Absolution: A Mortal Sins Novel
Date: 2019-08-22T23:00:00+00:00

ABSOLUTION

A MORTAL SINS NOVEL

KERI LAKE

ABSOLUTION

A Mortal Sins Novel

Keri Lake

Copyright © 2018

All Rights Reserved.

AUTHOR’S NOTE This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Cover Art © CT Cover Creations

Photo © Stefano Cavoretto

Model: Diego Triumbari

Editing by Julie Belfield

For my late grandmother, Rita, a fiery woman who loved peonies in spring, singing Lady In Red (the old version), and who kept my bottle of holy water filled to the brim.

CONTENTS

Playlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

PART II

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Authors Note

Other Books By Keri Lake

About the Author

Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.

-William Shakespeare

PLAYLIST

“Judith”-A Perfect Circle

“Who You Do It For”-Ramsey

“Somewhat Damaged”-Nine Inch Nails

“The Grace”-Neverending White Lights

“Sanctuary”-Welshly Arms

“La Vie En Rose”-Édith Piaf

“Heaven”-Depeche Mode

“Rev 22-20”-Puscifer

“Black and Blue”-Ramsey

“Te Revoir Mon Amour”-Rina Ketty

“Something I Can Never Have”-Nine Inch Nails

“Take Me To Church”-Hozier

“Murderer”-Avatar

“Again”-Flyleaf

“Going To Hell”-The Pretty Reckless

“You’ve Seen The Butcher”-Deftones

1

DAMON

“Have you ever tasted sin, Father?”

A deep rasp stipples the unfamiliar voice on the other side of the partition, dragging my attention from the benign thoughts spinning inside my head, to the dark shadow moving beside me. The sour burn of whiskey spikes the air, along with the odor of stale cigarettes that clings to his clothing, a combination I’m intimately familiar with. Except, I haven’t touched a cigarette in eight years, so the strong tobacco wafting off him slaps me awake.

“We’ve all sinned at one time, or another. It’s in our nature as human beings.”

The guy hasn’t given the sign of the cross, nor bothered to tell me his last confession, which indicates he probably isn’t familiar with Reconciliation, or he’s just too drunk to care. A drive-by looking to talk to someone. Considering Tuesday nights hardly draw much of a crowd, I can’t really complain.

“Tastes sweet to me. Sugary. Like that Ames girl. Pretty little thing with blonde curls, big doe eyes.” Alcohol weighs thick on his words, slurring them as he speaks over the creaking of the tired wooden kneeler beneath him. A quiet grunt gives way to more creaking, and I wonder how long I’ll let this go on for. At what point will I have him go sleep it off and come back when his head is clearer? “So innocent,” he continues. “Don’t find ‘em so pure these days, with all that technology and horseshit at their fingertips. Skin like the first snow, milky white. Reminded me of the lambs we used to keep back on the farm. How I’d sit and play with ‘em for hours. Stroking their fur. Listenin’ to ‘em bleat. Such a …” A scratching noise interrupts the brief pause. “… irritating sound. All that whinin’ and cryin’.” His voice grew tense, as if his teeth clenched while he talked.

I’m compelled to ask him more about the Ames girl, but I don’t. It’s not my position to ask probative questions, so I listen, as I’m tasked to do, and wait.

“Ain’t nothin’ bugs me more than the sound of ‘em cryin’. So I’d snap their little necks, and they’d sit quiet and still in my lap.”

Frowning, I tilt my head, as if that’ll offer a view of his face inside this cramped and claustrophobic box designed to conceal a penitent’s identity. All I can make out is his dark form, nothing more than a silhouette, and that sour odor assaulting my senses.

There’s a sound of amusement and more creaking, more shifting, more curiosity filling the box. “Used to tell my daddy it was the coyotes that got ‘em, ‘til one day, he found me in the barn. Lamb cut throat to belly with its insides spilled out all over. My daddy beat me ‘til I couldn’t walk. Blessed shall be the fruit of thy body, and the fruit of thy ground, and the fruit of thy cattle, the increase of thy kine, and the flocks of thy sheep.” The resentment riding on each word of the verse tells me his father must’ve spoken this during his punishments. “The flocks of thy sheep,” he echoes with derision. “That Ames girl, she was just like them lambs.”

It’s only then I realize the girl he’s referring to isn’t an adult, or some indulgent affair, like so many confessions I’ve sat through, but a child. An innocent lamb of the flock. And the pieces of his confession come together to form a picture I pray isn’t what I’m imagining.

“Innocent. Pretty. So young,” he prattles on, and I can practically see this girl in my mind’s eye. “And so damn irritating.”

A cold frost branches across my chest and wraps a fist around my lungs. Squeezing the air out of this box. “And what happened to her?”

He doesn’t answer at first, but I hear resignation in a heavy exhale, before he sniffs and clears his throat. “She was noisy, too. Told her to be quiet, but all she did was cry, cry, cry. Like a little lamb.”

The fist grows tighter, and I curl my fingers around the bench at either side of me. “And did you …”

“Lambs good eatin’. Soft and tender. Nothin’ like mutton. Some say it tastes salty, gamey, but not me. Add some potatoes and onion. Somethin’ special about eatin’ meat so tender. So innocent. One of God’s blessed lambs.”

I choose my next words carefully, knowing the more I engage him, the deeper I fall into a web that offers no escape. “What is it that you wish to confess?”

Giving a sigh that fans his whiskey breath, he reaches up a shadowy limb like he’s scratching his head. “How you carry all that weight around? Like your lips is sewn, can’t speak a damn bit a truth, can ya? Cheatin’, robberies, murder, you hear it all and gotta swallow it in silence. How’s all that sin taste, Father?”

“If you’ve hurt someone, I would strongly urge you to go to the authorities. Seek out some help.” It’s only my training, my devotion to the church that urges these things. There is a darker entity calling me to act on something I’ve spent the last eight years burying deep inside my bones. A primal instinct unfitting for a man in my position. A man who’s vowed never again to give in to such tantalizing thoughts.

My hands flex and ball into tight fists, nails scraping the old wood beneath me. The tugging inside my chest begs me to pray. Not for him, but for myself. For the strength not to crack through that partition and snap his neck like he did to those he’s described. For the strength not to see my own little girl’s dull and lifeless eyes on the face of the child of whom he spoke.

“I’m askin’ to be reconciled. Don’t that get me points with God?”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer the absolution you’re looking for. Not until you make good on those you’ve harmed. Go to the authorities. Confess your crime. Accept your punishment, and perhaps you’ll be at peace with God.”

“At peace with God.” His hand slams into the screen, thunking against the wood, and my muscles flinch, already poised in defense. Pale, bony fingers curl into the cross-shaped lattice design, showing unkempt nails and wrinkled skin. “You priests are somethin’ else. You ain’t nothin’ but a man. A man who sins as much as any other. You hide behind that screen, but I see you. I see what you are.”

He sees nothing more than what he imagines me to be—a man of the cloth. Simple and chaste in the eyes of most. Controlled and composed. He has no idea the complexities that divide my thoughts every day, the nightmares that plague my sleep, the circumstances of my past and what I’ve been robbed of, which have my head spinning with ungodly visuals of what this man truly deserves. The insufferable weight of pain I’ll carry to the grave. He has no clue what I am and what he’s stirred inside of me with his confession.

“The Ames girl. Is she alive?”

“Don’t you priests watch the news?” A taunting chuckle ripples down my spine, stoking the wrath I can’t control. “Girl been dead over a year. Gutted like a lamb. Her bones is buried up on Angels Point.”

“And you did this.” It’s not a question, yet something compels me to prod the answer from him. To affirm what has already sealed the tomb where my conscience lays trapped with his sins.

Fucking tell me, the man inside of me pleads, like a smoldering fire seeking out a single drop of gasoline. “Tell me.”

“Need me to spell it out for you? Can’t figure the shit out on your own? Fine. I killed her. Played with her a bit, and finished off everything but her bones.”

In the two years since I’ve been ordained, I’ve never heard an admission as disturbing and unjust. One that strikes a chord so sharply inside of me, I feel stunned and paralyzed, running merely on autopilot, as trained and familiar words tumble from frozen lips. “You can still redeem yourself. Confess your crime.”

“I did confess. And I don’t feel so redeemed. But now God knows, at least. Blessed is the fruit, ain’t it? Blessed and so damn sweet.”

I can see her, that girl, just as he’s described her. Small, curly-haired blonde, his dirty fingers digging into her throat. The echo of those cries pounding out an ache inside my chest, one that calls out to instincts long repressed, hidden beneath layers and layers of prayer and focus.

Science refers to us as sapiens, the wise ones, judicious and logical, but we’re born with a strange dichotomy—both a civilized and primitive mind with an innate proclivity to protect. In my most basic mind, the man confessing is evil, and even as a priest, my nature is to banish it. Banish him. Rid the earth of the rot.

He could be lying, though. Toying with me. Perhaps it’s the alcohol talking for him, spewing lies based on some fantasy. I’ve heard those before, too.

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Now, why would I lie to a priest? You ain’t gonna tell nobody.” The chuckle in his throat grates on my nerves, like the aggravating buzz of a fly that needs swatting.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Whiskey makes the noise go away.”

Of course it does. I know that as much as anyone. It makes everything go away—pain, guilt, regret.

“You go up on Angels Point,” he goes on, while my mind spins like a tilt-a-whirl in darkness. “Go on up there and see what you find.”

For eight years, I’ve kept my composure, and I can feel the threads thinning with every word that tumbles from his lips.

“Do you have any remorse for what you’ve done?”

There’s a pause that gives me some small measure of hope that I might be able to persuade him to go to the authorities, but the ensuing snickering withers my brief optimism.

“Remorse? Did God have remorse when he put cancer in that sweet lamb’s blood? He have remorse when he took her eyesight? No, y’all call that His doing.”

Sickness churns in my stomach, as his sin bloats inside my chest, expanding and writhing within me, like a living, breathing thing, stirring long forgotten memories. Standing beside a hospital bed. Holding one small hand in mine. Praying. Always praying. For a miracle. For more time. I hold the back of my palm to my mouth to keep from expelling dinner on the already worn and dappled wood that seems to be closing me in. The tickle in my chest threatens panic, and I chide myself to pull it together. Tamp down those memories and focus on the present.

“I’ll ask you one last time, go to the authorities. Confess your crimes there. This is your last chance.”

“Or what?”

I don’t answer, my mind lost to an unbidden scene already crystalizing inside my head.

I fall to my knees and reach out for my little Isabella, dragging her small and lifeless body across the bedsheets. A trail of blood follows behind her, and as I turn her into my arms, tucking her against my chest, a new wave of misery pulls me under. I stroke a trembling hand down her sleeping face, over the delicate wisps of hair plastered to her temples by a smattering of blood there.

The wood creaks, and the click of the door breaks my thoughts. Jumping to my feet, I push through the door of the confessional and collide with a body. Not the man who’s stabbed at my conscience the last twenty minutes, but a woman. A slim, lithe form that I have to catch to keep her from crumpling to the floor with the impact, bracing my hands at each of her shoulders to hold her steady.

She gasps, and for one brief second, my eyes are drawn to the red of her lips sticking out from a pale face and her black high neck dress.

“Oh, my … I’m sorry, Father.” Taking a step back, she shrugs out of my grasp and straightens her clingy dress.

Slicing my gaze towards the door, I catch the man hobbling out of the church. The bright blue shirt he wears carries a yellow logo, but I can’t make out what it is, or the name of the company. “Excuse me one moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Father, I really—”

“One moment, please. I promise I’ll be right back.”

I jog after the man, slamming through the door of the church, and out into the dry summer air that steals my breath as I descend the stairs to the sidewalk. The encroaching darkness dims what little is left of daylight, as the sun hides behind the adjacent buildings. Scanning over the handful of bodies ambling about, I search for the silvery hair and blue T-shirt I noted when he exited the church. Rounding the corner brings the rectory in sight, standing still and unperturbed. Only the muted hum of traffic up and down the street interrupts the quietude.

At the approach of a young kid, perhaps seventeen years old, I pause. “Have you seen an older man? Silvery hair and blue shirt?”

The kid shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, without bothering to slow his pace and knocking me in the shoulder on his way past. “Sorry.”

I narrow my gaze on each individual form. A woman, hooker no doubt, in a short skirt and spaghetti-strap tank, leaning against the brick wall of the 7-Eleven. Two old men talking outside a cigar shop, neither wearing a blue T-shirt. Another woman, chiding a toddler, who runs ahead of her while an infant sits propped at her hip, as they make their way across a parking lot. About a dozen faces, none of which look capable of carrying out the kind of brutality I heard only minutes before.

He’s gone. A murderer walking the streets of Los Angeles. A wolf amidst the flock.

And I let him go.

2

IVY

Hands sweaty, wringing the fabric of my dress, I wait by the confessional box. Churches have always made me somewhat edgy, except on the few occasions I’ve managed to score an entire pew to myself in the back, but the box is something entirely different. Old and ornate, wedged between two beautifully carved white pillars, it reminds me of some medieval torture chamber, small and cramped. Claustrophobic.

Of course, it doesn’t help that it’s been … a while since I last confessed, and the shit I have to get off my chest isn’t quite as innocent as the last time I faced off with a priest.

One significantly less attractive than Father Damon, I might add, but I digress.

I’m only here for the sake of my grandmother, who raised me the last twenty-nine years and asked on her birthday, of all horribly manipulative things, that I confess my sins. Guess that’s all part of her making sure all her shit is in a row before meeting the big man upstairs. Woman isn’t even dead, yet, so I’m not so sure what the hurry is.

Not that she was all that religious to begin. She did, after all, run a sort of halfway house for displaced prostitutes when I was growing up, which is how she met my mom, who came to her at seventeen years old. From what I gather, her son, my father, spent more time at home than on the ball field, growing up. As a result, ended up balls-deep in one of her strays, and because I was technically my mom’s fourth pregnancy, counting two miscarriages and a previous abortion, she opted to name me Ivy. IV. Four. Cheesy, I know, but that doesn’t even begin to describe how messed up my life has been ever since.

Which is why my heart feels like a troop of chimpanzees are swing dancing inside my ribcage.

My grandmother’s sense of urgency has little to do with my soul, and more to do with her own conscience, as she happens to be the only one privy to my darkest and most troubling secret. One that has pretty much destroyed my life and could land me in prison, if anyone else ever finds out. One I’m not entirely certain I can entrust to a man like Father Damon.

The gravity of it is more than I can take, though, pressing down on me every day. My grandmother says, it’s an evil I need to set free, or it’ll crush me from the inside out, because everyday I feel like a traitor for having gotten away with it. I feel like I don’t deserve my freedom, even if I’ve technically not been free since the night it happened.

The church door swings open, and what has to be the most handsome priest in Los Angeles swoops in like a dark storm cloud. Over his black clerical shirt and slacks, the stole dances around him. Even in the thick of summer, he wears a long-sleeved shirt that stretches tight over his massive arms, but he’s rolled them up to his elbows, exposing the impressive vascular map in his forearms. With dark eyes and a brooding expression, he doesn’t look like a priest. He looks like every other sinner in the city of angels.

“I’m sorry,” he says, striding up to me, hand rubbing his chin. Another glance back at the door tells me he’s preoccupied with something, but I’ve been coming to the church a few times over the last month since Mamie’s condition has worsened to know that troubled look on his face is a permanent mask he wears. A few parishioners even call him Father Heathcliff—affectionately, of course, as they all seem to adore the man, in spite of his ascetic broodiness.

“Do you chase down all your penitents after confession, or …”

After another quick glance back to the door, his gaze falls on me like a thunderstorm. Good looks aside, his appearance is unnerving, imposing, like he’ll force the Lord into you one way, or another, and tell you to swallow it. The stern angle of his brows add a natural glower to deep penetrating brown eyes—the kind that don’t exactly scream comfort and reassurance. “I didn’t mean to run into you.” He ignores my earlier comment, which is okay, but he certainly hasn’t put me at ease about stepping inside that box with him. “Let’s get on with this.”

It’s not the apathy in his tone that initially keeps me from stepping inside the confessional, but something I sense is troubling him. When he disappears behind the door, I stare after him a moment, mentally straightening the mess of words jumbled inside my head.

Once inside, I kneel before the screen, the silhouette of him no less intimidating than when I could actually see his face moments before. After a few seconds of quiet reflection, I give the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

In the pause that follows, I clamp my eyes, breathing through my nose to calm the frantic pounding of my heart.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” His voice is deeper in here, or maybe that’s just my ears popping with all the stress, while the walls feel like they’re closing me in.

“Too long.” Everything inside my head is spinning, and I squint harder in an effort to slow it down. When I open my eyes again, I can just make out his shadowed form on the other side, bent over his knees and cradling his head, and suddenly all the noise slamming against my skull turns silent. “Is everything all right, Father?”

“Yes.” His obscure form straightens, voice guarded when he says, “Proceed.”

Proceed. It sounds like something a judge would say, and when the visual of sitting before a roomful of people studying my every word, my every expression with their accusing eyes, forms inside my head, a cold hollow tickles my chest. The nausea drives up my throat, and before I can stop myself, fluids burst free on a torrent, splashing against the kneeler below me. I reach out to steady myself, and accidentally push the confessional door open, letting in enough light to see small chunks of peppers and lettuce from my salad decorating the wood in an array of disgusting colors. Oh, shit.

First thing that pops in my head? I don’t think I have enough napkins in my purse to clean this.

Second thing? I don’t know what the second thing is, because I’m too busy rummaging for napkins, rifling through all the crap I never use.

“Are you okay?” Father Damon’s voice is a distant echo, like the warning of something I’ll have to face as soon as my brain loses the shock and catches up with the mortifying scenario playing out.

“I can’t … find … I don’t have napkins. God dammit!” I slap the back of my palm over my mouth and cringe at the God reference. “I’m so …. I’m sorry, Father.” I’m done. Not only did I desecrate the confessional with the shitty salad I had earlier, but I also just cursed in front of a priest. Nabbing my purse , I stand up from the kneeler, stumbling backward, as if the anxiety inside my head has rendered me drunk, and make my way out of the booth, where he’s already standing. “I’m sorry, I’m …. I just .... I’ll clean it up.”

“No, no. We’ll take care of it.”

“Seriously, if you have some paper towels and some … cleaner, I’ll do it.” The words spill from my mouth as if programmed, and I can’t even look him in the eye. Instead, I glance back at the mess oozing onto the floor, taunting my gag reflex again.

“It’s okay. It’s happened before.”

“You’re just telling me that. Not that I’m calling you a liar, because I’m not. I know priests don’t lie.” Tears form in my eyes, not only from this ridiculously embarrassing moment, but the stress of it all, and I suddenly wish I never made the promise to my Mamie. “I’m …. I’m just so …”

“If it’s something I said, or did, to make you feel uncomfortable …” Though his voice is less stern and irritated, his eyebrows remain pinched to a frown. “My apologies, it’s been an unusual night for me.”

I don’t say anything to that, certain I’ve tipped the scale to a night he wishes would just end already. That’s about where I’m at, as the sour stench of the confessional serves as a constant reminder that I will probably never speak to this priest again after tonight.

“Would you like to talk about it? You’re welcome to come to my office.”

Seriously? Surely the tight clench of my jaw, the heat in my cheeks, and the fact that I can’t even lift my gaze past his white collar give some impression that I would rather lock myself inside that confessional, salad chunks and all, and die there. “It’s nothing you did, or said. I’m sorry, I have to go.” Purse hiked up onto my shoulder, I shuffle quickly toward the church entrance.

“Wait!” he calls from behind, but I don’t stop for anything, as mortified as I am.

I push through the door and vow never to return to this damn church again.

My one night off. My one fucking night off, and how do I spend it? Not sipping wine on my roof, or curling up in bed with my book, like I planned. No, I spend my night hurling inside a cramped confessional, with one of the hottest priests that has ever blessed the clergy.

