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Blinding anger took over me. It blazed through my body like lightning, obliterating everything except for a solitary thought.
Never again.
Never again would this man be allowed to ruin a life. Never again would he get away with exploiting those weaker than he. Never again would he use the cover of being a man of the cloth so people trusted him.
The urge to leap across the desk and strangle the life out of him rose quick and sharp and satisfying. I clenched my fingers into fists, just begging to be unleashed on the piece of scum cowering behind his desk, begging me with his hands up.
His words fell on deaf ears.
“Shut up.”
He didn’t. He babbled hysterically. Blaming anyone but himself. The church. God. Random internet strangers. His own disgusting biological ‘needs.’
I couldn’t bear to hear it. “Shut up,” I bellowed again.
He cowered beneath the force of my words and closed his mouth.
I pointed at the desk chair. “Sit.”
He did.
“Pick up a pen.”
The man’s fingers trembled as he slowly picked up a blue pen from his desk.
It was so tempting to tell him to shove it in his jugular. But I had the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone here.
Or two priests.
And I was going to take it.
“Write down what I say. Word for word.”
His bushy eyebrows inched up on his forehead. “And if I say no?”
I leaned in, resting my hands on the edge of the desk, gripping it so tightly my knuckles went white. “Then I cut off your cock and feed it to you. That would be more than you deserve, you filthy piece of shit.”
He pressed the nib of the pen to a notepad of paper. “What should I write?”
I didn’t even try to get the snarl out of my voice. “The things I’ve done are unforgivable.”
I waited, watching him slowly move his pen across the paper before I continued. “The images on my computer will explain, but there’s something else I wish to confess to.”
I paused while he reluctantly wrote the words I’d dictated. He looked up at me, waiting for me to continue.
I couldn’t help the smile that flickered at the edges of my mouth. “I killed a man. Strangled him in his bed while he slept. Father Simon Collier died at my hands. I’m the serial priest killer.”
Byron shook his head violently. “No. I never did that. That wasn’t me.”
I winked at him. “I know.”
“I won’t write it.”
“Oh, you will. Because I think by now we both know what I’m capable of if you don’t.”
He stared at me, shaking his head.
I took a single step toward him.
