Page 11 of Thin Lives

Calisto took a step back from the sight in the office, disbelieving and unsure all at the same time. He watched as the brown, murky color of the spilled coffee seeped along the hardwood floor of the office, mixing in with where a trail of red had pooled right in the middle of the floor.

That trail of red led up to where it was dripping down from an oak desk.

Calisto swallowed.

His fists clenched hard enough that his fingernails broke the skin of his palm.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Slow and steady, red droplets fell.

Sickness filled Calisto’s throat.

He’d seen dead bodies before.

He killed before.

This didn’t feel the same at all.

The office looked like a tornado had gone through it. A small table was overturned. Knickknacks had been tossed around, as had books from the shelves on the right wall. The window curtains behind the desk were half ripped down, and drawers had been pulled out and the contents strewn from the desk.

Calisto took another step back, wanting to put more distance between himself and something that seemed entirely too surreal to be true.

It was too late, because his eye had caught the form slumped over the desk. All that blood had stained papers, folders, and the collection of white candles on the very edge. A large spray of blood had also caught the wall off to the left, coating pictures and framed articles.

Jesus Christ.

That much blood …

That much couldn’t be a gunshot.

Calisto would be able to see the wound if it were.

No, he could see plainly—pained as he was—exactly what had caused Father Day’s death. The large, morbid red staining at the collar and shoulders of the priest’s robes spoke of a slit throat. The fact that so much blood had come from it meant that death wasn’t instant, his heart had kept beating for a short while, and he probably died from bleeding out.

Calisto wished in that moment that he hadn’t come.

This was not the way he wanted to remember his priest.

This was not what he came here for today.

His gaze scanned the office again, taking it and the mess in. Despite his shock and pain, he took note of the fact there didn’t seem to have been a struggle between Father Day and whoever had attacked him. Calisto took that to mean the priest must have trusted the individual enough to feel safe in their presence.

A few items on the floor caught Calisto’s eye, too. Some rested on top of the pooling blood, meaning the room had most likely been ransacked after the attack.

What was more disconcerting was the wallet on the desk, and the golden cross still hanging on the wall.

Things that were valuable, or might have value, had been left behind.

A robbery with no theft?

Unlikely.

Calisto didn’t like what his thoughts were leading to, but what else could he think? The place looked staged, Father Day had obviously trusted his attacker, and it looked like Calisto was the only person who was showing up to the church that day.