Fingers curled around the strap of my purse, I tip my head back, resting it against the wall behind me. The Metro Rail hums along, not as crowded as earlier in the night, when I’d stupidly taken it across town to church. Only an older woman with dark hair and tanned, wrinkled skin, sits staring at me from across the aisle. I hate public transportation, but that’s the breaks when you don’t have a pot to piss in. Most of my paycheck goes toward bills and what small amount is left, into savings for the trip of a lifetime, one I’ve been planning since I was about fourteen years old—to Paris, where my grandmother was born. One I wonder if I’ll ever make, with the cost of rent higher than the nuts on a giraffe.

The rail stops at West Expo and S Western Avenue, where I exit down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Once on solid ground, I nab a cigarette from a pack of Kools in my purse and light up. Slipping my apartment keys into my knuckles, I keep my head low and make my way one block up to an old, Spanish colonial style building built in the 1920’s, complete with thick green vines growing over half the building’s exterior. This late at night, the neighborhood is fairly quiet, but just last week, Mrs. Jackson told me someone had tried to carjack her at gunpoint. I’ve learned predators come in all packages, so I trust no one when I’m alone.

The ornate front door of Villa Hermosa stands lit, as usual, and I discard my smoke to hustle inside, jogging two flights up to my apartment. My sanctuary. The one place in the world I feel safe and content.

At my door, I turn the lock over, but at the soft brush of my shoulder, a scream flies past my lips and I pivot around to find Mrs. Garcia standing behind me.

“Iby … dat man came to da door again today. I told him you were gone, but he says he plans to come back.” A heavy Filipino accent accentuates her words as she lifts her brows in warning and stuffs her hands into a bag of Piattos. “He almost broke da door down, and I’d call da police, ip he did.” The crunch of her snack is a bit exaggerated, like she’s crushing his skull, or something.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Garcia.” The mere mention of him settles in my stomach like bricks. A few years back, I made a deal with the devil, otherwise known as Calvin Bianchi, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.

Stern demands, restraining orders, police reports, nothing seems to phase the asshole. Like an unshakable virus, he just keeps coming back, doing everything in his power to make my life miserable. And nearly breaking down my door, it seems. “You … don’t have to tell him anything. If you see him again, just call the police.”

“Oh, belieb me, I will. You’re a good girl, Iby.” A warm, wrinkled hand cups my face, and I try to force a smile, though in truth, I want to cry. Stuffing the bag under my nose, she offers one of her chips, and I reach inside to grab one. “You deserb a good man. Not dis … gago.” The curl of her lip tells me whatever gago means, it’s bad, and as Mrs. Garcia likes to throw out random cuss words, it’s probably derogatory in her language.

“I threw up in the confessional booth tonight,” I say around a mouthful of Piattos. “I’m not that good.”

“Nobody’s perpeck.” A light slap to my cheek breaks her grip, and she smiles, shuffling back to her apartment across from mine. “’Night, honey.”

“’Night, Mrs. Garcia.”

A cool rush of air hits my face as I enter my apartment, and my eyes dart toward the open window, where the long white curtain flutters in the evening breeze. Across the room, I come to a stop in front of the window. It’s cracked just enough to make me wonder if I left it that way earlier in the morning, when I had my smoke before I rushed out the door. I hate smoking in the apartment, so most times, I sit beside the window to keep the musty nicotine odor from stinking up the place.

The nighttime air dances around me as I stare out over Leimert Park, what I consider a jewel in the city of Los Angeles. Five years ago, I fell in love with the rich culture and heritage, and, of course, my apartment. Even in moon’s light, the crisp white walls and splashes of color from the sparse furniture give it a light, airy feel. Classic French posters above a black leather settee, which I bought at a secondhand store, set a vintage French, eclectic style throughout.

On a table to the right sits my antique phonograph, which I fire up. The soft crooning of Edith Piaf immediately eases the tension in my muscles, and I flick on a lamp, before making my way into the kitchen to grab a glass of wine. My favorite part of the small studio apartment is the French doors that separate the kitchen from the living room/bedroom. Some might call the space cramped and cluttered, but for me, it’s home. It’s my beloved haven.

La Vie En Rose plays in the other room, while I pour a glass of wine, mentally washing my brain of the earlier events. I close my eyes, and as I swirl and sniff the tart red blend, standing in the darkness of my little retro-style kitchen, Father Damon’s face pops into my head, all stern eyes and furrowed brows. It’s not the first time I’ve thought about him after leaving church. I’ve certainly had my fair share of fantasies that’ve probably bordered on fetishes, with some of the shit that comes to mind, but at a flash of curdled salad dripping down the kneeler, I gag, and hot flashes of embarrassment warm my cheeks.

“How’s’at wine taste, love?” The sound of his voice skates down my spine, and whatever sense of calm I managed before turns to tight strings of tension.

Calvin. Devil in the flesh.

“I didn’t hear you come in.” I toss the un-sipped wine into the sink, and set the glass onto the white tiled counter.

“Not thirsty anymore?”

“No.”

“’At’s too bad. I like you when you’ve had a few drinks in ya.”

“We had an agreement. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Once a week, I get the hellish displeasure of doing whatever he wants all night, in exchange for him not showing up at my work, or my home, or the grocery store. For the last five months, it’s worked. He stays on his side of Los Angeles, and I’ve got mine. Saturdays are the worst night of my life, without a doubt—a day of the week I dread as much as having a goddamn root canal every seven days—but considering the authorities haven’t bothered to keep him away from me, I consider it a success on my part. Eight years with the asshole, and I still don’t know what he does for a living, but I have no doubts about his connections to police, judges, lawyers, businessmen. I’ve seen him shake hands with politicians and important people in the city, who treat him like an old friend, but I don’t have a clue how they know him.

Sometimes, he wears a suit and tie, and based on his bulky build, I’ve guessed him to be a bodyguard, or something. He’s mentioned a military background, on occasion, and tonight, he’s wearing jeans and a gray camo T-shirt. I know he’s killed—of that, I’m certain, along with the belief that he’s a true sociopath. The kind that can wear charm like skin stretched over the evil buried beneath it.

I don’t have to look up to know his eyes are narrowed, arms crossed. Years of dealing with the asshole means I can damn near predict the thoughts in his head, which are probably spinning with questions, like where I’ve been all day.

“Came by earlier. You weren’t here.”

No shit.

“Where were you?”

Busying myself with straightening up a mostly spotless kitchen is a poor attempt to convince him that I’m not just a little unnerved by his presence. “Out.”

“You know that ain’t how it works.” He moves deeper into the room, boxing me into the corner between the sink and the stove, his body big and imposing. “I get to know where you are at all times. That’s the deal.”

“Yeah? So is not showing up at my apartment. Why are you here?”

“Having the walls painted. Fucking paint fumes are killing me. So I’m having the boys come here.”

His words sink inside my head like a bucket of bricks in the ocean. “No. No way. I don’t have enough room for tha—”

Grabbing my throat, he slams me against the wall behind me, nearly lifting me up off the floor. Air locks inside my chest, my mouth fish gaping for one sip of it. His thumb strokes my hammering artery as if testing the sharp edge of a blade.

“Way I see it, I can go wherever the fuck I want. Ain’t I the reason you get to stay in this shithole?” He glances around before his eyes are on me again and down to my breasts. He cups one of them, squeezing it too hard in his palm, sending a bruising zap of pain across my flesh. In what little movement I can muster, I turn my head away, while he fondles me, undoubtedly studying my reaction. “Boys’ll be here at ten. Gives us an hour. Was thinking we could dirty up that clean, white bed of yours.”

No. I’ll never want to sleep in it again if he fucks me there.

“I’m not in the mood,” I rasp over the throttling of my neck.

Head shaking in disapproval, he snorts a laugh as he sets me down. “When do I ever ask if you’re in the mood, shithead?” A sharp tweak of my nipple has my face screwed up in pain, and I clench my jaw in frustration.

“I’m sick. I threw up earlier,” I grit out, my arm rubbing over my tender breast.

“’Sat what I smell?” His grin is the most disgusting thing about him, because it shows off pearly white teeth designed to highlight the face he spends more time primping every morning than I do my own. “Go get cleaned up.”

“I’ll shower later.”

“You’ll shower now. I don’t want you scaring off my friends, smelling like a fucking carton of sour milk.”

“Why do you do this shit? What do you get out of making me miserable?”

“Miserable? ‘Sat what I make you? And just how miserable would you be right now, if you were paying on forty grand in fees to the city, huh? Living out of a fucking tuna can because your shitty ass job doesn’t pay for anything more than a piss pot.” He leans into me, assaulting my senses with the smell of his chewing tobacco. “Maybe you should’ve cut the cord to Grams a little earlier, baby girl, and you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“Fuck you. Fuck. You!” I slam my palms into his chest, kicking him back a step, before his smile turns to a snarl.

Only a brief flash in my periphery warns of the following crack against my cheekbone that radiates up into my sinuses and kicks my head to the side.

Before I can register the hit rattling my skull, his fingers dig into my jaw, sending a sharp ache into my teeth. “You ever lay a hand on me again without asking, and I will lay you out and fuck you while you’re down.”

Eyes squinting, I grip his wrist to break the hold at my face, but he tightens it.

“You understand? Say, yes, Daddy.”

“Fuck. You.” I know better than to test him. Experience has taught me the consequences of such actions, but my head is so lost to anger, I can’t even think straight. My mouth simply fires off on its own reflex, despite my brain telling me to slow down.

His hand slides down to my throat, and at one obnoxious squeeze, stars burst in front of my eyes while the oxygen sits trapped beneath his grasp. “I think you want to play, don’t you? Does my little whore feel like testing her limits? Huh? Want to see how long I can choke you before you black out?”

Scratching at his arm fails to loosen his grip, and the stars before me seem to get brighter and brighter. I open my mouth to answer, but only a grunted gasp for air escapes me. My chest tugs for more of it, my muscles panicking, trembling in their desperation to break his grip.

His mouth slants over mine, the spearing of his tongue jabbing past my teeth and inciting more panic, as I claw at him for one gasp of oxygen.

Darkness closes in from the fringes, my field of view shrinking, until he drops me to the floor, where I fall into a slump.

I inhale and wheeze, desperate to fill my lungs.

“Go brush your fucking teeth. Almost made me puke kissing you.”

Ignoring him, I focus on the chandelier lamp hanging over the small kitchen table as it grows darker and darker, shrinking into a pinprick I can’t see through.

Voices reach inside the void, and I focus on them. Masculine voices. And boisterous laughter.

“Too much fucking wine.” The sound of Calvin’s voice twists inside my stomach, and I frown.

My eyelids flip open to a blurry scene of four men sitting around my kitchen table. The chandelier sits cockeyed. The scent of cigarettes and beer stirs the nausea already swirling in my gut, and I push up to a sitting position, realizing I’ve been lying on the kitchen floor for however long these men have been here, the stiffness in my cheek and shoulder confirming it.

“Look who’s awake, boys!” Smoke propped between his lips, Calvin shuffles a stack of cards, while the other three spare a quick glance back at me. “Had to rig the light, stupid thing kept hitting Jimmy in the forehead. Might’ve cracked one of the little crystal thingies when he swatted it.”

A throb pounds inside my head. I push to a stand, stumbling backward a step, and I reach out for the stove, just catching my fall.

“C’mere a sec, love. Gotta ask you something.”

“I need to go lie down.”

“In a minute. Just come over here for a sec.”

Instead, I ignore him, truly needing the spinning inside my head to cease. As I pass, a firm grip wraps around my arm, yanking me backward, and I fall awkwardly onto his lap. His arm bands around me, and I squirm, every muscle in my body weak as though still oxygen starved.

“Let me go!”

“I told ya, boys. She’s a feisty one!” Over the chorus of laughter that follows, a hard smack stings my thigh. “I took the liberty of going through your phone while you were out, and I happened to stumble across a mighty interesting little discovery.”

The confession alone is horrifying, but my head can’t even begin to wrap itself around the terrifying nature of him going through my phone.

Abandoning the cards in his left hand, he lifts my phone from somewhere beside him. “You guys ever heard of reverse harem erotica?”

Oh, God. I downloaded a book a few weeks back—a really raunchy story about a woman held against her will by a band of criminals. I only got about halfway through, when the story took a really dark turn, the men totally degrading and disgusting in what they make her do. Unfortunately, I forgot to delete the book off my app.

“From what little I read, just picking up where Ivy, here, left off, it seems to be some kind of rape fantasy, or something. Apparently, this girl in the book is into some pretty kinky shit.”

“I’m not reading it. It’s disgusting.”

“Don’t sound disgusting. And you did read quite a bit of it, from what I seen, love.” His knee bounces below me, jostling my body, and I squirm to get away again, but he holds my arms behind my back, jutting my breasts forward. “Look at them titties, boys. Anyone feel like touchin’ ‘em?” Pressure against my elbows prods me forward into the man sitting next to us. “Go on, it’s your only chance. I don’t like sharing what’s mine, but tonight? I’ll make an exception for you, boys.”

In the pause that follows, the man beside me drops his gaze to my breasts, and his tongue sweeps across his lips like a predator.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

“Girl said that in the book, too, but we all know it’s a front. These bitches act like they’re all independent and against rape.” Still holding me bound, Calvin rests his head on my shoulder, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to head-butt his nose. “But they sure love to read the shit, don’t they?”

“Fuck you. I never said I wanted that! It’s fiction, you ignorant ass.”

In all honesty, I have fantasized about threesomes and foursomes, and even a small bit of dubious consent, but only as a fantasy, and certainly not with this prick and his band of misfits.

Curling his fingers into the neck of my shirt, he yanks it down over one breast, exposing my black bra beneath. “Look at that pretty bra. In the book, one of the bastards shoves it into the bitch’s mouth, before fucking her with a dildo. ‘Sat sound like fun to you, Ivy? Sound like a good fucking time? Huh?” He bounces me again, my breast sloppily jostling with the movement. “Touch her, Mike. Feel how nice those titties fit into your palm.”

Eyes on the bastard beside me, I clench my jaw. “You fucking touch me, and I’ll cut your dick off.”

An obnoxious laugh from behind skates along my spine. “She ain’t gonna cut off shit. I got her arms. Go ahead, you have my permission to touch her. Don’t be scared. I’m just a loving boyfriend fulfilling my girl’s secret fantasy.”

With a smile that I can’t tell is real, or meant to appease Calvin, the guy reaches out and grabs a handful of my breast, kneading it in his palm.

Gnashing my teeth, I focus on his face, imagining it smashed and bleeding.

“Oh, yeah.” Calvin groans, prodding his jean-clad cock into me. “How’s that feel, love? ‘Sat make you hot? How bout we lay you out on the table here and let every one of them fuck you, just like the girl in that story? I’ll be a gentleman and hold you down, so everyone gets a turn.”

“Stop! Fucking stop it! Quit fucking touching me!” A hand slaps across my mouth, and I bite down into flesh, nails digging into his fingers with my arm free.

“You can make all the noise you want, bitch. Let’s not forget what happened the last time the police came, based on a complaint.”

The last time, my neighbor ended up with slashed tires and a broken finger. Even if I screamed bloody murder, I doubt any one of them, except Mrs. Garcia, would bother. And unfortunately, she sleeps without her hearing aide in.

“Man, leave her alone.” The young guy sitting opposite Calvin sits guarded, his fingers entwined. Clean cut, wearing a button-down shirt, with his hair gelled back, he doesn’t look like the other two thugs. He looks regal, maybe someone important. Another mysterious contact. “I didn’t come here to play touchy feely with your girlfriend. I came to play cards, and if that’s not happening, I’m out.”

“Listen to Mister I-Only-Fuck-Supermodels over here. What? My girl isn’t hot enough for you?”

“She’s a bit too hot for you, asshole. But I wouldn’t touch your sloppy seconds if someone paid me. Now, let’s get to playing cards.”

A round of laughter bounces off the walls, and my arms are set free. Calvin pushes me off his lap, laughing with the rest of them, and I stumble toward the door. “Get the bed warm for later,” he says, resuming his shuffling of the cards. “If you’re lucky, I’ll bring a cucumber to bed with me.”

Tears fill my eyes as I make my way toward the bathroom, their obnoxious laughter trailing after me. Once inside, I close the door behind me and slide down the wall.

“Hey, don’t be too long!” Calvin’s voice bleeds through the door. “Tony’s gotta piss!”

I cradle my head in my hands. If I could go back eight years, I never would’ve handed over my soul to the devil. I’d have died of starvation first.

3

DAMON

Through the back door of the rectory, I make my way down to the lower level. Father Ruiz, who covers the Spanish mass, lives in the upper level of the building, whereas I opted for the basement. Even when the two of us are here, we rarely run into each other. A large family, full of siblings and cousins, occupies most of his free time, so the only fleeting moments we happen to see each other outside of church might be during morning prayer in the chapel, or in the kitchen, when one of us is cooking. Otherwise, the place is essentially all to myself, and my gray Chartreux, Philippe, for whom Ruiz doesn’t care much.

A half renovated rec room passes on the right, in which all my workout equipment awaits abuse. My bedroom sits adjacent to the guest room at the end of the hall. At some point, a seminarian is expected to occupy the extra space, but for now it’s quiet and vacant. Stillness I would’ve appreciated as much as on any other night, if my head wasn’t all over the place.

Without flipping on the light, I stride through the darkness to the closet at the opposite side of my bed and tug the dangling chain, which flicks on the bare lightbulb inside.

Staring off, I remove my clerical collar and shirt, leaving only the white tank beneath. I can still hear the man’s raspy voice. Smell his breath. The cigarettes and whiskey. Not a drop of remorse on his words. No, he took joy in hurting a child, an innocent lamb, without consequence. And if he’s telling the truth, that child lies buried somewhere up on Angel’s Point—an admission I won’t know to be true for certain, until I’m able to investigate tomorrow at first light, before morning mass.

Massaging the blossoming ache stabbing at my skull, I breathe hard through my nose. My mind is chaos. A battle between my duties as a priest, my commitment to the parish, and my instincts as one who’s already seen the worst parts of hell. As much as I believe we’re all deserving of God’s mercy, there are those among us, wolves amongst the flock, who are, by their very nature, unrepentant predators, the kind that seek out the most innocent and vulnerable.

He could be out there, harming another child.

I slam my fist into the wall beside me. Rattling comes from within the closet, while the slivers of pain shoot up my knuckles. Gripping the doorjamb, I rest my head there, spasms shooting across my jaw with the grinding of my teeth.

Every cell in my body, the parts that make me more man than priest, beg me to hunt the man down and throttle him in vengeance. That very thought is an affront to everything I stand for, but I already know I’m not like my fellow priests. My past alone makes me different, but my thoughts, and my reasons for answering the call, were never fully aligned with other seminarians. While they sought to devote their lives to helping others know God, I sought to escape the violence in my head, to craft and mold my anger and pain into something less destructive, and find peace in the aftermath of that single night, when everything in my world was ripped away. Everyday is a struggle to contain the ire, to keep those skeletons buried deep inside of me, and this man, this unremorseful sinner, broke the ground with his confession, unleashing all that rage.

But still, even the deeply rooted nature of my being stands in conflict, because a confessor is forbidden to use knowledge acquired in confession to the detriment of the penitent. This is what canon law states. This is what priests have been martyred for centuries to protect. Nepomucene, Magallanes slip behind my shuttered lids, all the names of well-known priests who chose death over revealing a confession in times of war and at the threat of torture, while I bite back the enmity burgeoning inside of me. I’m not permitted to report him to the authorities, even if it called to me more so than the rage snaking through my veins, coaxing me to harm another man.

After all, the sacramental seal is inviolable, an act of confidentiality and trust, a privileged encounter between God and the penitent.

I made a vow to uphold the trust of my parishioners. To protect them. A vow that others before me suffered brutal torment and cruel deaths to defend. One that, should I choose to break it, would result in automatic excommunication from the church. Latae sententiae.

And what then? I’ve become all too familiar with what happens when everything is gone, when I’m left alone with my thoughts without distraction, or purpose. One cold breath away from death. I’ve been there before.

I did as I was tasked—to urge him to go to the authorities.

Yet, I can’t just ignore the brutal murder of a child. I can’t.

Opening my eyes brings an object to view at my feet. A torn piece of paper, upon which I love you, daddy is written in orange crayon. The scrap blurs behind my tears as I kneel down to pick it up. In seconds, I’m taken back to the night, eight years ago, when I sat at my desk late into the evening, working on a new deal, and reached inside my coat pocket to pull out the note now lying as nothing more than a memory in my hand.

