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"But they couldn't."

"Not the things that mattered." I set down my fork. "The church has rules. Doctrine. A whole system built around forgiveness and patience and working through hardship. And for some things, that works. But for others…"

"Like women being beaten by their husbands."

"Yeah. Like that." I meet her eyes. "The church teaches that marriage is sacred. That commitment means enduring difficulty together. That with enough faith and prayer and effort, any relationship can be saved."

"But some relationships shouldn't be saved."

"Exactly." I lean back in the booth. "Some relationships are poison. Some people are dangerous. And telling someone to stay, to pray, to be patient, that's not help. That's abandonment disguised as spiritual guidance."

Paige is quiet for a long moment. Processing.

"How old was she?" she finally asks. "Elaine."

"Thirty-four. Two kids. Worked as a teacher. Came to see me after Mass one Sunday looking exhausted and scared." The memory is sharp. Clear. Like it happened yesterday instead of eight years ago. "She asked to speak privately. Said she needed advice about her marriage."

"What did she tell you?"

"That her husband had a temper. That he'd been getting worse lately, yelling, throwing things, punching walls. That she was scared but didn't know what to do. She kept saying it wasn't his fault. That he was under stress at work. That if she could just be more careful about what she said, how she said it, everything would be fine."

"And you told her to be patient."

"I told her marriage required commitment. That difficulties could be overcome through faith and communication. That she should pray for guidance and try couples counseling at the church." My voice is flat. Reciting words I've repeated to myself so many times they've lost meaning. "I told her God works through hardship. That sometimes love means enduring difficulty."

"You believed that."

"I did. Completely." I pick up my coffee even though it's cold now. Need something to do with my hands. "She thanked me. Said she'd try. Left my office looking more defeated than when she arrived."

"And later…"

"Her husband beat her to death in their kitchen while their kids were at school." I say it without emotion. Can't afford emotion when talking about this or I'll never get through it. "Neighbors heard the fight. Called the police. They arrived too late."

Paige's hand covers her mouth. "Oh my god."

"I officiated her funeral. Stood over her casket in front of her family and friends and children and spoke about God's plan and heaven and peace." I set down the coffee cup. "The whole time, all I could think was that I helped kill her. That if I'd told her to leave instead of stay, if I'd offered her actual help instead of empty platitudes, she'd still be alive."

"Gabriel…"

"Don't." I cut her off gently. "Don't tell me it wasn't my fault. Don't tell me I couldn't have known. Because I did know. I saw the fear in her eyes. I saw the bruises she was trying to hide. I knew something was wrong and I chose doctrine over instinct anyway."

Paige is crying quietly. Tears sliding down her cheeks, the uninjured one and the bruised one both.

"I left the priesthood within a year," I continue. "Couldn't keep doing it. Couldn't keep offering the same advice I gave Elaine. Couldn't reconcile a faith that prioritized marriage vows over women's lives."

"Did you stop believing?"

"No. I still believe in God. Still pray. Still carry faith with me." I touch the small cross tattooed on my wrist. "But I lost trust in the church's version of protection. Lost the ability to counsel patience when action was needed."

"So, you learned to fight instead."

"Yeah. Spent years wandering. Picking up jobs in whatever town I landed in. Teaching myself boxing in cheap gyms. Getting into fights with men who deserved it." I almost smile. "Became exactly the kind of person the church would've told me to avoid."

"And now you're a prospect for a motorcycle club."

"Now I'm trying to become something better than I was. Trying to protect people in ways I couldn't before." I meet her eyes. "Trying to keep the promise I made standing over Elaine's casket. That next time, I wouldn't choose patience over action. That next time, I'd be strong enough to actually stop it. That’s all."

"That's all," she repeats. Like she doesn't quite believe me.