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I thanked her profusely, taking one of each when she offered the tray to me. “These are going to be delicious, Nancy. You take care of us too well.”
The woman flushed pink at my compliment, then an odd shade of blue, followed by red. It took me a second to realize it wasn’t her but police lights flashing around the room, illuminating the aging faces around me.
Father Byron paused in his scripture reading and glanced out the window. “What’s going on out there? Is that the police?”
He stood and crossed to the window, while the rest of us stayed in our seats as obediently as if we were children and he our headmaster. A frown deepened the lines on his forehead.
“Are they headed into Saint View again?” Father Peter called out. “I hear there’s been a lot of trouble there lately. Gangs and shootings and undesirables.”
There was a ripple of agreement from the other men in the room, and I forced myself to nod along so as to not draw attention to myself. There were ‘undesirables’ everywhere. The only difference between here and Saint View was the police tended to overlook the crimes committed by people who could afford to pay them off.
Father Byron shook his head. “There’s two officers coming to the door.” He brushed his hands over his knitted cardigan. “Everybody, sit tight. You’ll perhaps use this time to pray.”
I narrowed my gaze in on the backs of his hands, covered with dark hair.
Just like the guy from the Strip who’d followed Lyric.
Father Peter, older than me by at least forty years, snapped his fingers in front of my face.
I blinked at him, noticing the dark hair on the back of his hand too, and frowned. Clearly that was something that happened as men aged, and not a telltale sign that someone was a perverted creep who followed women home from strip clubs.
I rolled my head to crack my neck, releasing some of the tension.
I tended to keep to myself as much as possible, never quite feeling like I one-hundred-percent fit in because I was so much younger than most of the others, but if I was to say I had friends, Peter and Byron were the two I would have said came closest. I liked them both. They were committed to their faith and welcoming to all, including me, the young, messed-up asshole who’d arrived on their doorstep four years ago, completely and utterly lost and in desperate need of guidance. They’d taken me in without question, and I owed them a lot for the fact I was even still here, when I’d been so intent on ending it all.
Shame crept up the back of my neck for even considering either of them were anything but what they appeared, hairy hands or not.
Father Peter looked at me questioningly.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, rubbing my fingers absently along the rope I’d taken to keeping in my pocket at all times. It reminded me of Lyric. Of protecting her. It was an odd thing to find comfort in, but I was well aware not many of the things I did were considered normal. “Did you ask me something? I wasn’t paying attention.”
He jerked his head toward the door Father Byron had left through to greet the approaching police officers. “What do you think that’s all about?”
I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve no idea. Can’t be anything good.”
He clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “You’re right. We should pray while we wait. Just like Byron said.”
I mirrored his actions, dropping my gaze obediently, but prayers weren’t on my mind.
Getting out of here and back to the church because Lyric would be cleaning there was though. We’d agreed she’d either clean before or after her shifts at the club. She already had someone lined up for the evenings, and extending her hours slightly wouldn’t be too inconvenient.
But the only gloves we had were sized to fit my hands. I’d need to stop off at the store and get her a pair that would fit her. I wished I knew what sort of snacks and drinks she liked. I’d get an array of different ones while I was there, so she had a choice.
A throat clearing from the doorway caught my attention.
“Excuse me for interrupting your prayers,” Father Byron announced, with two burly police officers standing behind him. “But the gentleman from Providence PD would like a word.” He stepped aside, motioning for the officers to enter the room.
The uniformed man, probably in his mid-fifties with a pot belly straining at his shirt buttons, moved to the front. “It’s good I’ve caught you all here at once. I was prepared to come see all of you individually because this matter is of some importance.”
I forced my face to remain neutral, but I had a feeling I knew what his next words would be.
“We found the body of a man yesterday. He’s been identified as Father Simon Collier.”
A shocked gasp rippled around the room, and too slowly, I added a fake one of my own.
“We’d wondered where he was,” Father Peter spoke up. “He was supposed to be here at this meeting.”
They might have wondered, but I hadn’t. I knew the man was cold and limp in the morgue, probably awaiting an autopsy. I was surprised it had taken this long for someone to notify us.