When I punched the wall, it must’ve fallen out of the box I keep on the top shelf, one housing pictures and memories—vestiges filled to the brim of a past I can’t bear to revisit. I reach up to the shelf, my fingers blindly prodding the opened box, and I drop the note inside. I pull the box to the edge, until I can see the hearts and stars drawn on the surface with multiple colored crayons.

Panic punches my chest at the sight of it, and I quickly replace the lid and push it back, out of sight again.

In eight years, I’ve not found the strength to look inside that box.

Nabbing a pair of sweats from one of the lower shelves, I change out of my clerical garb and throw on a black tank, before exiting the closet.

A small desk in the corner holds my laptop, and I flip it open to random notes I have jotted for Sunday homily. Pulling the Internet up, I type ‘Ames murder’ in the search bar, and I find myself staring at the face of a fair-skinned child, with blonde curls and bright blue eyes that seem to sparkle on the screen. Lia Ames. According to the article, she went missing from her L.A. home over a year ago, and her mother, distraught, urged anyone to come forward with information about her daughter, who suffered from pediatric retinoblastoma blindness. On February 18th, 2016, her babysitter reported the two of them were in the back yard of the girl’s suburban home, when she went inside to grab some water for her. Upon her return, Lia was gone. The babysitter reported that the girl’s service dog hadn’t even barked to suggest a stranger in the backyard, which led them to believe the girl might’ve taken off.

With no warning, a heavy body leaps onto my lap. Back stiff, Philippe settles down on my thighs, nudging my arm for a pet. Snorting, I shake my head and stroke my hand over his soft gray fur. “How’s your day been, buddy? Better than mine, I’ll bet.”

The girl on screen catches my eye once more, and I flick my attention back to Philippe, where his golden amber stare takes me back eight years.

Isabella lays tucked into my arm, as I read the last page of her favorite book, The Little Prince. I’ve grown to hate this book, the ending of it taking on new meaning since her diagnosis, but as it’s her favorite, I read every last word. The smooth skin atop her head brushes under my palm, as I mindlessly caress where long chestnut locks, like her mother’s, once hung in loose curls. Stolen in the first weeks of chemotherapy. On her lap, Philippe purrs, enjoying the short-lived attention from her. Unlike before, he doesn’t get to sleep in her bed, not until the chemo is finished, and has taken up sleeping with Val and me at night.

“Daddy?” she asks, as I close the book, setting it on the nightstand beside me. “When I die, will you take care of Philippe?”

Muscles frozen, I frown down at her. “Hey, don’t talk like that. You’re gonna be fine. The chemo is gonna work.”

“Jenna’s brother had Leukemia, and he died.”

“Well, there’s different kinds, and different things affect the outcome, Bella.”

“But he had the same kind. And he was way stronger than me. He could cross the monkey bars in five seconds. It used to take me twelve seconds.” Bottom lip quivering, she looks on the verge of crying. “Mommy says Philippe is an annoying cat, so when I’m gone, who’s going to pet him when you have to work all night?”

“Listen to me, you’re not going anywhere. Philippe is going to get more pets than he can imagine, once your chemo’s over.”

“But if it doesn’t work, will you promise me you’ll take care of Philippe forever? And you’ll pet him for me, whenever he feels sad and lonely?”

“I promise.”

I blink to hold back the tears, as Philippe springs off my lap and saunters back out of the room. Gaze lifted toward the closet, I can just make out the edge of the box shoved toward the back. Part of me wants to grab a bottle of whiskey and drown myself in those memories. To pull out the copy of the book I know is tucked inside, and remember the feeling of having my young daughter lying in my arms as I read it to her.

Another part of me knows from experience how hard it is to resurface after that, so instead, I push up from my desk and head to the rec room.

Over the next hour, I hit the gym equipment, pushing myself harder than usual, until my skin is coated in sweat and my muscles burn with the torment. After a quick shower, I tuck into a bowl of the ham and potato soup our secretary, Mrs. Castle, dropped by earlier in the day. The food helps settle my thoughts, pulling me out of the dark hole that threatens to consume me.

Later, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, having spent the last half hour trying to remember one moment in my life I wasn’t challenged with something that warred with my conscience. As a child, my mother died in a car accident, leaving me to grow up with my aunt on my father’s side, a devout Catholic woman who made every day afterward bearable, who made me feel like I could lead a normal life without my mom, which invariably left me grappling with guilt. As I got older, I faced the challenges of being a criminal’s son in New York, groomed and trained by a man who had no place as my mentor. The same man who taught me how to cheat the system, launder money and amass more enemies than friends.

What happened tonight was another test. Another stab at my conscience that I need to set aside, until the morning when answers might come to light.

In the quiet that follows, my thoughts drift to the woman who threw up in the confessional. How troubled she looked, and how my mind, completely consumed in anger and guilt, could hardly focus on the conversation with her. I’ve always been good at setting aside my stresses for the needs of my parishioners, but tonight was different. I wasn’t in the mindset of judicious confessor, but that of a man wanting to protect and punish.

The vigilant shepherd watching over the flock.

She sensed something was wrong, she could see it in my eyes. I could see something was troubling her, as well, and I wish I could set things right with her.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.

4

IVY

Sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains, warming my face, enticing me to open my eyes, but I don’t. The ache between my thighs is a reminder that I’m not alone, and I can’t bear to see Calvin lying in bed beside me. Instead, I push off the edge of the mattress to my feet, and hobble to the bathroom, a deep throbbing cramp low in my stomach.

Evidence of his cruelty still lies on the bathroom floor, where the unplugged curling iron, coated in scant drops of blood, stirs flashes of him shoving it up into me while forcing me to look at myself in the mirror. Punishment for embarrassing him in front of his friends. Tears sting the rim of my eyes at the memory of him threatening to plug it in, a warning that if I ever humiliated him again, he’d take pleasure in returning the favor.

I relieve myself quickly, wiping to find blood smeared on the tissue as well, and with shaky hands, I clean myself with a warm washcloth. My chest tugs with a sob, but I choke it back, grinding my teeth in anger, instead. I prefer anger. It’s far more useful than tears.

I force myself not to look at him lying sprawled on my bed, as I make my way to the kitchen, where beer bottles, scattered cards, and overflowing ashtrays litter my once-spotless table and countertops. Rubbing a hand over my forehead, I will myself not to break down, and tug a balled-up grocery bag from beneath the sink. The bottles clang against each other while I clean up the mess, but his snores in the other room confirm he’s too drunk to hear it. I set the bag of empties onto the counter, beside the knife block, and pull one of the blades from its sheath. Touted as the sharpest brand of knives in the world, I suspect he wouldn’t even feel it sinking into him at first. Maybe a mild sting and the warm blood leaking down his skin.

Gripping tight to the hilt, I tiptoe back into the bedroom until standing over him.

Back contracting with each breath, he snoozes away, completely unaware of the urges beckoning me to slam the blade right into his spinal column. Perhaps it’d paralyze him immediately. I once read a medical record, about a man who sustained a cervical stab wound and immediately suffered tetraplegia. Could’ve killed him, had he been struck just right.

The curve of his neck draws my eyes, and I’ve tightened my grip of the blade, going so far as to raise it over my head before I’ve realized the motion.

Calvin snorts, flips over to face me, and I startle with a gasp, lowering the blade behind my back. Though his lids open, he seems oblivious to me standing beside him. A second later, his eyeballs roll back into his head.

Exhaling a shaky breath, gaze locked on him, I inch backward toward the kitchen again. Thoughts spin inside my head, none of which express any level of remorse for having nearly killed him just now. Instead, I stand smacked by how easily I could’ve ended this nightmare, how quickly I’d have severed him right out of my life for good. How thin the line between a normal human being and a cold-blooded killer really is. I’d have lost everything in those split seconds—my beloved apartment, my job, the many things I’ve collected over the years, like my cherished phonograph and my wardrobe of vintage clothes.

Everything but my dignity and self-worth.

My freedom.

If only I didn’t take that deal all those years ago, how different might things be for me today?

A quick glance at the clock shows one in the afternoon. My shift at the hospital starts soon, and my day will undoubtedly tick away, as it usually does. Only today, I’m far more dangerous than I was yesterday.

5

DAMON

My search is fruitless. Not that I wanted to find a child’s dead body up on Angel’s Point, but had he buried her there, at least someone would know. At least her death wouldn’t have gone completely unnoticed.

At first light, I took my morning jog up to the graffiti spattered overlook, where the city stands off in the distance. Had I not been preoccupied with searching for the remains of a little girl, I might’ve taken in the breathtaking views, but instead, I left that place wondering if I imagined the whole thing. If the man who stumbled into that confessional was nothing more than a visual sent by God, to test my faith and dedication.

Morning mass seemed to slip by almost in robotic fashion, my mind swarming with thoughts I feared I’d accidentally divulge to the entire congregation, as I spoke of sin, and God’s mercy and compassion. I decided to get through my day, to be here and present for my parish, and then resume my inquiries into the Ames girl later tonight, after my Street Safety meeting. At the very least, Lia Ames is still missing. That alone draws my curiosity in troubling measure, to the extent I dreamed of having found her bones, and woke up in a cold sweat.

I turn my Chevy Impala into the parking lot of Los Angeles General Hospital, where I’ve been called to offer prayer and support to the family of a comatose child who fell into a pool and nearly drowned. I’m early, as usual, the result of having worked construction for so many years prior to the priesthood, and getting up before the sun. Keys in hand, I exit the car and make my way past security, who wave me on as I enter the lobby. With three hospitals and several nursing homes within my parish boundaries, a few visits in the last couple of months have made me a familiar face here.

Through the halls, I make my way to the Medical Surgical floors, coming to a stop at the elevator. Beside me, a woman hobbles up with a chocolate lab, a service dog, I’m guessing. Offering a friendly smile seems to ease the stiff expression on her face—one I’m all too familiar with, suggesting she’s not comfortable in the presence of a priest.

“Someone die?” she asks, stroking her dog, who sits at attention.

“Um, no. I’m just here to offer prayer and support for a family.”

“Thought you was giving someone last rites, or something.”

“No. I’ll be praying for her recovery this week.” The elevator seems to be taking longer than usual. Or maybe I’m just not in the mood to talk after having spent half the morning searching for a little girl’s remains. “That’s a beautiful dog.”

“I have seizures. Bad ones. Epilepsy. Rango, here, keeps me from swallowing my own tongue.”

Frowning, I nod and clear my throat. “I’m sorry to hear you suffer from seizures. That’s gotta be terrifying.”

“Hell, I ain’t scared. I was married to a bastard who beat me to within an inch of my life. Finally worked up the courage to divorce him. Seizures ain’t nothing.” Her eyes seem to challenge me, maybe expecting that I’ll say something about the permanence of marriage.

“I’ll pray he takes a long walk off a short pier.”

With a chuckle, she shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re not like most priests, are you? I’ll bet your church appreciates that about you.”

“I’m an acquired taste, for sure.”

The elevator dings open on a half dozen people inside, presenting room for no more than one more passenger. Hand ushering her forward, I offer to let her go.

“Thanks, Father. Hope whatever kid you came to visit ends up okay.” She steps onto the car, and its then, when the dog is facing me, that I can see a logo etched into the vest across its chest.

I focus on it, wondering why it’s so familiar to me. Blue and yellow, set around a company name: Paws For A Cause.

It’s not until the elevator door closes that I recall the same design on the T-shirt of the man who confessed the night before.

A service dog company. And then it clicks. Not just the identity of the logo, but the connection to Lia. No wonder her dog didn’t bark when she was kidnapped. It probably recognized her kidnapper.

A hard thunk hits my shoulder, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I glance down at the woman who ran into me, her hair pulled up on top of her head with a scarf tied around the curled black locks, above bright spring green eyes. The frilly cream-colored lace shirt and pencil skirt give her a vintage look, like something straight out of the 1940’s. A classic beauty who could easily grace a magazine, and the only person, besides my deceased daughter, whose vomit I’ve cleaned.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” She bends forward to pick up her purse, and when she straightens, sliding the strap up her shoulder, her jaw drops. “Oh. I’m … I’m sorry, Father.”

“I just keep running into you, don’t I?”

Following a quick glance around, her cherry-stained lips stretch into a demure smile. Something sweet, like vanilla and fruit, lingers on the air. “So, you chase down penitents and follow them everywhere?”

“I’m here to visit a family.” I glance at the elevator, then back to her. “What about you?”

“My grandmother’s a frequent flyer here. Apparently, indwelling catheters and nursing homes do not mix.”

The elevator dings again, totally vacant this time, but I let it go, not wanting to rush off on her twice.

“Just popping in on my way to work to see her.”

“What is it you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Hmmm. I don’t know …” She bites her bottom lip in a teasing way, cheeks dimpling adorably. “If I tell you, you might think differently of me.”

“Well, now I’m even more curious.”

“Promise you won’t curse me, or something, if I tell you.”

Brow raised, I bite back the urge to smile. “I’m a priest, not a warlock.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I thought I’d invite you to a séance tomorrow night. Black candles. Ouija boards. It’s a good time.”

The chuckle that escapes me comes as a surprise. It’s been a while since someone made me laugh.

“I’m kidding. I’m a medical records clerk here. For now, anyway, until I move onto something less exciting.” She huffs and diverts her gaze away once again.

“You work … here?”

“Almost ten years now. Wow. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

My quest for answers has taken an interesting turn down an unexpected path, so I steal the opportunity to gather as many details as I can. “Are you familiar with Paws For a Cause?”

“I’ve seen the dogs around here on occasion, but I stay in the basement mostly. We don’t get a lot of traffic down there. In fact, they rarely let us up here, unless we have to pick up or deliver a chart. We’re like … the undead sequestered from the living.”

In the pause that follows, I try to imagine that older man walking these halls, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes, looking for his next victim. Seems he’d scare away any child, but then I remember the way Isabella had haphazardly ran toward anyone with a dog, ignoring the owner for the cuteness of the animal.

“Hey, speaking of the undead.” Eyes squeezed shut, Ivy shakes her head, lips pressed to a tight line, before she lowers her gaze from mine. “I’m sorry for the … Exorcist thing the other night. Jeez, I’m so mortified, I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“It’s okay. I like to think I exorcised your demons, or something.”

Smiling again, she looks away, making me wonder if she’s watching out for someone. Or maybe she’s just embarrassed to be talking to a priest in public.

With her head turned, I catch a purplish mark on her cheek and throat, dulled by what looks like a coating of makeup, slightly off tint from the rest of her skin tone. “Is everything okay?”

Snapping her attention back to me, she smiles wider, the unnatural stretch of her lips less genuine. “Look, I … don’t mean to be rude, but I’m gonna be late … and, well, as exciting as it is in the basement, I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“Of course, I’m sorry to hold you up. I’d like to invite you back to the church, if you’d like to talk, or confess. Promise I’ll hold your hair back next time,” I tease, as easily as if I’ve known her awhile. Feels that way, for some reason.

“Yeah, I … don’t think that’s gonna happen, Father. Thanks, but throwing up in a confessional booth is ranked up there with the time I walked out on stage for my elementary school Christmas concert with my dress tucked into my underwear.”

Again, I chuckle for the second time within minutes. “It doesn’t have to be me. Father Ruiz performs Reconciliation, as well. No one has to know. It’ll be our secret.”

“Am I to assume … you cleaned up my puke?”

“Does it matter who cleaned it up?”

“Well, kind of. See, I know I’m not supposed to think you’re attractive, but hello, human nature. And knowing that you cleaned up my puke is just … wrong.”

“So, if I was unattractive, you wouldn’t be grappling as much?”

“I know you can’t really relate, so I’ll leave this topic alone.”

“I’m a priest, but I’m a human being, as well.” Leaning in closer, I lower my voice in play. “Believe it, or not, I used to think girls were cute.”

“But now you wear special clergy contacts that make all of us look like hags.”

Her comment draws my eyes back to her outfit, simple yet classy, keeping the focus on the unique beauty of her face. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and those spellbinding green eyes. “I see you just fine, and there’s nothing unattractive about you.”

Clutching the strap of her purse, she takes a step back, as if my comment slapped her in the face, and suddenly, I regret saying it. “I’m gonna go. I’ll think about coming back.”

“Fair enough. Take care …” There’s an awkward pause where I might’ve said her name, and I fill the gap with a smile, instead.

“Ivy. My name’s Ivy Mercier.”

“Take care, Ivy.”

The elevator dings a third time, and I watch her walk off before I step inside.

I find a moment between supper and Wednesday night mass to log onto my computer and search Paws For A Cause. It’s a local business in what looks like a residential area of Los Angeles, but the website shows nothing about the trainers, or staff there. I jot the address down and scour the internet for anything on Lia Ames service dog. A faint image shows up, pixelated with age and crappy quality, but I can make out the logo on the dog’s vest. The same logo as worn by the lab I saw at the hospital. The same logo I saw on the penitent’s shirt. And just like that, I’ve made a link between Lia and her kidnapper, or killer, as it were.

And what if he is her killer? Who will you tell? I can almost hear the words of Bishop Cannes, my mentor while he was still a priest, and an expert on canon law, just before I’m excommunicated.

There is no one to tell. It’s my duty to maintain the confidentiality and sanctity of what is confessed. It is the priest-penitent privilege, much like communications between a lawyer and client, protected by civil as well as canon law, and disclosing such would set precedence. Besides that, I have no evidence. I’d be condemning a man based on a drunken confession, driven solely by my own painful experiences—something for which I’m not willing to betray my parishioners, nor face the penalty for doing so.

6

IVY

The smell of piss assaults my nose as I enter the room that Mamie shares with another woman, whose every breath is marked off by an incessant beep. A machine to keep her alive, I guess. Partitioned by a pastel curtain, my grandmother lies in her own bed, the heavy drapes across from her blocking out most of the afternoon sunlight, creating a depressing darkness that I know would’ve left her old self miserable. She loved the sun as much as she loved her gardens and music … and me.

The very faint sound of Te Revoir Mon Amour by Rina Ketty plays through the speaker I bought for her, from an entire Spotify list of her favorite French singers. Probably helps keep her from counting each of the other woman’s beeps and paying far too much attention to how many breaths her neighbor takes in a day. If she even has the wherewithal to notice such things.

I crack the drapes just enough to let a sharp beam of sunlight through and catch the twitch of Mamie’s hand when it hits her skin.

Rheumy eyes stare off toward somewhere behind me as she cracks a slight smile, her mouth bracketed by laughter lines. “Do you hear him, moineau?”

“Hear who, Mamie?”

“The angel. He says it’s almost time.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that. Stop talking like that.”

Her soft brown eyes fall on me. “This place … isn’t my home.”

She’s right, it’s not. Not even close. A few years back, she suffered a massive stroke, and though most of the time she almost seems to be talking in tongues, there are lucid moments with her, where I wonder if she remembers things from her past.

“I know it’s not.” Wrinkled skin brushes against my palm, as I stroke her hand and offer a sad smile. “I wish I could bring you home with me.”

“The angel …. He says I must confess before I go.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I exhale a sigh. The woman was always what I’d call haphazardly religious when she had her wits about her. She’d do something questionable, feel guilty, and have her occasional come to Jesus moments, none of which ever resulted in any committed church time. Ever since the stroke, though, church is all she talks about. Keeping a clean slate. Reconciling her sins.

“I’ll take care of it, Mamie.”

“And did you confess your sins, mon petit moineau?” Since I was small, she’s called me her little sparrow, a tribute to Édith Piaf, one of her favorite French singers.

“Not yet. I will. I promise.”

“That man is horrible. What he did to that poor child is so wrong.” Her words stir panic in my chest, and I lean to the side to make sure no one else has entered the room. “But you can be absolved. You don’t have to suffer for his sins.”

Out of a lifetime of memories I imagine are scattered throughout her brain like a kitchen junk drawer, where the hell did that erratic thought come from?

“You remember … Calvin?”

