.

“Fly?” My brows pull together. “Bzz?”

On the one hand, I make a chaotic gesture, as if my hand is flying about the room, and I buzz again. She gives a tiny, imperceptible nod.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Mercy croons. “Father will get it. Promise.” She soothes Lucia’s back with her hands, but her eyes are sharp and already scanning the little girl’s body. “He won’t let anything hurt you.”

“Yes.” I force a confident smile onto my face. “Nothing to worry about. Put your face back⁠—”

Lucia slams her forehead against my hip and grips me tightly. A door creaks open down the hall, and I catch two little heads poke out.

“Nothing to worry about, girls,” Mercy calls. “Lucia will be with you in a moment.”