Lips snarled, she looks away from me, and for a moment, I think she’s going to go off on a rant about him. After all, she’s always hated him, probably more than me in the beginning. Instead, her face softens to a smile, eyes more rheumy than before. “You know who my angel looks like?”

With my mind still trapped by her random memory, I don’t bother to answer the nonsense that follows.

“Louis Jourdan. My favorite movie was Gigi. Do you remember we skipped class to watch it at the theater?”

It’s definitely not me she’s thinking of, but maybe a classmate of hers, since I wasn’t even born when the movie was in theaters. As she prattles on about the movie, my head slips into a memory of my own. A split second in my life that I wish I could go back and change.

I glance down at the medical record bleeding out all over my desk and arrange it in its proper order—patient information sheet, med history, physical exam, consent forms, physician’s orders, progress notes, consults, operative notes, pathology and discharge papers. After two years, it’s almost mindless for me. Which is good, because I started tonight’s shift with a letter from the city, informing me that my grandmother’s charitable efforts have not been appreciated by the City of Los Angeles for about a decade now. In other words, I’ve been issued a court order to pay the $40,000 in fines my grandmother accumulated for allowing the homeless to occupy a large plot of land. Fines she’s ignored in all her rebellion for long enough, it seems. Having spent most of the afternoon sobbing about it, I no longer have the mental capacity to think about that, let alone Alfred Miller’s hernia repair lying before me.

As I type the information into our filing system, a buzz jolts my muscles, so I end up typing ‘Me;oise’ instead of ‘Miller’.

The request counter is a Dutch door that we keep locked during second shift, but apparently the fact that it’s closed isn’t enough of a deterrent, and neither is the WE’RE CLOSED sign set out on the other side, written in bold letters.

Ignoring it, I go back to entering the information, but the buzz sounds again.

Seriously? At this point, not answering it is just a matter of principal, and I suddenly wish I brought my earbuds to work with me.

Another buzz.

With a frustrated huff, I push up from my desk and swing back the door, revealing a man on the other side. In a crisp black suit that clings to his large build, he reminds me of a mafia dude, his hair slicked back, face free of any hair.

“We’re closed. I guess the sign isn’t all that obvious.”

“Sign?”

I glance to the door that would’ve faced him and cringe. “Okay, well, there’s usually a sign. But I’m telling you, we’re closed. You can come back tomorrow at eight, when we open again.”

“I’m afraid tomorrow doesn’t work for my schedule. I need to access a medical record tonight.”

“I’m afraid tonight doesn’t work with my schedule. Have a good night.” I swing the door back, but it’s stopped short of clicking closed.

Fingers curled around the edge of it, he pushes it open, and a bolt of electricity tingles down my spine. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“No deals. And if you don’t leave? I’m calling security.”

“You don’t want to do that.”

Yet, my hand is already reaching for the phone on the desk below me. Subtly, of course.

“I need a medical record for a Richard Rosenberg. He came to the emergency department earlier for shortness of breath.”

“First, I don’t handle release of information. That lady is home watching The Walking Dead at this very moment. Second, what are you to him?”

“Patient advocate. But that’s really neither here, nor there.”

“No, it really is here and there, because I can’t just release a record to anyone. There are forms, things that need signing and verifying.”

He glances to the left of him and shakes his head, before returning his attention back to me. “I don’t have time for all that.”

“Then, this conversation is over. Agnes will be happy to help you first thing in the morning. After she’s had her coffee, of course.”

With a snort, he tips his head, the cockiness of his reactions intensifying my frustration. “I’ll cut to the chase. I’m aware that you’re in a bit of trouble with the city. A few grand, by my estimate.”

Winter ice stabs my chest as I stare back at him, momentarily paralyzed. “H …. Wh …. What makes you say that?”

A wicked grin stretches across his face and answers for him. “What if I told you I could help you?”

“I’m not taking money to hand over a medical record. That’ll cost me my job.”

“So will jail time for failure to pay.”

“I’m sure they’ll … garnish wages before then.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Which would leave you one step above poverty, correct?” His exaggerated gestures as he talks strike an irritating chord that makes me want to slam the damn door right in his face. “I mean, forty grand over a few years is about half a mortgage payment. Without the equity.”

“What exactly are you offering, and what are you asking for in return?”

“Richard Rosenberg’s medical record. In return? I’ll make that court order and fine disappear.”

Right. Who the hell is this guy?

“Yeah? And how do you propose doing that?”

“I got some friends in high places, love. Friends who know how to make things disappear. Who do you think told me they saw Richie boy come in on the monitors, hmm?”

Security? Why? Was the man a criminal, or something?

“Who are you? A cop?”

“Something like that. Not so stiff and uptight, though.” Bending forward, he rests his elbows on the top of the door’s lower half. “I eliminate scum for a living.”

“And what guarantee do I have? I’m not handing over a man’s medical record to some total stranger based on a promise.”

“I’ll come back in two hours with a letter signed by the court, dropping the fees you owe. Name’s Calvin, by the way. Now we’re not strangers, Ivy.”

“How do you know me?”

“Two hours. If you’re not convinced, no deal has to be made.”

A loud beep rips me from the memory, and a woman’s voice announces Code Blue over the speakers. My gaze snaps up to my grandmother, who’s still going on about Gigi, but within seconds, a group of physicians, nurses, a crowd of medical staff carrying equipment into the room shuffle toward the other woman’s bed.

One of the nurses peeks over, her eyes stern and focused. “I’m afraid you’re going to need to step out of the room, ma’am. Now, please.”

Gathering up my bag, I bend forward to give my grandmother a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in a couple days, Mamie. Take care.”

As I pass the woman lying in the next bed, surrounded by staff who frantically buzz around her still body, I’m reminded of how quickly death strikes without warning.

How little time we have to right our wrongs before the clock finally runs out.

I’ll keep my promises to my grandmother, and help her find the peace she’s searching for, which means I’m definitely going to need to pay Father Damon another visit.

7

DAMON

“I’m telling y’all right now, something ain’t right about this one.” LaRonda Franklin sits forward, hair pulled back into a gold and burgundy scarf that almost looks majestic against her dark skin tone. She’s head of the Safety Gang Committee, a meeting that assembles once every two weeks, to discuss neighborhood safety and ways to keep the kids engaged and off the streets. Although I’m not officially a member, I do try to make the meetings whenever possible, as I appreciate their efforts on a more personal level. I’m certain, if there had been more vigilant neighbors like LaRonda Franklin, my wife and daughter might still be here. “This girl has a disorder. Nobody just let her mess around on her own for very long.”

“She went missing last Tuesday?” Something cold and troubling moves through me, as I listen to her offered details on the newest young girl to go missing. A seven year old from the neighborhood, named Camila, who was last seen playing outside of the apartment building where she lived.

“Yes, right out from under her mama’s nose. One minute she was there. The next? Poof! Gone.”

“And you said … she had a disability?”

“No, a disorder. She’s autistic.”

“Did she happen to have a service dog?”

“I think she might have. Can I ask why you’re asking, Father?”

“No reason. I just wondered if the mom may have been alerted?”

“She didn’t notice any dogs barking, or nothing like that.” She nods toward the blonde across from her, who sets down some print-outs of the girl’s face. “Gina’s gonna pass out some flyers that we could really use some help distributing.”

Each of the six members sitting around the table grab from the stack out of images.

“If each of you could take a few and post them around, I know her mama would be grateful. Poor lady hasn’t eaten in a week, she’s so distraught over this. I’ve rounded up some neighbor ladies to make her and the boys some dinners for the week, too. If you could mention something during Sunday mass, that would be helpful, Father.”

“Of course. I’m happy to help in whatever way I can.”

The meeting keeps on, but my thoughts swirl over the missing girl. Bits of conversation from the penitent’s confession surface, like when he mentioned that drinking helped quiet the screams. What if he had another child the night of his confession, when he was clearly drunk?

More importantly, what if he still has her?

I tell myself that my intentions for seeking him out are to urge him to go to the authorities, but I know better. If Camila is there, I’m not leaving without her.

It’s a little over three miles from downtown up North Broadway, and I turn the car down Casanova Street. Tucked between two sloping hills, the road bends ahead, looking like a dead end, but just before the curve stands a bungalow-style house, set back from the others, surrounded by high chain-link fences. Half-hanging from its hinges is a decrepit sign that reads Paws For A Cause. Old and rundown, the neighborhood bears the signs of apathy in the ratty yards and trash scattered about.

I stop the car and kill the lights. Fingers curled around the steering wheel, I take a moment to breathe, stealing a quick glimpse of the gun sitting on the seat beside me. Not that I plan to kill anyone. It’s simply for protection, to defend myself in the event things take a very dangerous turn. I’d be lying if I said I was nervous about having it.

There was a time, up until the age of twenty-one, right before Isabella was born, when carrying a gun was everyday business. Back then, I worked as a bagman for one of the more notorious criminals in Queens: my father, Anthony Savio. Hated every second of it, and so did Val, so we packed up and moved as far away from New York as we could possibly get. Haven’t talked to my father since.

I always had a love for carpentry and working with my hands, so I started up my own business installing cabinets up by Montecito Heights, where we lived. Found a nice fixer upper there, and life seemed to be damn near perfect, until Isabella was diagnosed with Leukemia. That’s when everything went to hell, but not even that could match the lows I sank to after Val and Isabella were murdered.

Police claimed it was a simple break in, and that might’ve made sense, considering a few small things had been stolen. But any good criminal would’ve surely sniffed out the safe in my home office that sat untampered, so I didn’t quite buy the simple break-in theory. And as a result, I stared down the barrel of that gun more times than I can possibly count, until the night I stumbled drunk into the local church and had a rather long and candid conversation with Father Thomas. Can’t even pinpoint where in the course of my drunken rambling he turned my thoughts around. Maybe I just never allowed myself to open up to someone like that before.

Over the six months that followed, I changed my name, got clean, and enrolled in St. John’s Seminary. Everything about my former life dissolved with the memory of my family, and I started anew.

Drawing in a deep breath, I clamp my eyes and exhale. I’m stalling, and I shouldn’t, because every moment I waste on thoughts that don’t matter anymore is another moment a child might be suffering inside that house. I can’t just stroll up to the door, either. Old instincts tell me to case the place first and make sure it’s just the one guy. That’s what the son of Anthony Savio would do, and even if I hardly know that man anymore, I can appreciate his innate sense when approaching another criminal.

Tucking the gun into my coat pocket, I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The white collar nearly glows in the surrounding darkness, and I remove it for this, as every moment hereafter goes against everything it stands for. Nabbing a pair of gloves from the glovebox, I stuff them into my slacks, then I exit the vehicle and cross the sidewalk to the narrow walkway that leads to the front of the house.

A light is on in the upper part of the property—a bedroom, I presume—but every other room stands dark. Dogs bark in the distance, and I round the perimeter to find a row of cages covered by a roof, within the fenced in lot behind the house, each occupied with a different dog breed.

Staying out of sight, I slink back toward a window at the front and peer into the room within. Too dark to see anything there, but what I can make out seems to be tidy, in spite of the aging exterior of the home. Rounding the corner brings me to a side door, and when I peek through, I can see a stained laundry basin and an old washer and dryer.

Reaching for the knob, I pause. An innocent man wouldn’t think twice about leaving his prints there, but one practiced in breaking into places knows better, so from my pocket, I pull out the gloves and slip them on. Gripping the knob, I give a light twist, surprised when it opens easily. The rattle of loose hardware is a warning not to push too hard, and I slip inside, careful while I close it behind me.

In the moon’s light, I can see rust and dirt on the top of the outdated white washer, which doesn’t match the pea green dryer. Cracked linoleum covers a bowed floor, and I step lightly to keep from creaking it.

The kitchen beyond is fairly kempt, but dark and dated. A piece of mail set out on the kitchen counter tells me the owner’s name is Chuck Beatty. Beside it, a bottle of whiskey brings to mind the smell of his breath that night, as he spoke about the girl.

To the left stands another door, perhaps a pantry, but when I open it, a set of concrete stairs disappear into the darkness below. Aside from in the million dollar homes, basements are rare in California, so I’m left wondering what this leads to.

Pausing to listen for any sounds, I cant my head to the side, looking for movement past the kitchen, then pad down the stairs into the obscurity.

The air is cooler by a few degrees, casting a chill over my skin. Only the sound of my breaths can be heard, as I round the staircase, blindly holding my hand out in front of me to keep from running into any surprises. There’s nothing past the next step when I scoot my foot in search of an edge, and I realize I’ve reached the bottom, so I flick on the flashlight of my phone. An arc cuts through the blackness, and the garage door ahead tells me it’s not really a basement, but a door leading to the attached garage below the house, though there’s no vehicle parked inside. A water heater and furnace stand to the right, a refrigerator to the left, adjacent to another door encased in brick.

In three quick strides, I come to a stop at the door, listen for any movement, and crack it open. It appears to be some kind of workroom, with a bench and tools hanging from the wall. Only the tools aren’t typical. I study them for a moment, certain the long slender pole with prongs at the end is an electrical prod of some sort. Muzzles, collars, harnesses, and leashes all hang beside it.

Whimpers draw my flashlight toward a cage beyond the workbench, and my next breath hitches in my throat.

Inside is a young girl, hunched over in the too-small confines.

My blood turns as cold as the rage seizing up my muscles, but I approach cautiously, while she ducks away from the light.

“Camila?”

Her whimpers intensify, and I crouch down before I reach her.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise, I’m here to help.”

“I want … my … mama.” A muzzle covering her face muffles the words, and yet, they’re as clear as my resolve to get her the hell out of this place.

“And I’m going to make sure you see her, okay? But please, you have to be quiet. Do you know who put you in there?”

Brows tipped in fear, she points beyond me, and I turn in time to dodge a swing at my head.

I barrel forward and knock him backward, and the shovel in his hand tumbles to the ground on a hard clang. In the melee, my phone smacks against the floor, illuminating the room enough to see his fallen form. Scrambling over top of him, I draw my fist back and hammer a punch to his face, kicking his head to the side. Another sends a spray of blood from his nose. As his head rolls back and forth with disorientation, I study his face before the swelling sets in. He must be pushing sixty, with a gray beard and sun-weathered skin.

“Y’come to offer me absolution, after all, Father?” His voice is unmistakable, and at the sound of it, something inside of me snaps, as if it’s somehow tethered to a piece of my former self.

Imagining my own daughter in that cage, I nab the small bit of rope lying on the work bench, and without hesitation, I wrap it around his neck, batting his arm out of the way as he tries to stop me. Its not fear that makes me twist that rope in my hands, nor is it rage, really, because I’ve learned to temper that, for the most part. An innate reflex has me throttling him with the emotion of a robot. I can’t stop myself, even if I want to.

Body seizing beneath me, he tears at my fingers in a poor effort to pry them away, but it’s futile, the way the rope is cleverly wrapped, giving me all the leverage I need without much effort. He doesn’t beg for his life, perhaps because he can see it in my eyes that I’ve no intentions of granting him mercy.

“By the sweat of your brow, you will eat bread.” A tremble in my whisper matches the tight clamping of my chest. “Till you return to the ground, because from it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Even if the sight of his eyes bulging and his skin turning purple makes me sick to my stomach, the image of that child and those tools on the wall have been seared into my mind, overriding every other righteous thought. In those split seconds, I’m the Bagman again, collecting on a long-owed debt. One that belongs to a little girl I’m now certain is buried up on Angels Point somewhere.

“Thought … God … mercif—” He tries to speak past my grip of his throat, but I cut his words by pressing harder.

“God promises mercy, but he does not promise tomorrow.”

Camila’s sobs fail to divert my attention. I am a machine with one sole purpose: to end this man. It takes a good minute before that purple color fades into a bluish tone and his body stills. I push off him until standing. The adrenaline rattles my nerves as I pace back and forth. “Fuck.” I grip either side of my skull and crouch low to stop the spinning inside my head.

Ten years ago, I’d have been looking for a place to discard the body by now. If I leave him here, someone will undoubtedly be looking for him at some point, with his business. There’ll be ligature marks, trace evidence, a smorgasbord of variables to link me to the crime.

But I can’t think about that right now. Not yet.

Swiping up my phone, I turn around to the muzzled girl still trapped in the cage, and with my hands out where she can see them, I kneel down beside her, slow and easy. “I’m going to get you out of there and take that off your face, okay?”

She nods, the tears in her eyes carrying a world of sadness and other things I can’t even begin to fathom for a girl her age. I unlock the cage, and she startles, kicking herself back as if she doesn’t trust me, and why should she?

I just murdered a man without mercy in front of her.

The cage door swings open, and I offer her my hand.

“Camila, I want to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere no one can hurt you again.” I don’t even know where that is yet. The spinning inside my head goes full throttle and every move that comes next is entirely thought up as I go.

Taking her to her mother isn’t an option for a number of reasons that include me being a priest. I make a point not to meet with children unsupervised for a reason. I don’t need someone thinking things that would never happen. Things I could never prove otherwise.

I can’t call the police here, or the investigation will kick off before I’ve even had the chance to discard the body, and even if I stay, I’ll have to explain why I was here, which will force me to break the seal of confession.

This was self-defense.

Perhaps, one would argue, I shouldn’t have been here, but all signs pointed to Camila being kept inside this house. I had to see for myself. I had to try to save a child from the same fate as the Ames girl.

Camila emerges from the cage, her bony arms outstretched as she crawls out onto the concrete floor. Bruises and scratches mar her skin, and the two circular marks along her ribs are where I have to believe she was shocked with the prod.

As I reach for the muzzle, she rears back and flinches, then allows me to unfasten it from the back of her head. “I want you to stay here. I’m going to pull my car around to the door.”

With a frantic shake of her head, she lurches forward as if to grab hold of me, but stalls before she does.

“It’s okay, nobody’s coming for you.” I glance back at the man still lying on the floor behind me. “He’s dead.”

She breaks down sobbing, hiding her face in the palms of her hands. “Mama!”

“You’re going to see her again. I promise.” I reach out for her, only this time she doesn’t hesitate. She wraps her arms around me, her body shivering and cold to the touch.

As my memories taunt me, for a moment it’s not Camila in my arms, but Bella. Fragile and scared as the day I took her to the hospital to begin her chemotherapy. But strong, too.

I stroke Camila’s hair and lay a kiss to the top of her head. “I need to get my car. Can you be brave and stay here?”

I feel her nod against me, and when I pull away, her fingers curl into my arms for a tense moment, and then release me.

I push up and jog across the garage toward the door, flip the lock on the inside knob, and heft it open onto the backyard. The driveway curves to the right, up the hill, and I follow to where it ends at the front of the house. Once inside my car, I back it down the drive, around the curve and into the garage. I search the house for a blanket to wrap around her and find one draped over a ragged-out couch.

Bundled in an afghan, she sits in the front seat, while I load the body into the trunk.

The dogs bark incessantly, goading me to hurry, as I run my flashlight over their kennels, noting full bowls of fresh water and food. If someone doesn’t report the barking within a few days, I’ll make an anonymous call to animal control.

Driving back through the city, my mind battles the guilt and shock while scouring my memories for the best means of disposing the body. Burning it will draw attention. The smell alone will lure the cops, since a body doesn’t exactly give off a burgers-on-the-grill scent. It’s much more foul, and I have to believe pedophiles stink the worst when they burn. Burying him will leave evidence at the scene of the crime, something the dogs might sniff out right away, the second someone opens up their cages. Best bet is to take him away from the scene. Water might be good, so long as he doesn’t wash up somewhere.

It’s while we’re passing Sam’s Septic Solution that the light bulb goes off in my head. A week ago, we had the septic at the church pumped for routine maintenance. It’ll be for another five years before we’ll need it pumping again, and by then, he’ll long be decomposed.

A fitting burial.

Though I am dedicated to my vocation and commitment to God, I am not immune to seeing the suffering and abuse of a child. As irrational as all this may be, I find it necessary, even at the cost of my own soul. Who knows what wretched ways the man planned to defile her. And if his story about Lia Ames is true, Camila might’ve ended up nothing but a pile of bones by week’s end.

Beside me, Camila devours one of two granola bars I keep in my glove compartment for days when I have back to back meetings. Rivulets of water leak down her face, as she tips back a bottle I gave her. Monster must’ve starved her in punishment, judging by the way she’s already tearing into the second granola bar.

I turn down Leroy Street, to a block lined with apartment buildings, an address provided by Camila .

I didn’t plan to take her home, and doing so might be asking for trouble, but there’s no other place I can imagine dropping off this poor child. No place she’ll feel safe, other than her mother’s arms.

She points to the building two blocks up, and I come to a stop at the curb.

“Forgive me, but I can’t take you any closer.” I feel despicable for making her walk the two blocks in nothing but an afghan, but I’d be putting myself in someone’s crosshairs—whether it be her mother’s, or the police, who’d eventually find a dead body in the trunk of my car. “No one can know that I helped you, okay? This has to be our little secret. Do you understand?”

After wiping the remnants of another gulped drink from her face, she nods, before her face turns somber and her gaze falls to her hands in her lap. “Thank you,” she whispers, and when her eyes find me, they hold the shine of tears.

“Go see your mother. She’s been looking for you. I’m going to watch you from here, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

She offers me a quick hug, but doesn’t waste any time clambering out of the vehicle. One block up, she throws a quick glance over her shoulder, but keeps on toward the building.

I duck low in the seat, watching the surrounding complex for any sign of movement, any chance someone else might happen upon her before she makes it home.

The door of the building flies open before she arrives, and three women burst out toward her, as if they’ve watched for her every night. A heavyset woman wraps Camila in a hug that lifts her small body up off the ground. I don’t even have to crack the window to hear their squeals. The other two stand with their hands covering their mouths, shooting glances around, as though looking for her means of transportation. I’m too far away though, and as long as I don’t move before they shuffle her inside, I should be safe to leave the way I came.

More people pour out of the complex, a community of those who’ve been looking for the girl, and it troubles me to withhold the answers her mother’s probably desperate for right now. But the night isn’t over, and there’s still much to do before daylight, so as the few stragglers shuffle inside, I keep my headlights off and fire up my car, slowly backing down the block to the drive of the next apartment building. There, I turn around and head back out onto Main Street.

Back toward the church.

The rectory stands dark by the time I arrive back. A creature of habit, Father Ruiz will already be in bed. It’s only just after nine, but for the last two years, the man’s made a point to be fast asleep well before then, and the adjacent church is locked up around eight o’clock. Too many thefts and lack of volunteers forced the diocese to forego perpetual adoration years ago.

I drive the car around to the back, where a stretch of property makes up prime real estate in this city. Built in the twenties, the church is one of few places downtown that still uses a septic system. Due to lack of funds, mostly. The lid still stands partially exposed, from when it was pumped just a week before.

It’s quiet this time of night. The property butts up to Vista Hermosa Park, so the surrounding trees offer a small bit of cover, as I drag Chuck’s body from the trunk of my car and drop him beside the mound of dirt that marks the access lid to the septic tank.

Last time I disposed of a body, I was twenty-two years old, and I swore I’d never do it again. Guess I didn’t expect to run into a scumbag pedophile back then.

From the skinny shed beside the church, I nab one of the shovels and slam it into the fresh dirt. The excavation takes about two minutes before the lid is fully exposed, and I’ve hardly broken a sweat.

A heavy square of concrete is the only barrier to the awful stench beneath, even after having been pumped, so I prepare myself by drawing in a few deep breaths. At the count of three, I lift it up from the dark, square opening that’s about thirty inches wide. Glancing around to make sure no one sees me, I drag his limp body across the yard, and after rummaging through his pockets for any identification and finding none, I push him into the darkness, watching him disappear down the hole with a thunk. On the verge of gagging, I replace the lid, closing out both the smell and Chuck’s dead body, then bury it just as it was before. It’s risky disposing him on church grounds, but it’s probably the least likely place anyone will go looking for the guy.

Standing over the burial site, I wait for the guilt and agony of remorse to settle over me. Regret for having committed a mortal sin, an offense against God. Thomas Aquinas might consider this the Principal of Double Effect—by killing the man who attacked me, I’ve prevented the death of a child. Assuming I had no intentions of killing him in the first place, and I know that’s not true. From the very night he entered the confessional, detailing the death of an innocent child, I knew I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t ignore my instincts as a father, not only to my own slain child, but also to the congregation who looks to me for strength and protection. And the truth is, vengeance has always been part of my blood. It was there when my father forced me to collect his debts with violence, and it resurfaced again when police failed to produce a single lead in the murder of my wife and daughter. No amount of theology can banish what has been pumping through my veins since the day I was brought into the world.

So, the truth is, I don’t regret killing this monster, at all.

8

DAMON

From my office window, I stare down at the mound of dirt, beneath which Chuck’s body has likely already begun the stages of decomposition. In a few years, the septic sludge will break down his skin and major organs, until he’s every bit a part of his surroundings. I wish I could say that’s all based on theory, but watching a body get dumped in the septic system is nothing new for me. Not in the last decade, of course, but recent enough to remember that I felt more remorse than I do now.

A knock interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see Ivy peeking through a crack in the door.

“Father Damon? The secretary told me it was okay to come in.” Red-painted lips draw my attention to her face, to how beautiful she looks today. Or maybe she always looks this way, and I’ve just been too preoccupied on other occasions I’ve run into her.

“Of course, please.” I gesture toward a chair set in front of my desk, where she takes a seat. “Have you decided to give the medieval box another go?”

“Eventually, yes.” Her coy and sheepish smile tells me she’s still embarrassed from the last time. “But I’m not here for me. It’s about my grandmother. She’s very sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I can see this troubles you very much. How can I help?”

“I don’t think she has much time. And she’s asked for one last reconciliation.”

“Is she at home, or still in hospital?”

“Hospital.”

“I’m available this afternoon, if that works.”

“I’m actually going to hold off a bit, if that’s okay. I feel like once she’s confessed, she’ll just give up. Mostly, I wanted to offer a heads-up.”

“I trust you’ll keep me posted, and I’ll let our secretary, Mrs. Castle, know, as well.”

“Father …”

“Please, call me Damon.”

“Damon.” My name rolls off her tongue like silk brushing across the back of my neck, and I have to stifle a shiver at the sound of it. “There’s something else …” From the night she first came for confession, I guessed something else troubled her. Fidgeting with her purse, she casts her gaze from mine, and in the next breath, she shoots out of her chair and crosses the room to the window where I stood just moments before. “Can I ask you something? Somewhat off-topic.”

“Sure.”

With her back to me, I can see her lithe form down to slender legs, where her calf muscles bulge over black high heels. Swallowing a gulp, I force my eyes away from her, silently chiding myself for looking at her that way.

“If someone … hurts you … or threatens to hurt someone you love … is it a mortal sin to defend yourself?”

My blood freezes while my pulse quickens to a dizzying pace. I study her to see if she happens to be looking down at the mound of dirt below as she asks this question.

Don’t be so paranoid!

“Are you speaking from experience?” Arms resting on the chair, my hands ball to tight fists to calm the sudden racing of my heart.

“If I am, does that mean you’ll tell me to go to the authorities? Because I have. And they’ve done nothing about it.” As troubling as her response is, I’m glad to know it has nothing to do with the body I dumped the night before.

As my muscles ease off, I sink back into my chair and clear my throat. The challenge of answering judiciously, without feeling like a complete hypocrite, weighs heavy on my conscience, and I take a moment to consider her question. “Self-defense, itself, is not a mortal sin, so long as your intent isn’t to viciously murder someone without reason.”

“How so?”

The discussion takes me back to seminary, discussing the difference between permissible and impermissible acts, and how each essentially boiled down to the intended outcome.

“If someone threatens to hurt someone you love, and you proactively attempt to do that someone harm in retaliation, you are committing sin by virtue of seeking them out for that purpose alone. In contrast, if you witness someone being harmed, and you attempt to intervene and are attacked in the process, defending yourself and the other person is not considered a mortal sin.” I’ve practically confessed my own crime to her, as she stands staring down at the concealed evidence.

“So, I have to sit and wait for that person to come after me before I can do something about it?”

“You’ve reported this individual to the authorities?”

“So many times it’s a joke. He has connections. Friends who can make things disappear.”

In a flash of memory, I recall the day I ran into her at the hospital, and the faint bruise on her cheek that caught my attention. “Who is this person to you, if I may ask?”

“Someone who refuses to remove himself from my life. I won’t say we dated, because I don’t think we ever did. Not even when I found him a small bit charming.”

“You’ve tried a restraining order?”

“What good is it, if no one bothers to enforce it?”

“And you can’t relocate.” I don’t bother to say the reason I suspect she can’t and risk sounding cold.

“I’m not leaving my grandmother alone in the same city with him. She’s too sick to move.”

“Seems you’ve exhausted all of my usual suggestions for these kinds of things. I know of one woman who sought refuge in a shelter for abused women.”

“I have a nice apartment. My own personal sanctuary. It’s unfair that I should have to leave and hide in a shelter with a bunch of other women and children.” Huffing, she turns to face me. “I consider myself a strong person, but he’s exhausted me. To the point I feel like my only option is provoking him, so he’ll come at me, and I can call it all self-defense. But you’re telling me my very soul is doomed if I do. If I provoke him that way.”

“Have you tried talking—”

“To a therapist? A police officer? A lawyer?” Arms crossed, she leans against the window frame, looking painfully beautiful in all of her despair. “They’ve all given me the same options.” Her hand swipes at her face, and it’s then I notice she’s in tears.

Leaning forward, I reach out for her hand, offering comfort, and I’m taken aback at the softness and warmth of her skin.

Turning toward me, she wipes her tear-filled eyes again before she dips her gaze toward where her hand is swallowed by mine.

Usually, I make it a point to refrain from unnecessary touch, unless for comfort, or when greeting my parishioners after mass. But I find myself studying the feel of her more than trying to ease her thoughts. For the briefest second, I imagine those soft hands across my back, nails digging into my skin, and at the shock of such a vivid fantasy, I release her.

Clearing my throat, I straighten in my chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She tips her head, guiding my eyes to hers, and steps closer, uncomfortably close, setting off alarms inside my head. Kneeling before me, she takes my hand and, without diverting her gaze, presses those shiny red lips to my knuckles. “Thank you, Father.”

I don’t even realize my other hand is balled to a fist, until I catch her quick glance to the side, undoubtedly picking up on my distress, and her lips stretch to a smile. Every muscle in my body is seizing up, blood rushing to places it shouldn’t, and I force myself to think of something else. The body I dumped the night before in a cesspool, the paperwork I’ve left to do this afternoon, the uneventful baseball game I watched two nights ago. None of it can draw me from the long subdued effects taking over me. The scent of hers, distinctly feminine and sweet, wrapping itself around my senses, like a noose to my better judgment. Swallowing a harsh gulp, I kick the chair back a bit to add some space between us, to clarify that, whatever this is, whether in my head, or really playing out before me, it isn’t going to happen, either way.

Her fingers curl around my thigh as she uses my leg to push to a stand, and once again, I’m yanked into unbidden fantasies of her straddled across me, her skirt draped over us, concealing us, as she rides me right here in this chair. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you for listening.” Her downward glance and the smile that follows confirm what I already know—my whole body is hard, my muscles creating a tight fist around my lungs in a punishing grip that steals my breath.

As a fairly young priest, it’s not uncommon for me to get the occasional wayward glance, or inappropriate comment from a woman, but it is rare that my body reacts so out of control as a result. Nothing she’s said warrants my sudden inability to reel myself in, but that’s the beauty of women like Ivy. They have a way about them that makes a man, or priest, for that matter, ponder what those pull-worthy locks of hair would look like plastered to her sweat-drenched face.

Still rigid, I watch her saunter out of my office, and only at the click of the door do I dare look down to find the source of her amusement. My slacks are tented enough to shelter a village.

It’s been a long time since a woman toyed with my restraint that way, and a harrowing thought snakes its way down my spine, inciting a shiver, as a frightening reality settles over me.

Ivy is poison in my blood.

9

IVY

Exhaling a breath, I rest my head against the door to Father Damon’s office and shake off my nerves, before I head out of the church toward the rail stop. I’m not usually one to dress for attention, so the eyes on me, as I shuffle down the sidewalk toward the stop, make me want to crawl in a hole and hide, but it was necessary. A woman doesn’t try to seduce a man without a small bit of effort, and she sure as hell doesn’t try to seduce a priest without three-inch stilettos and a sleek A-line skirt. Pretty sure it was one of Mamie’s live-in prostitutes who taught me that.

I’m not exactly what I’d call a temptress by nature, either, seeing as the only sex I’ve had in the last eight years makes me want to don a habit and join a convent. But, as I’ve come to learn, sex can be a powerful and manipulative tool, if properly wielded. And as awkward as the exchange with Father Damon may have been moments ago, it proved one thing—even a holy man can be led astray.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t bother with someone so stern and aloof as Father Damon, but opportunity can be a surprising little bitch who shows up when you least expect it. When I came to the church last night, looking for some small measure of comfort after a stomach-turning encounter with Calvin, only to find it wasn’t the variety of churches that stayed open all night, I might’ve ended up paying a visit to Suicide Bridge. After all, I still haven’t confessed my sin, so why not make it a double-whammy damnation sandwich? Turns out, I didn’t have to damn my soul at all, because I found something much more troubling. Morbid.

Something that might have any other girl staying as far away from Father Damon as possible.

Unfortunately for him, I’m not any other girl.

History has proven, time and time again, that I’m an opportunist—admittedly, not always wise in my pursuits. And when I saw Father Damon drive across the lawn toward the back of the church, as if he’d gone out on a drunken binge, curiosity took over.

From my hiding place in the nearby bushes, I watched with interest as he dumped a body into a hole in the ground. Took a minute for me to realize it was the septic tank. Really, that alone should’ve disgusted me—and it did, for a brief second, until I imagined Calvin’s body sliding into that hole, never to be seen, or heard from, again. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so disgusting. Suddenly, it seemed like a solution to my problem.

So I spent the entire night plotting how I might rope Father Damon into my plan, when the answer struck me. I’m a witness to his crime. That alone makes me worth his time. Worth his attention. Worth striking some sort of deal with, for my silence.

One doesn’t just come out and blackmail a man like that, though. I know from experience of dealing with a criminal. They require manipulation, seduction, trust. Otherwise, I could very well end up buried in shit alongside whomever he stuffed into that hole. No, one has to preen them along, make the criminal see them as more than just a roadblock to their freedom. It’s not my character to cry in front of people, but I wanted him to comfort me, to feel a small bit of compassion. To see me as a person deserving of his trust.

When I was thirteen, I remember lying sprawled out on the bed, watching one of the women who stayed with us, a prostitute named Luciana, as she sat half-naked in front of the mirror, telling me that a woman’s body holds more power than any weapon a man could ever dream up. That, if properly manipulated, it could make kingdoms and empires crumble. At the time, I wondered if she’d bothered to take her medication she often left out in the bathroom sink, but I remembered those words, when I made the deal with Calvin to sleep with him once a week, in exchange for him not showing up at my work, or doorstep.

And it worked, up until a few nights ago, when the asshole let his buddies annihilate my apartment.

Ugh. Calvin would lose his shit, if he knew where I’ve been this morning, what I’ve done. But if I don’t do something, I’m stuck in this nightmare forever, and I’d rather suffer the deadly consequences of changing my situation, than cower from him for the rest of my life.

The rail comes to a stop, and I stand to exit, keeping my head low to avoid the unwanted stares, until my heels click against the concrete. I swap them for the flats in my purse and keep on toward the hospital, lighting up a cigarette along the way.

My shift doesn’t begin for another couple of hours, but I thought I’d pop in on Mamie and read her a bit of the new romance novel I picked up. In life, she was never a fan of the damsel in distress characters, and I often wonder what she’d think of me in my situation. According to her, my grandfather, the only man she ever married, physically abused her for years, until one day she decided she’d had enough. She up and left him, taking my father with her, and together, they bounced around a lot, living on the streets and in shelters. Until my grandfather finally died and willed her the house and a small bit of property—an act she always said was more forgetful than charitable, as he apparently didn’t think to amend his will after she left him. That was when she opened the doors to other battered women, prostitutes mostly, and eventually started a sort of halfway house.

Pausing at the hospital’s entrance, I put out my cigarette and take a seat on the bench there, stealing a moment to massage my aching feet. Thankfully, I won’t have to take the rail after work. Most nights, I get a ride home from my coworker, Clara. In exchange, I give her gas money and the occasional batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies, which she seems to appreciate more than the cash.

In the brief moment of calm, I think of Father Damon. I dare say the events from last night have given me a whole new perspective on the man, who I pegged as somewhat dark and broody, but virtuous to a fault. I had no idea a man like that, a priest, could be dangerous and deadly, as well. Like a fictional fantasy come to life. The reserved and forbidden pastor who isn’t as aloof and untouchable as he likes everyone to think.

A week ago, I thought him incapable of mounting a hard-on, but after today, mounting and hard seem fitting for the man, if the bulge in his slacks was anything to go by. A man like that, pent up with so much tension and restraint? He’d probably go hours on adrenaline alone, and revel in the sweat and toil.

Nothing like Calvin, who gets himself off and can’t stand the feel of someone else’s sweat on his skin, or the smell of sex on him afterward. He’s the kind of germaphobe who’d probably wear a mouth guard, if he ever decided to do something selfless for once, like go down on a woman, a thought that crimps my lips.

With a frown, I will away the thoughts of Calvin and make my way into the hospital, and up to my grandmother’s floor. She’s supposed to be transferred back to the nursing home today, or tomorrow, so I want to make sure everything is set for her discharge.

As I round the divider curtain in her room, I come to a screeching halt, my heartbeat pounding up into my throat.

Sitting on a chair beside her as she sleeps is Calvin. He smiles back at me, pressing a finger to his lips to quiet me.

Gaze shooting to Mamie again, I study her chest to be sure she’s breathing, and scan the scene for any sign that he’s hurt her. “What are you doing here?” I whisper through clenched teeth, eyes still trailing over her frail form poking through the thin covers.

Leaving his chair, he comes to a stop beside me, the proximity of him setting my teeth on edge. “Let’s talk outside, love.”

Muscles knotted in tension, I step outside the room with him, and he crowds me against the wall, bracing his hand beside my head.

“Where’ve you been all day?” With eyes a soulless shade of blue, he stares down at me, drilling right through me, as if daring me to lie.

“Church.”

His eye flinches, the way it does when he’s holding back the urge to slap me across the face. It’s a look I’ve seen more times than I care to admit. “Church,” he echoes. “Since when do whores attend church?”

A quick sweep of my surroundings shows the busy nursing staff, buzzing around the nursing station and in and out of rooms, none of them paying us any attention.

“My grandmother wants to reconcile her sins. I met with the priest.”

“Young? Old?” The stale stench of chewing tobacco on his breath makes me want to hold my own.

“What does it matter?”

Shoulders bunched, he curls his fist in my periphery, a warning to me. “Is the fucking priest young, or old?”

“Old,” I lie. “Probably in his sixties.”

Sneering, he relaxes his muscles and tips his head. “Good. So, you wouldn’t be inclined to fuck him, then?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you. Not here. Not now.”

Running his finger down my cheek sends a curl of disgust through my gut. “I left a gift at your doorstep for Saturday. I want you to wear it for me.”

“You … showed up at my apartment again?”

“Just to drop it off, baby.” Hands falling to the nape of my neck, he makes it look like we’re some loving couple having an intimate moment, instead of a psychopath and his beloved little toy. “Don’t worry, I didn’t go in.”

“And why are you here?”

“To remind you of how easily I can get to you, if I need to.” Lips to my ear, he lowers his voice to a whisper. “How easily I could have smothered her with a pillow just now, while she peacefully slept. Don’t fuck with me, Ivy. I fuck with you, that’s how this works.” Squeezing my nape, he licks the shell of my ear, casting another ripple of sickness down to my stomach. “And I truly enjoy fucking with you.”

Body trembling on a rush of adrenaline, I trail my gaze over the bustling bodies all around me, who have no idea this man, this bastardly piece of shit, just threatened me and my grandmother. Unfortunately, if any of them bother to intervene, they’ll probably regret it, and so will I.

“I can’t wait to see you Saturday, love. I’m hard just thinking about it.” He pushes off the wall and strides down the hall, leaving me rattled and ready to throw up.

Taking a minute to close my eyes, I breathe deeply and remember that, as dangerous as Calvin may be, I witnessed a man, perhaps equally as dangerous, discard a body like he was tossing out the morning trash. A reminder that even apex predators can become prey.

Therefore, I’m determined to make Father Damon want me more than anything. More than sleep. More than his impenetrable morals, or tightly guarded virtue.

More than the anger that will inevitably consume him when he finds out what I have to confess.

10

DAMON

I rub the towel over my wet hair, my muscles still burning from my hour-long workout in the rec room. Not even the cold shower that followed has soothed the massive case of blue balls I’ve suffered for most of the day, since my meeting with Ivy. Thank goodness for the alb, or the entire congregation would’ve gotten a front row view of sin in the flesh during evening mass.

In all my years of priesthood, tonight’s mass was probably the most troubling for me. Not only did I carry the oppressive weight of knowing I’ve buried a man in the back of the very church where I preach about mortal sin, but I also managed to work up the most painful hard-on I’ve had in years.

It felt like the days before Isabella, when Val and I popped ecstasy and locked ourselves in the bedroom all day. Only times we emerged were to eat and use the bathroom. Much as I try to suppress those memories, I miss the smell of sex and the awe of seeing her naked body rocking against mine.

Only this afternoon, it wasn’t Val’s face that came to mind, but Ivy’s.

Another twinge of pain strikes my balls, and I grip myself through my boxers, desperate to relieve the ache blossoming there all over again.

I need distraction.

Turning on the TV gives me pause, as the news report shows a familiar apartment building—the one where I dropped Camila off a couple nights ago. One of the neighbors speaks to the camera, calling the girl’s inexplicable return a miracle. In the next scene, her mother sits on a couch, clutching a bathed and dressed Camila, saying, “Whoever returned her back home, I just want to say, thank you. I wish you’d come forward, but I thank you for bringing her home to me.”

Seeing the little girl with even a slight smile on her face makes me feel like it’s all worth it. The punishing torment of having violated my commitment to sanctity somehow seems less intense on seeing her reunited with her mother.

I wait to see if there’s anything about the man I killed. Not that I expect anything so soon. He hasn’t technically been missing any more than forty-eight hours, but anyone who might try to reach him wouldn’t know that. My guess would be a neighbor, investigating the barks. I’ll have to go back in a couple days to check on the dogs, make sure someone’s fed them.

Killing a person isn’t supposed to feel like doing the world a favor, and yet, that’s exactly what I feel. As if a weight has been lifted from the world. A darkness favoring the young and innocent, extinguished beneath the heavy concrete lid that’ll hide the stench and decay of what’s left of him in this world.

Hairs on the back of my neck bristle with the cold breath of a memory brushing across it. I look back to the closet, where the box sits on the top shelf. I’ve refused to look inside it for years, but perhaps the unexpected attraction I experienced today, along with my act of retribution, means I’ve begun to heal and move on.

As I make my way into the closet, my stomach churns a reminder that everything in that box represents a small piece of my pain, and pulling it apart, going through all those memories, will be no different than cracking open my ribs and tearing away at my heart.

But ten years is long enough to carry such an unrelenting ache. Instead of seeing their lifeless faces over and over inside my mind, I need to hear the laughter, and remember what it feels like to love something more than oneself. In the wake of having rescued a young girl from unfathomable horrors, I need to remember why. Why, even at the risk of damning my own soul, it was important to pull her out of that cage and return her to her mother.

Only Isabella can possibly make me remember.

Hands trembling, I slide the box off the shelf, careful not to drop anything. I don’t even bother to look inside until I’m out of the closet and have set the box on the floor of my bedroom. Kicking back a long swig of beer is a weak attempt to settle my nerves, and I wipe my arm across my mouth. This is a part of my life I keep locked away from everyone. My congregation. Father Ruiz. Bishop McDonnell. After the murders, I changed my name, and essentially killed off my old life by completely disappearing. Never looked back, and as far as I know, nobody’s bothered to come looking for me. Not even my own father.

As if everyone’s forgotten the tragedy that continues to thrive inside of me like a cancer.

Philippe jumps into my lap, settling himself across my folded legs, as if he knows I need comforting for this. With a solemn smile, I scratch behind his ear and sigh. “Bet you miss her petting you behind your ears, don’t you, buddy?”

Finally, I lean over Philippe and peer inside the box, at a teddy bear sitting atop a stack of pictures and papers, and whatever else is beneath. At the first sting of tears, I slam the lid of the box, closing out the quickly surfacing memory of my daughter lying in bed with her teddy bear. My head battles the image, and sirens blare a warning inside of me to put the box back on the shelf, but I won’t. I can’t shelve their memories forever, so I open it again and allow myself to get swept up in the hurricane of pain.

“Daddy? Do you think God is mad at me?” Isabella clutches her teddy bear, while I tuck her into bed.

“Why would he be mad at you, baby?”

“Because He gave me cancer.”

It’s a struggle to hold back the tears, but I do it for her sake, because I don’t want a single shred of doubt to taint my words. “I think he gave you cancer because he knew you were strong enough to beat it. And you did.”

“What if it comes back? What if I don’t beat it next time? Does that mean God hates me?”

“No, sweetheart.”

I don’t tell her its because God hates me. For all the wrongs I’ve committed. For all the people I’ve hurt. This is my penance, not hers.

Through the distorted view of tears, I set the bear beside the box and reach for a book from beneath. The Little Prince. The bookmark inside carries a quote, perhaps one of my favorites: “The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart.”

Tears slip down my cheeks, my heart so full of anguish, it feels as if might burst through my chest, and I set the book aside for a stack of pictures: Val squeezing Isabella while standing in front of the ocean; the three of us at Disneyland when Bella was only three years old, her little Minnie Mouse ears making me smile, in spite of the blur of new tears. I wipe them with the heel of my palm and flip to the next picture, of Isabella sitting on the kitchen floor with her mother’s favorite tube of lipstick painted all over face and body, as well as her doll’s. A burst of laughter breaks free at the memory, how much Val wanted to be angry with her, but couldn’t stop giggling.

Against the inner wall of the box is the rosary I gave to Isabella in the hospital, springing forth the memory of showing her how to make the sign of the cross and explaining how each bead represented a different prayer. Everyday she spent at the hospital, the two of us prayed Apostles Creed, Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, all the prayers my own mother insisted I learn when I was a kid, back when I found it to be nothing more than a chore, a means to appease a woman whose faith outweighed her own unhappiness. But with my little girl lying sick on a bed, with tubes sticking out of her and an unnatural paleness to her face, suddenly it meant more to me than it ever had before. Even if I never believed in prayer before then, I swore I’d reaffirm my faith if it meant keeping my Bella a little longer. And when the hospital finally discharged her home, Isabella made a point to pray every day after, to keep from having to go back.

It wasn’t until after the funeral that I denounced God, going so far as to try to cut the cross tattoo from my own skin, one night after too much whiskey. I ended up with stitches and round the clock suicide watch for my efforts. Wasn’t long after that, I stumbled into church, screaming profanities at the altar, my vitriol echoing through a mostly empty nave. I expected to be kicked out of the church, or taken into custody by police. Instead, Father Thomas Cannes sat beside me, wordlessly listening as I cursed the heavens, until I finally broke down.

We talked for an hour, maybe longer, in my drunken tirade about God and faith, and in spite of my refusal, he said a prayer for me. Not that I’d one day find my faith again, or to pardon my blasphemy. He prayed that my suffering would end. That I would find some purpose in it and come to know peace again. It took a long time for his words to penetrate the steel that guarded my heart. Even today, I can’t say that my suffering ever truly came to an end, but I did find purpose in it.

I lift Val’s old cellphone out of the box, and something falls from it onto the carpeting. I turn the stiff, white card over to find a name: Richard Rosenberg of Goldman and Rosenberg Law Firm. I don’t recognize the name, or the firm, but as I flip the phone over, it appears the card might’ve been tucked inside the case. On the backside, written in her handwriting, is The Palms Hotel, room number one thirty-three. Curiosity swirls inside my head, at what reason Val would meet with a lawyer. At a hotel, no less. Bankruptcy? The business wasn’t exactly thriving, but we weren’t on the verge of losing our home, or anything. She knew that better than anyone, having worked as my bookkeeper. That's how we met, after all, was through my father, when he hired her to keep his financial dealings in order, which were far more convoluted than our own. Divorce? She never seemed unhappy. In fact, she spoke frequently about trying for a second baby. Infidelity? Having been cheated on herself, she’d always expressed a sincere hatred for that kind of betrayal.

I plug the phone into a charger, hoping I’ll maybe find something on it that might shed some light on the lawyer. Maybe a phone conversation, or an undeleted message. With the phone charging on the nightstand, I continue rummaging through the box.

There’s a father’s day card, written in crayon, that says “Best Daddy In The Whole Wide Wide World”, and a picture Isabella drew to go with it, of our family and the kitten she asked Santa for that year.

Scratching Philippe again, I smile down at the drawing. “Remember she used to call you her baby brother?”

There’s a picture of all three of us on her last day of chemo, and by the time I reach the bottom of the box, the pain is bearable—there, as it always will be, but not as crushing as I imagined. With as much sadness as these relics bring me, I feel light, too. Lost in the memories of those days. I feel the sun on my face, the happiness in my heart, the gratitude for the small amount of time God gave me with these two amazing creatures.

I shove the box back onto the shelf and slide beneath the covers of my bed. Staring at the ceiling, my thoughts drift to Ivy’s visit earlier in the day, and I cringe at the thought of not offering more help for her situation. At the very least, I could’ve grabbed one of the many pamphlets we have on domestic abuse, though it seems that might’ve been a slap in her face, after all the resources she’s already exhausted. Who is this guy who has so many connections with the authorities? Part of the mafia? A cartel?

Maybe she mentioned his association with them, but I was too caught up in staring at her body, like some kind of predator sizing up its next meal.

I could’ve offered her a place here at the church, maybe even one of the extra rooms in the rectory, as sanctuary from her situation. Of course, she’d have to sleep in the upper level, far away from me, because the mere scent of the woman seems to put me into a chase. I don’t even want to think about her occupying the next room, so I screw my eyes shut and focus on the benign topics I wanted to address in an email to Bishop McDonnell tomorrow, and that alone sends me into the blackness.

11

DAMON

“Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”

There’s something hypocritical about standing in front of the congregation, saying those words. Even if I prepared the homily well before this morning’s mass, before I slaughtered another human being without mercy, I can’t help but feel like a fraud, preaching to them about righteousness, when I failed to embody it myself.

“For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your Heavenly Father will also forgive you.”

I originally wrote it in response to the upheaval over a homeless man, who was beaten to within an inch of his life for stealing a woman’s designer purse from where she’d left it by a fountain during her lunchbreak. Turns out, he stole the money to buy food for his pack of stray dogs, but when a group of Good Samaritans tracked him down, they didn’t exactly find his act to be one of selflessness, and took it upon themselves to punish him before returning the purse.

The accompanying homily discussed the virtues of seeing beyond a man’s sin, of understanding his tribulations before casting judgment. Had I done the same, I might’ve taken into account that Chuck was abused himself as a young boy, beaten for his curiosities that might’ve been curbed with care and guidance. But I can never forgive what he did to those young girls, so if that makes me a merciless bastard, so be it.

“The Gospel of Matthew tells us not to judge, lest we’ll be judged,” I keep on. “Seems almost cliché in this day and age, but incidents like these prove we’ve not moved past the need to castigate that which we don’t understand. I’m not telling you that anyone has the right to steal from another, no matter what his intentions may be. It was wrong of him to take from her, and he should have been held accountable by the proper authorities. But this man now lies in a hospital bed, with his face mangled in what some are calling an act of justice. Righteousness.” I shake my head, gripping tight to the edges of the lectern, as I recalled Chuck’s limp body falling into the hole in the ground. “There is nothing righteous, or pious, in the deliberate wrath against one who sins. Let’s not forget that Jesus did not come for the righteous, he came for the sinners. Because no one is truly righteous. We all sin.” I look out over the congregation, who sit quietly, staring up at me as if I have any right to talk of righteousness and sin. “All of us.”

Afterward, I stand in the narthex, greeting everyone as they exit the church, and when Ivy walks up to me, I take her hand and lean forward. “Please come to my office after,” I whisper.

Without looking up at me, she smiles and continues on, exiting with the others. When everyone has gone, she strolls back in and follows me, past the Sanctuary, to the offices toward the back of the church. We pass the Sacristy on the right, and I quickly remove my vestments while she waits in the hallway. Once finished, we continue on, and as she enters the office, I signal for her to close the door. Taking a seat at my desk, I wait for her to sit, as well, noting the way she bows her head, as though she’s been called into the principal’s office.

“I want to apologize for yesterday. Twice now, my preoccupations have gotten in the way of being attentive to your needs.”

“I found your homily to be … interesting, Father. Is that what you believe? That those who mean us harm should be given mercy?”

“You have an exceptional situation, Ivy.”

“How so?”

Ignoring her question, I huff and sit back in my chair, gripping the arms of it. “I called you in here to offer sanctuary to you, should you need it. We can set up a cot here at the church, or I can ask Father Ruiz about allowing you to stay in the rectory.”

Something flickers in her eyes with far too much intrigue. “In the rectory? Is that where you sleep?”

“You would sleep in the upper level. There are a number of extra rooms there.”

Clearing her throat, she shifts in the chair and sets her hands in her lap. “Is that typical? I mean, do priests invite parishioners to stay there?”

“No. Not as a general rule, but as I said before, you’re something of an exception.”

“How so?”

Entwining my fingers, I search her face for any sign that she might be playing me right now, with all these seemingly innocent questions. “You have few options, according to what you told me the other day. I’m merely trying to offer a safe place for you to go, should you feel you’re in danger at any point.”

“And you would be there to comfort me.”

Comfort isn’t exactly the word that comes to mind, as the visuals of what having her stay at the rectory might mean for me toy with my thoughts. “Ivy, I’m not sure what, exactly, you’re asking of me, but I can assure you, the rectory is nothing but a safe place to sleep should you feel helpless.”

Sinking back into her chair, she crosses her legs, and I have to fight the urge to stare there. She knows this, evident in the amused look on her grotesquely beautiful face. “Don’t worry, Father. I’m not going to spend the night at the rectory.”

“Very well. I just wanted to offer. As a solution.”

A buzzing sound interrupts our meeting, and when she looks down, her brows furrow, face morphing from the wily smile of a moment ago to something more sobering.

“Is everything okay?”

Fingers threaded through her hair, the look of worry intensifies. “I have to go.”

“Ivy, I don’t want you to walk out of here feeling alone. Please tell me you know you have options.”

“Look, if you think I’m going to dive off Suicide Bridge, or something, I’m not. I just need to hurry before the next rail arrives.”

“The train? I’ll give you a ride home.”

After a beat of silence, as though she’s considering my offer, she shakes her head. “It’s okay, Father. I know you’re busy, and I’ve already taken up quite a bit of your time.”

“It’s no trouble. Besides, I could use a drive. Clear my mind.”

The smile returns, stretching those ruby red lips enough to reveal her white teeth beneath. “Well, in that case, I could use a break from public transportation.”

Nabbing my keys, I stuff my cellphone into my slacks, and I follow her out of the office and back through the church. Once outside, I open the car door for her, waiting for her to sit down into the seat, and close it.

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” she says, as I plop into the driver’s seat.

“Perhaps you’ve opted for too many frogs over princes.”

With a sigh, she rests her head against the window. “Perhaps you’re right. But it seems like all the princes are either taken, or celibate for life.”

Shaking my head, I fire up the vehicle and pull out onto the main road. “I could’ve sworn you were shy.”

“Don’t worry, Father. I’m all talk. Mostly.” She points toward the windshield. “Stay on this road for a couple miles.”

“So, tell me about this boyfriend of yours.”

“I never said he was my boyfriend. He’s a nuisance.”

“Is there a difference?”

Chuckling, she shakes her head, and I catch a glimpse of her staring back at me. “My, aren’t we chippy today?”

“Tell me about your nuisance.”

“What do you want to know? I met him when I was young and naïve. And broke. He’s been like a raging case of hemorrhoids ever since.”

I frown. “What does he want from you?”

“To own me. What else?” She looks toward the window, her gaze cast from me. “I know what you’re thinking. Of all the women in Los Angeles, what’s so special about you, Ivy?”

I shoot her another glance. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.”

“Well, I think it everyday. Only, I don’t ponder what makes me special. I ponder what I did in a past life.”

“You’re talking to a man who doesn’t believe in reincarnation. So my guess is, it’s something you did in this life.”

“Damn,” she says, shaking her head again. “You’re right full of it, Father Damon.”

“Seriously, though. If I were you, I’d keep a journal, or something. Document as much as you can. Just in case.”

“In case … he kills me?”

Brow cocked in earnestness, I tip my head in a bid to guide her eyes to mine, to be sure she can see the sincerity on my face. “Ivy, I would hope that if you feel threatened to that extent, you’d take me up on my offer. You’d be safe at the church.”

“Right.”

“I’m being serious.”

“No, turn right. My apartment is on the left.”

I slow the car to a stop in front of a retro-looking building that somehow seems fitting for her. Seems to match her vintage style.

Leaning forward, she stares upward as though looking for something.

“Would you like me to walk you up?”

Shaking her head, she leans back into the seat. “You don’t have to do that.”

For someone so content to ask for help, she’s certainly hesitant to accept it when offered. “Would it make you feel more comfortable? Safer?”

“He’d freak out if he saw me with another man.”

“You don’t think the white collar speaks for itself?”

“Not for Calvin. I’m certain he’d think you drove me home for sex.”

The comment sends a shiver down my spine, and I have to clear my throat to keep from croaking the next words. “Well, we know that’s not true, so I don’t particularly care what he thinks.”

“In that case, I’d appreciate it. If you walked me up.”

Door held open again, I help her out of the car. My hand brushes the small of her back as we make our way inside, a mindless gesture, the way I used to every time Val and I would enter a room. Except, she isn’t Val, and I’ve no right to touch her with any level of possession, so I curl my fingers into a fist, taking a step back. Strange how natural it feels with Ivy, though, falling back on the habits I dropped when I became a priest. As I follow her up the stairs, I try not to stare at the back of her calves, the black line that runs the length of her panty hose and disappears into those heels. Heels that would drive me insane, digging into my back.

This all feels too familiar to me, and my bastardly body responds with the anticipation of a man who’ll be rewarded for the climb.

As we round the staircase to the second floor, the sound of shouts and arguing bleeds through one of the passing doors.

“Don’t mind them,” Ivy says over her shoulder. “They fight like that all the time. It’s like a pastime for them, or something.”

“Something to look forward to everyday.”

“They probably do. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was some twisted kink they’re into.” At the next floor, she comes to a stop in front of a door, and I take note of the number: 1040. “This is me.” Purse slung over her shoulder, she lowers her gaze from mine. “Would you like to come in? I mean, just to make sure no one is inside.”

“Sure,” I answer cautiously.

Key slipped into its lock, she turns to a click, and the door opens on to a room that’s remarkably bright, with white walls and sheer curtains. The décor is unapologetically female and carries a mouthwatering scent, her scent, like vanilla and peaches. I follow after her, my eyes wandering the scenery, while she slips in and out of rooms.

“Looks like its all clear.”

Gaze trailing over the record player, I swing my attention back to her, and everything inside of me tells me to leave, because everything in this place is a temptation, including her. The way she stands in her skirt, one heeled foot kicked behind the other, her blouse unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage. It’s too much at once.

“Would you like a glass of wine? I mean, I’m assuming that priests … you know, with communion, and all … ”

“I shouldn’t.”

“I understand. You probably don’t drink much.” The disappointment in her eyes comes off like a slap of rejection, an unintended dismissal of her offer, and I feel bad for it.

“I’m more of a whiskey drinker. But wine is good. Wine is calm.”

The wily glint returns to her eyes as she lifts her gaze with a smile. “Calm? Am I to assume the chaste Father Damon has a wild side?”

“I wouldn’t call myself chaste.”

“No?”

Pausing to consider my next words carefully, I shake my head. Who’s this girl going to tell, after all? And does it matter, after all these years? “I was married before. Not many know that about me, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything.”

“Was it annulled, or something?” Screwing her eyes shut, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, don’t answer that.”

“No. She died. My wife and daughter.”

Frowning, she tips her head, that troubled look returning to her face. “Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Once she disappears through the French doors, into what I’ll assume is the kitchen, as I can make out a table and extravagant looking chandelier, I browse through her selection of records set beside a phonograph. Mostly French titles, from the looks of it—ones I can hardly pronounce, let alone recognize.

She returns carrying two wine glasses filled nearly to the rim. “Hope cabernet is good for you.”

I should refuse the proffered drink and leave right now, but I don’t.

“I’m sorry about your wife and child. That must be a very … painful topic for you. I won’t pry.”

“I appreciate that.” I kick back a sip of the wine, wishing I could polish it off. Taking a seat on the settee, I carefully set the glass down on a coaster atop a wooden coffee table. “So, tell me about French singers and Eiffel Towers.”

Smile painted on her face, as if it’s a topic that makes her happy, she takes a seat beside me, uncomfortably close, and I have to resist the urge to back up, so as not to make her feel it’s entirely unwanted closeness. It isn’t, but I shouldn’t be enjoying it as much. “My grandmother was born in Paris. I grew up listening to all her French music, speaking the language, and someday, when I manage to save up enough money, I plan to go there.”

“Your grandmother means a lot to you.”

“She’s the only person in my life who didn’t abandon me. My mother left right after I was born, and my father is probably passed out somewhere in Venice Beach, unless he already died of an overdose. Heroin addict.”

“That’s too bad. Heroin’s bad stuff. It must be quite lonely, at times.”

Sucking her bottom lip, she runs her finger around the rim of her glass, seemingly thoughtful for a moment. “It is. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do when Mamie’s gone. She’s all I have.” Lifting the glass to her lips, she takes a sip, and when she lowers it from her face, I catch the glisten of tears.

“Hey, its going to be all right, Ivy.” Thumbing away the fallen tear from her cheek, I take a moment to study the brilliant green of her eyes, rimmed in red. Absolutely stunning.

Before I can stop myself, I’ve leaned in close enough that I can feel her breath against my mouth, and when I slant my lips over hers, I can taste the wine there, the savory flavor that I suck from her skin. It’s only at her first escaped moan that I realize what I’ve done, the predatory way I’ve responded to her anxiety, and I pull away.

Hands gripping either side of my face, she stops my retreat and tugs me into her once more. Like a sinning thief, I steal a moment longer, curling my fingers into a fistful of her long hair. The anger pulses through me in waves. Why now? Why, when I’ve already committed so much sin, does she come along and tempt me this way? A sweet, poisonous apple that tastes like everything I want. Everything I need right now.

My senses kick in, and I give a gentle push to her chest, breaking the kiss. “Forgive me for this. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Kissing me? Do you have any idea how many times I wished for this?”

“It’s not right, Ivy. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this.” I push up from the couch, knocking the wine. With quick hands, I capture it before it falls, splashing only a small bit onto the back of my palm as I right the glass back onto the table.

“Here.” Still seated on the couch, she takes my hand , and drags her tongue over the trickling drops of wine, eyes on me all the while.

A shiver ripples down my spine, at the same time my dick lurches, as I watch her tongue trail across my skin. I draw my hand back, balling it into a fist at my side, and when she rises to a stand in front of me, all systems tell me to back away.

Two erect nipples peek through her sheer, cream-colored blouse, offering even more dimensions to the perfect globes just begging to be touched. The light sweep of her tongue adds a shine to her lips, urging me to suck them into my mouth, just like before. As I stare back at her, I’m not Father Damon, but a thirty-five-year-old man who’s denied himself pleasure for nearly a decade. Pleasure he thoroughly enjoyed up until this point.

“I have a confession, Father.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear it right now.” I skirt around her, making my way toward the door. “I’ll take your confession tomorrow. At the church.”

“I saw what you did.”

Hand on the knob, I pause. An ice cold sting moves through my blood, turning my muscles paralyzed. “What did you say?”

“The other night. I saw what you did.”

I muster the strength to turn around, and in spite of the proud incline of her chin, I can see she’s trembling. “What do you think you saw, Ivy?”

“You … you dumped a body. Into the septic tank.” Now she’s the one backing away.

Fuck.

The only thing worse than having committed the sin, is knowing she, of all people, witnessed it.

Inching toward her, I keep my gaze locked on hers in a silent threat that seems to work, because the moment her back hits the wall, she casts her gaze from mine. “Are you certain that’s what you saw?” It’s not me talking. Not Father Damon, but my father’s son. The ruthless bastard who made a point to clean up after his messes, or face his father’s wrath. I can damn near hear him laughing inside my head, telling me what an idiot I am for being so careless, so sloppy. I want to tell him to go to hell, but he’s right.

What have I done?

Gaze still cast from mine, her jaw hardens in a way that makes me want to bite down on it while I pin her to the wall. “I know what I saw. And I’m not afraid.”

“You look pretty afraid to me. I can feel you trembling.”

“It’s not fear.” Damn her when those green eyes meet mine, brimming with the kind of wicked desire that lets me know exactly who has the upper hand. “I want you to kill him. Discard him the same way you discarded that body. I need him out of my life, or it’ll be my body tossed into some reeking hole in the ground.”

“You’re asking me to kill a man for you.”

“Are you going to tell me you didn’t kill the man you dumped?”

“He kidnapped a child. Kept her in a cage. Hurt her. Raped her.”

“And because I’m not a child, I’m less deserving of your empathy? I’ve already told you, I have no other choice. This is my cage. And I can assure you, he’s hurt and raped me, too.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose fails to calm the sudden shit-storm swirling inside my head. “Ivy, contrary to what you might think, I’m a priest. Not a hitman.”

“Funny. You looked perfectly comfortable from where I watched. Who is it … the bishop I would need to contact in this matter?”

My eye twitches, and before I can stop myself, I grip her throat, pinning her to the wall behind her. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me, too? Father?”

“You’re quite the little serpent, aren’t you? Disguising yourself as innocent and naïve?”

“And you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, so how bout we both shed these skins and be real for a moment. You want my silence. I want my freedom. Surely, we can come to an agreement.”

“Is this why you invited me up here? To dig your fangs into me?”

“It’s not just me he’s hurt. He’s a murderer. He’s killed families. Just like yours.”

“You know this? You’ve seen him kill?”

“No. It’s just a feeling. You’d feel it, too, if you met him.”

“I’m not going to kill based on a bad feeling. They have websites for that. As for what you think you saw, I won’t be blackmailed into playing your little games.” I release my hand from her throat, remorseful that I lay them on her, at all. I’d call it reflexive, but I’ve never threatened a woman that way before—not even one who played me, which tells me Ivy has awakened some uncontrollable urges inside of me. All the more reason to stay as far away from her as possible. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the church.”

I turn to leave, but at the tight grip of my arm, I swing around, and perhaps the warning in my eyes is enough, because she lets me go.

“You think I’m just some weak woman out to rope you into my shit? I got into a bad situation with a very bad man, and I can’t get out.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and maybe the tears that follow are the first sincere show of emotion, but I wouldn’t know. “Nothing I’ve tried will remove this bastard from my life. So, you can bet your ass, I’ll take whatever bold steps I have to in order to get my life back. If that means asking a priest to kill for me, so be it.”

I don’t even let that sink in before exiting the apartment. And as I make my way down the staircase, I reach down to adjust the second massive erection she’s worked up in a matter of two days.

12

IVY

The mind is a terrible tormentor, sometimes, the way it can make a person relive something in punishing repetition. Nearly a week has passed since Father Damon heard my confession, and all I’ve thought about since is the look of betrayal in his eyes. Not a hint of fear in that dark broody gaze, but the hurt and shock damn near made me buckle. I didn’t want to hurt him. Every part of me wanted to apologize and assure him that I would never say a word to another soul. I wanted him to trust me and know that I would never deceive him by going to his superior.

But if I give him that assurance, I’ll be forced to entertain Calvin for as long as the asshole breathes, and that kills me more than having to relive the punishing look in Father Damon’s eyes.

I click send on the email addressed to Bishop McDonnell, carbon-copied to Father Damon.

Just a warning shot at this point.

In the email, I merely sing Father Damon’s praises, touting him as an incredible leader and spiritual guide to the community. Short and sweet, and packed with so much punch, my fingers are tingling. I decided to wait until just before I walk out the door for work, because any sooner would have had me sitting around all day, biting my nails, wondering if he’ll get a hankering to kill me, instead.

I need him to know I’m serious. Particularly after yesterday morning, when I entered Mamie’s room to find a bouquet of flowers Calvin sent her. The accompanying card read: Smothering you with love.

It’s one thing to threaten me, but the thought of Calvin going after my grandmother is more than I can take. It’s made me desperate, and perhaps a little psycho, but that’s what happens when you mess with someone I love. You get the psychotic bitch who’ll do whatever she has to do.

I type a separate email, this one only to Father Damon, and attach a selfie I took earlier—from my jawline to just above my bare breasts. No message, just the image. He’ll be angry, no doubt. Perhaps even uncomfortable and embarrassed. But I guarantee he’ll stare at the photo for far longer than it takes to simply delete it.

Tomorrow is my scheduled rendezvous with Calvin, and I can hardly stomach the thought of the ruthless prick’s hands on me. I haven’t eaten all day because of it.

Yet, if I opt not to go, he’ll show up at my work, the nursing home, or, worse, at my apartment again. I’ve already burned one set of sheets, and I can’t really afford to burn another. This place is the only sanctuary I have, and the moment he feels free reign here is the moment it truly becomes my cage.

Gathering up my bags, I close my computer, feeling ever the manipulative bitch as I head out the door for work. But it’s like I said before, I’ll be whatever I have to be to keep those I love safe.

Pushing a cart stacked with medical records through the aisle, as I stop to file one away in its proper sequence, a buzz at the door stiffens my muscles.

Few people tend to ignore the sign out front, but one in particular makes me nervous as all hell, and the last time I opened the door to him, I ended up selling my soul. A sickness twists in my gut as I abandon the cart, hoping if it’s Calvin, I can make him leave without much incident.

Breath held, I swing back the door to a much more handsome, but clearly pissed-off, face, and the air whooshes out of me like a deflating balloon.

“Father Damon? What are you doing here?” Okay, sure. I expected him to email me back. Maybe even show up at my apartment. Never in a million years did I guess he’d show up at my work.

“You know exactly why I’m here. How about we find a place to talk.”

“There’s an old office down the hall. We can talk in there.”

Perhaps the only safe place to talk about murdering someone. It was the old pathologists office before they moved the morgue to the other side of the basement—a transition I welcomed wholeheartedly—and no one tends to go down the hall for much of anything these days, believing that half of the corridor to be haunted.

As I push out through the door, he takes a step back, allowing me to pass, and follows after me down the hall like a storm cloud about to wreak havoc. Every muscle in my body is trembling, my chest closing around my lungs in a tight fist of excitement and fear. I brought this on myself, and he’s undoubtedly here to set me straight. Except, I don’t plan to fold so easily, as he’ll find out soon enough.

I enter the dark room, flipping on the light as he slips past, and the moment I turn around, all the argument escapes me, when he rolls his sleeves up, revealing a network of veins crawling up his meaty forearms.

“If you think showing up to my job is going to make me back down, you have gravely underestimated my tenacity.”

His cool demeanor is unnerving. Like a mafia guy just before he puts a bullet square in some poor sap’s skull. “You’re a smart girl, Ivy. Today’s move was well played.”

“Does this mean you accept my request?”

“No. No, this doesn’t mean that, at all. But while we’re on the topic, why don’t you tell me exactly what you had in mind?”

“What’s the point? If you’re not going to do it?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve thought that part through. I don’t think you realize what happens when you kill someone. Even if you’re not the one doing the killing.” The crossing of his arms draws my eyes to his massive biceps, a reminder of how easily he could throttle me, if he wanted. “So, let’s start with how you think this will go down. Have you even gotten that far?”

“Every day. It’s simple really. I tell you where he lives. I give you the code to enter his house. You kill him, and my nightmares end.”

“Do they? Because I’ll be the first to tell you they don’t. Every day that I look out my window, I’m reminded of a life I extinguished. Every night when I go to sleep, whose face do you think I see, with such vivid clarity, it makes me sick? I don’t think you’re the kind of person who can live with that, Ivy. I don’t think you have enough blood on your hands to accept those consequences.”

“And you do?”

He strokes his hand over the shadow of stubble scattered across his perfectly chiseled jaw. “You know very little about me. But one small thing I’ll impart is that I didn’t have a clean slate when I entered the priesthood, and I’m no stranger to killer’s remorse.”

“What is this? Why are you here? What’s the point of this? To guilt-trip me into giving up? To tell me to accept this shitty situation until the asshole dies of natural causes?” Now I’m the one crossing my arms, shaking my head in refusal. “I can’t. See, tomorrow? I’ll have to go his house and play whatever twisted little game he wants to play, for two and a half hours, because that’s the deal I made to keep him from pounding down my door in the middle of the night.” I won’t even bother to tell him the last time I was there he made me go down on him while he listened to some fucked up audio of the Toy-Box Killer. The time before that he decided to play gynecologist and made me his patient. And those are relatively mild compared to what he’s made me do in the past, but not even I can confess that shit aloud.

Something dark clouds his eyes as he stares back at me—darker than the usual broody Father Damon stare. “This is what you’re forced to do to keep him away from you?”

I don’t even bother to answer that, considering I’ve already blackmailed a priest. “Whether it’s by your hands, or mine, I’m cutting him out of my life, one way, or another.”

“One of my parishioners owns a security company. Perhaps he can—”

“I’ve had the locks changed. Cameras installed. A number of things I can’t afford to do, but I do them, anyway. Somehow, he gets in. Somehow, he snakes his way back into my life. You want to know why I’m so cunning? I know how it feels when someone emails your boss.”

Huffing a sigh, he runs his hand through his hair and down his face, and I know, by that gesture alone, he’s finished with this conversation. Which means, somehow, I’m going to have to work up the balls to push one of those World Famous Knives through Calvin’s spinal column on my own.

“I want to help you, Ivy, but in spite of what you think you know, I’m not some killer for hire.”

“Then, we have nothing else to discuss.” Spinning on my heel, I only just reach out for the knob, when I’m yanked backward and his hard chest collides with my back.

“We do have something else to discuss. This tension has to stop. My mind has been filled with a number of dirty, sinful thoughts. Ones I can’t seem to shake.”

“I’m afraid, if you can’t help me, then I can’t help you.”

“You put this fucking curse on me. Ten years, I’ve remained celibate, and all I can think about is being inside you.” Admittedly, the visual of that sends a ripple across my thighs. “I want whatever game this is to end.”

“Did you delete my picture?”

“I have every intention of deleting it.”

I snort at that and feel his grip around me tighten. “But you haven’t, yet. Why is that?”

“Because what I want is forbidden. And for now, it curbs that craving, but at some point, it won’t be enough.”

“So, what do you want me to do about it?”

The brush of his lips at my ear sends a tickle across the back of my neck. “I want you to find another church. Another priest to torment. I’ll see what I can do to help your situation, and then that’s it. No more emails. No more pictures. No more temptations.”

“So, you intend to cast me from the flock because you can’t control your own urges.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to ante up, Father. A few church pamphlets on domestic abuse don’t cut it.” My body spins around fast—too fast.

“Why are you doing this? Why me? Why not hire someone to do your dirty work?”

“Because I will do whatever I have to, just to get that evil prick out of my life. Even if that means fucking you over.” Palm sliding over the thick bulge protruding from his slacks, I grip tight to his shaft and catch the subtle arch of his back. “And over.” Doing this only proves my point, because my whole body is trembling right now, wondering how he’ll retaliate. How far he’ll go to protect his morals.

I hate myself for putting him in this position, but every time I think of letting it go, leaving Father Damon out of this, I imagine Calvin smothering Mamie with a pillow, just before he dumps my body into a shallow grave.

His jaw is tight, body guarded, as if poised to crush me, and when he glances down at what I’m doing between us, I catch the slight dip of his brow—a plea trapped inside so much frustration, he must want to throttle me right now.

“And over again.” Lips set to his ear, I grip tighter as I whisper, “Fight me, if you’re so hell-bent on self-righteousness.”

Not a breath later, his body sets into motion, moving like a machine as he backs me into the wall. It only takes two seconds for him to hitch my skirt up to my waist and yank my panties down to mid-thigh. With a victorious smile, I watch his lip curl as though he’s disgusted with himself, as he loosens his belt and unfastens his slacks.

“You shouldn’t tempt me.” The anger in his voice is convincing enough, but the tremble of his body betrays him, screaming of excitement and yearning, and the hunger of a man who hasn’t eaten in a long time. The veins in his cock throb as he holds himself like a warning, a weapon designed to split a woman in two. That’s how thick he is, and to think all this time, he’s been hiding this impressive beast beneath vestments and virtue.

What an absolute shame.

Lip caught between my teeth, I hike my thigh up over his hip and rub my thumb over his weeping tip, ready to guide him inside of me.

“Touch yourself.” His raspy voice makes him sound like a man on the edge.

“I’d rather just get right to—”

He silences my explanation with a palm over my mouth, his shoulder flexing as he strokes himself against me. “No. You’re so content to tease me? This is what you brought on yourself. You don’t get to call the shots.” He swaps his hand for his lips in a kiss that steals my breath and renders me momentarily weak. Pressure between my thighs tightens my muscles, and I let out a sharp breath through my nose, as he shoves two of my fingers, along with two of his own, inside me.

The moan that leaks from his mouth vibrates across mine as he guides our fingers in and out, pumping slow and steady. The delicious stretch over all four digits doesn’t even come close to what I imagine his cock might feel like inside of me. Wet sucking sounds echo through the room, an embarrassing confession of just how much I’m enjoying his punishment.

The tight clench of his jaw must mirror the malice burning inside of him, telling me I’ve pushed this holy man too far. He withdraws his fingers, eyes on me as he slips them into his mouth, sucking my arousal clean. “You even taste like sin. Imagine that.” Sinking to his knees, I watch him fist his cock, gaze riveted on where my fingers still work my pussy. He braces a hand on the wall, steadying himself, and bends forward to lick the slickness leaking down my thighs. “Move your hand,” he commands in a ragged voice, and I do as he says. “Hold your skirt up and open yourself to me.”

Following his commands, I lift my skirt with one hand and press two fingers across my folds, exposing my clit to him. Orders like these are nothing new, but the desire to do as I’m told comes as an unexpected surprise. The thrill of watching this man, who’s denied himself pleasure, get off on what we’re doing is a welcomed change from all the times I’ve been forced to do the same for Calvin.

“Yeah, just like that.” His fist pumps faster, the veins in his neck pulsing as furiously as his arm. “Now tell me what you want, Ivy. Tell me what dirty things you want me to do. Confess your sins to me.”

Dear God, I’m probably going to hell, but this is the hottest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, so I go along with it. “I want you to lick it.”

“No, no. You’re dirtier than that, Ivy. C’mon.”

“I want you …” It takes me a second to realize my ass is grinding against the wall. “I want you to eat my pussy.”

“That’s a good girl.” The man is far more exciting than I gave him credit for, oozing with all kinds of masculinity and authority. But not in a way that makes me sick, like with Calvin. No, Father Damon is having quite the opposite effect, much to my surprise. “Now tell me … how do you say sinner in French?”

“P-pécheresse.”

He slides a nearby chair beside me, and props one of my feet onto it, opening me wider to him. “Feed it to me. Pécheresse.”

The man is dirty, with a darkness seeping out of his pores like little devils rising out of the flames. I feel like I haven’t even broken the surface of what lies beneath all that rectitude he wears like a second skin.

Thrusting my hips forward sends my clit straight into his lips, and the second his shadowy beard makes contact, my ass twitches with the tickle. His lips come together over my slit, still held open by my fingers for him, and he sucks as if he’s broken into an overripe fig, lapping up the juices. I cry out, digging my nails into his scalp, and grab a handful of his short-cropped hair. My hips make small thrusts while his tongue dips into my folds, and when his fingers curve up inside me, I can’t hold back the moan that bounces off the walls. Surely, someone walking by could hear us, but that doesn’t stop him, or he just doesn’t care, evident in the sounds of satisfaction rumbling in his chest while he fingers me, sucks me, and pumps his cock like a one-man band of pleasure.

Short staccato breaths beat against my pussy, as his hand furiously works his shaft.

“Please, Father. Stop.”

“You want me to stop?” he asks in a voice that sounds more like a growl.

“No!” God, what am I saying? I don’t want him to stop, I want this to stop. This squirming for something I can’t quite pinpoint. This sensation that has my muscles all bunched and knotted like they’re about to snap, but can’t. “Please don’t stop. Make it … go away!”

This isn’t supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to be detached, meaningless, mindless sex. The way it feels when I’m with Calvin—purposeful and not at all enjoyable. I’m not supposed to feel anything, but I do. I feel him probing every corner of my darkest fantasies, springing forth a surprising revelation that maybe I’m not opposed to sex with the right person.

If only the right person wasn’t a goddamn priest.

“This is … what you … deserve …” His words are broken by harsh breaths and the sound of slapping flesh. “For teasing me, pécheresse.” Two more pumps of his cock, and warm jets pulse upward, painting my thighs with his release. “Ah, fuck!”

I reach down to touch myself, taking in the view of his climax, but he pins my arm to the wall.

“No.” He pushes to his feet, towering over me, and leans down to kiss me as he rubs his hand over the front of my skirt. “You’re going to suffer. Just as you made me suffer all day.”

I want to laugh and cry at the same time, as every fiber of my body quivers at his slightest touch.

“It’s miserable, isn’t it? Feels like everything is on fire.”

Another kiss presses me into the wall, and he rubs his weeping cock up and down my slit, further exacerbating this unique torment I’ve never felt with another man. “This is what happens when you tempt me to sin, Ivy.”

If he thinks that’s a turn off, he doesn’t know me very well.

“Don’t worry.” I clench my jaw, frustrated by the tension wound so tight within me that all I want to do is rub myself against something to make it go away. “I’ll touch myself later. I’ll remember the look on your face the whole time.”

Something flickers in his eyes, and he shakes his head, removing his shirt to reveal tattoos that decorate his shoulders—most notably, an iron cross that ends just above his elbow. The second he bunches the shirt in his hands and sets it to my thigh, presumably to wipe away his release, I grab his wrist and push up to kiss him again. “I’m a dirty girl. Pécheresse, remember? Have a good night, Father. Sweet fucking dreams.” Straightening my skirt, I slide my panties back up my thighs, wet with his cum, and smile as he watches me the same way a lion might look upon a gazelle, licking his lips. I keep my eyes on him as I pass on my way toward the door. “I hope all that sin leaves a bitter taste on your tongue,” I say, before heading back to work.

13

DAMON

Damn her.

I wish I could say the guilt of having glutted between a woman’s thighs was enough to set me straight and put me back on the path of righteousness, but that isn’t how temptation works. No, sin is far more conniving than that, and Ivy is about as deliciously wicked as they come. So, as the young couple sits before me, detailing out their plans for marriage and an ongoing devotion to the church, all I can think about is the scent of Ivy that lingered on my skin as I drove home, wishing I had that taste on my tongue one more time. I didn’t see her during morning mass, not that she had a habit of coming to church everyday, but that didn’t stop me from looking for her, anyway.

“We intend to write our own vows for the ceremony.” The blonde, Melissa, whose mother organizes the youth group activities, smiles at her fiancé beside her. “I already started mine,” she says, and giggles.

Their clasped hands remind me of Ivy’s in mine, and the phantom sensation of her squeezing my knuckles, as I denied her orgasm, casts a shiver down my spine.

I wish I didn’t need sex to feel the same level of satisfaction I did last night. I wish I didn’t crave the scent of a woman and nails digging into my flesh—basic human appetites that a man of my position has no business indulging. I hate that Ivy gives off some magnetic attraction that turns me weak and somehow powerless against my desires. And I wish my body didn’t hum with some annoying thrill at the thought of her lying helpless beneath me, but it does. It begs for more of her. So much more than the tempting little sample she offered me in that office.

This perverse and wrecking covetousness threatens everything I stand for, and still, my body refuses to relinquish this insatiable appetite for her. It refuses to forget the way her full and heavy breasts pressed against the fabric of her shirt, sketching the perfect shape of her pert nipples. The prop of her calf in three-inch heels that I can almost feel scoring down my back, painting a line of excruciating delight. The hem of her skirt riding up quivering thighs, while she offers me a small glimpse of my ruin. Wearing down my tightly-leashed restraint.

Damn this woman.

“And sex?” The mindless question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it.

Both eyes shoot to mine with an incredulous look—a cross between repulsion and surprise.

“Children. I assume you plan to have children that will be baptized through the church.”

The look of disgust withers to something more bashful, and Melissa blushes. “Of course. We’re hoping to start a family right away.”

“Very good.” I release a held breath, frustrated with myself. Much bigger issues weigh down on me, like how long it might take for the police to come snooping around, looking for answers, seeing as one of the caretakers finally reported Chuck Beatty missing a couple days ago. How long will Camila keep her silence about who came for her that night?

And why the hell did my dead wife have a lawyer’s contact information tucked inside her phone case, where I ordinarily wouldn’t have stumbled upon it.

I don’t need to be thinking about Ivy, or how much I want to pin her to that wall and watch her face all screwed up with ecstasy as she screams my name. No, that’s definitely the last thing that should be spinning inside my head right now, but she’s like an ice pick jabbing against my skull. A needling agony that won’t leave me be. One not even prayer can cast out of me, because she’s so firmly rooted in my mind, which is why I can’t reconcile these sins. Not yet, and certainly not with Ruiz, who has been nothing short of a mentor these past few years.

Priests like Ruiz, who were born ready to serve God, have no concept of what it’s like, how good it feels to be buried inside a woman, watching her face twist in pleasure. A man who’s never tasted an apple is only bound by his own curiosity, while a man who’s indulged in the delicious fruit is enslaved to the tart flavor that lingers on his tongue. Ruiz couldn’t possibly understand this affliction because he’s never had a woman like Ivy, whose coy demeanor and voluptuous curves trigger some sort of muscle memory, awakening this dormant lust. Forgetting the taste of her poison, after having licked it from her most forbidden places, is like trying to forget how to breathe. Impossible.

I crave more of it. More of her.

The meeting rolls on, as we finalize dates and expectations, and when it’s over, my thoughts of Ivy have once again commanded my body. I need distraction. Something to erase the visuals of her skirt hiked up, offering herself to me like a sacrifice. ‘Fucks sake, every muscle in my body is tense and trembling, desperate to find a quiet place to release. Balls heavy and aching, I squeeze them to temper this torment, and groan with the small bit of attention.

I’m due to make my rounds at two of the local nursing homes this afternoon, and the last thing I need is to offer the body of Christ with a hard-on poking through my slacks.

I head back to the rectory for a cold shower and a quick bite. Along the path, I catch Father Ruiz staring off toward the back of the church.

“Damon, can I talk to you for a second?” he asks in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Of course.”

“About a week ago, I heard a loud clatter. It startled me right out of my bed. I saw you in the backyard. ” As he goes on, I feel my pulse quicken, and my skin prickles on a rush of adrenaline. “You had a shovel. And you were digging a hole.”

Mind racing for an excuse, a reason I would’ve been in the backyard after nine o’clock, I cast my gaze away, hoping he can’t see the panic bubbling to the surface.

He turns to me, his brows set with disappointment. “Have you ever seen me sleepwalk before?”

Confusion slaps me in the face as I stare back at him, trying to tease out what he’s asking me. “I’m sorry, what?”

“By the time my brain finally caught up to what I was seeing, there was nothing there. You weren’t digging, and the only hole was the one the septic company dug a week before. I realized in that very moment that I must have been asleep. Then just last night, I woke to find myself standing in the kitchen with a half eaten orange. And it made me wonder, how long have I been doing this? How long have I walked around in my sleep?”

“I’ve … never seen you sleepwalk.”

“It’s the strangest thing.” On a laugh, he shakes his head and pats my shoulder. “Whatever would you be digging a hole for in the backyard?”

“A grave?”

He laughs harder, while mine lacks mirth, and he continues on toward the church. “Oh, one more thing, Damon. LaRonda asked me to let you know that they found the missing girl. She apparently discussed her with you.”

“Yes, we did talk about her. I’m happy to hear she’s home. I found that story to be very troubling.”

“As did I. Her mother asked us to bless the apartment for protection.”

“I didn’t … I wasn’t aware they were Catholic.”

“They’re not. LaRonda suggested it. I thought, since you had a hand in helping the child—”

“What do you mean?”

“LaRonda said you passed out fliers and helped put the word out.”

“Of course.”

“Its stands to reason, you should be the one to bless the apartment.”

“Of course.” All that comes to mind is the little girl identifying me as the man who killed her captor, and the look on Bishop McDonnell’s face, just before I’m defrocked and the police drag me off.

“Is everything all right, Damon?”

“Yes, of course.”

I blink out of my musings, his question snapping me back to the present. “I, um … I’ll take care of it.”

From his pocket, he draws out the address on scrap paper and hands it to me. “She’s expecting you sometime today.”

The sobering thought of seeing the little girl again, and having to face the memory of her being held in that cage, is enough to quell the urges of this morning. I take a quick lunch, and as I drive to the apartment where I dropped her off only a week ago, cold spikes of nervous energy hammer through my blood.

I nab the book of scriptures beside me, along with holy water, and make my way up the stairs.

LaRonda and another woman that I recognize from the news report as the girl’s mother, greet me at the door, but Camila is nowhere in sight.

“Father Damon, this is Luisa, Camila’s mama.” LaRonda sets a hand on the short, pudgy woman standing beside her, whose eyes carry shadows behind the kind smile she offers.

“Thank you for coming, Father.” Like most who aren’t entirely familiar with the church, she keeps her hands clasped in front, back stiff, as if she’s unsure how to behave in front of a priest.

Out of respect, I try not to be too touchy-feely, not that I am by nature, anyway, but keeping my hands at my side works for me. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

Closing the door behind me, Luisa guides me to the couch, where all three of us sit around a coffee table that holds pictures of a man drawn in crayon, with angry red eyes, holding some kind of stick in his hand. “Since the night she came home, Camila just … hasn’t been the same. She doesn’t eat much. Doesn’t sleep. She wakes up from nightmares.” A hiccup of a sob interrupts Luisa, as she wipes away tears, and LaRonda wraps her in a hug. “There’s this … man. He looks like some kind of demon. She calls him the Bad Man. She says he kept her in a cage, and he did bad things to her. Things she won’t tell me, or the doctor. She says an angel saved her. An angel in all black.” Luisa’s body shakes against LaRonda’s, as she sobs into the other woman’s shoulder. “I just want the nightmares to go away and my daughter to feel safe again.”

The weight of guilt damn near crushes me as I sit across from the woman, wishing I could tell her everything. That I strangled the demon. That I dragged him across church grounds and stuffed him inside a hole, never to be seen again. Instead, I give a slight nod and say, “Let’s start at the entrance of your home.”

Giving the sign of the cross, I push off the couch and watch as LaRonda nudges her friend to stand, as well. Luisa awkwardly follows mine and LaRonda’s motions, seeming both nervous and, perhaps, a small bit hopeful. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” LaRonda says, hands clasped in Luisa’s.

I hold the book of prayers along with the holy water, and bow my head. “Peace be to this house and all who dwell here in the name of the Lord.”

“Blessed be God forever.” Again, LaRonda intones for both of them.

After sprinkling them with holy water, I cross the room, coming to a stop in front of the front door, and say a quick prayer, then dab the holy water onto my finger and draw the sign of the cross on its wooden panel. From there, I make my way to each room and sprinkle the holy water with a blessing, aspersing it everywhere, until I reach a smaller room with pink walls adorned with paintings of princesses and castles, which I assume belongs to Camila.

Once inside, I find more pictures lying on the floor, drawn in remarkable detail, of a girl in a cage and a man jabbing a pole into it. Presumably the one he used on her. Another shows her tied to a leash, as the man walks her around like a dog. A third shows another man, dressed in all black, holding a rope. Still another depicts the man in black holding his arm out, with the other man dangling from a rope, the droop of his head indicating he’s dead. Suddenly, I’m relieved I opted to leave my collar in the car that night, or I’d be staring down at the evidence for a murder trial. In the final picture, the man in black is hugging the little girl.

“This is her angel.”

I glance back to find Camila’s mom standing behind me, and in the corner of the room, Camila stands fidgeting, the occasional crack of a smile telling me she’s happy to see me. She darts across the room and wraps her arms around me, while her mother watches with tears in her eyes and a look of confusion on her face. Confusion I wish I could erase, to make sense out of why her daughter seems so content with me.

“She’s … happy to have you bless our home,” Luisa offers, as though she needs to explain this affection.

From my pocket, I pull out a bottle of Holy Water and kneel down before Camila. “To help with the bad dreams. Let me show you.” I dab the water onto her finger and show her how to make the sign of the cross, and I say a prayer specifically for her. Hand stroking down her hair, I’m taken back to the times when I sat beside Bella, on nights after she woke from nightmares. How much small gestures of comfort and safety, of reassurance that there were no monsters, meant to her. “Do this each night before you sleep.” I cup her jaw, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “All things will be made new.”

The smile she offers doesn’t meet her eyes. It’s tired and lackluster, but genuine. It’ll be a long while before she’ll truly smile again, I suspect. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asks, and at my nod, she sets a hand on my shoulder, lips to my ear. “I haven’t told anyone you’re my angel.”

Her comment brings a smile to my face, and I take her small hand in mine. “You’ve nothing to worry about anymore, Camila. The bad man can no longer hurt you. This house is protected.” With a wink, I plant a kiss to the back of her hand and she gives me one more hug, before I push to my feet.

At the front door, her mother glances back toward Camila’s room. “I’m not the religious type, you know. I wasn’t born into the church. I mean, I believe in God, but … I don’t know. I somehow feel comforted having you here. It’s … strange.” Rubbing her hands together, she cracks a smile through her frown. “I can see Camila feels the same. It’s not like her to be so … comfortable around others. Yet, she seemed … very happy to see you. Thank you for doing this, Father Damon. It means a lot to us.”

With a nod, I set my hand on the door. “The blessing should help with the nightmares, but if it doesn’t, it may require more.”

“Father …” She bites her lip. “People who do these things … God makes them pay, right?” Eyes watering, she wipes the tears from her cheeks and sniffs. “Even if the police don’t find him, God will make him pay for this?”

I cast my gaze from hers, unable to look her in the eyes and give her the peace she’s seeking, because I’m a coward. A lying bastardly coward who fears becoming a man without purpose more than anything else, including setting this fretting mother’s mind at ease. I’m an abomination to everything I represent. So my response to her is nothing short of robotic. “But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.”

With what is clearly a feigned smile, she reaches out for my hand and squeezes. “Thank you, Father.”

14

DAMON

I should be at Saturday vigil, in place of Ruiz, and preparing for Sunday mass. Instead, I’m sitting outside of Ivy’s apartment, watching her move from one room to another, like some kind of stalker. The poison has taken over me. My little pécheresse has ensured that not a single moment exists where I’m not thinking about her spread out before me.

I want to forget her, pretend what happened between us was some warped distortion of reality, but her name is a vine, wound around me as tight as the cincture I wore during morning mass, when I swore I could still taste her on my tongue.

Watching her silhouette through the sheer curtains, the curves I can clearly make out from the road, I see her feed her arms through sleeves, as though slipping on a coat, and a deeply rooted anger twists inside my chest at the thought of where she might be off to for the night.

I can’t let her go to him. I refuse to sit by knowing she’s with another man, entertaining him for the sake of her freedom. It’s wrong, the way my mind, mired in these perverse, licentious thoughts, refuses to relent this sense of possession. As if she belongs to me. Was made only for my torment and no one else’s. It’s wrong, and yet, by my body’s own impulse, I exit from the car and jog across the street, up the stairs to her door, which swings open just as I reach for the knob.

“Oh, my God!” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide with surprise and maybe a small bit of fear. “Father, what are you doing here?”

I glance down at where shiny, skintight pants disappear into high boots that’re hiding beneath the knee-length hem of her coat. It’s a sight that leaves my tightly nipped restraint precariously hanging by a fragile thread.

The door behind me clicks, and I turn to face a petite, older woman, with pin-straight black hair and glasses.

“Iby, you okay?” she asks, holding up what looks like a sewing needle. “Dis man isn’t bodering you?”

“Yes .. I mean no, Mrs. Garcia. I’m fine. Thank you.”

The woman’s eyes trail me up and down before her brows wing up. “Ooh. He’s a handsome one.” Shooting me a wink, she backs herself in the apartment, but takes a moment to stare before closing the door.

“She’s watching through the peephole, isn’t she?” I ask, turning to see Ivy tighten the jacket around her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, not answering my question.

Lifting my gaze to the room beyond tells me she’s probably alone. “Can I come in?”

“I’m leaving, actually.”

“I’ll only be a minute.” Not quite, if my body has any say in the matter, but I tell myself that’s not the reason I’m here. Without permission, I push my way inside, breathing in that feminine scent from before. Like an aphrodisiac, it lulls me deeper into those tangled vines of lust. “Where are you going?”

Closing the door behind her, she doesn’t bother to follow me into the room, and instead stands with her arms crossed, looking pissed off. “I already told you.”

“It’s warm. You won’t need a jacket.”

Huffing with irritation, she whips it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor and exposing an outfit beneath that makes my dick lurch. Her perfect, round tits peek through small holes cut out at the chest, the nipples standing tall and erect, sending a zap of agonizing pain to my groin. An open-breasted, full body, black latex suit clings to her curves, and the zipper at the crotch creates what looks like the only point of access. Must’ve taken forever to get that thing on.

I nod toward the painful distraction of a suit, one that has me balling my fists at my sides in a poor attempt to keep from smoothing my hands over it. Wondering how it would feel pressed against my body. “You planned to take the rail wearing that?”

“All part of his torment. I suppose, if I get raped on the way, he’ll probably ask me to describe it all in detail.”

The very thought enrages me, and I want to tell her, if she were mine, I’d kill a man who put his hands on her without asking. But I’m not supposed to think that way, because she isn’t mine. And I’m not supposed to be standing in the middle of her apartment, trying to leash my own self-control, while that outfit taunts me like devils whispering in my ear to ravish this woman.

I glance away, desperate to reel in the appetite brewing deep inside of me like a monster starving for depravity. “I came here to keep you from seeing him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s wrong.”

“Yeah, well, you’re also going to tell me that it was wrong having a priest go down on me, so what does it matter?” She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them higher, and I imagine how perfectly they’d fit in my palms. “I already told you, if I don’t do this? He harasses me to no end. Considering I left the desk unmanned for a good half hour last night, my boss won’t be too keen on getting an anonymous email from some asshole, with pictures of me posing nude.”

“He has nude pictures of you?”

“He keeps them on hand, in case he needs to use them.”

“This guy’s a piece of work.”

“A piece of shit, is more like it.”

Rubbing my thumb across the palm of my hand to calm the trembles, I try not to imagine another man’s hands all over that suit, marking her with his fingerprints. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Why? Why do you care?” With her breasts still on display, I find the words difficult to form, as I let my eyes wander everywhere she isn’t part of the view.

“I don’t want him touching you.”

She snorts and swipes her jacket up off the floor. “Sorry, Father. You don’t get to call the shots. No deal? No promises from me.” Slipping her arm into the sleeve, she’s ignoring my request, evident when she nabs the keys from the console table beside her.

I lurch forward, stopping short at the thump against my chest where her palm hits. “I don’t want you seeing him tonight.”

“Too bad. I don’t want to deal with the consequences of not going.”

“Did last night mean nothing to you?” I ask through clenched teeth, furious at the idea that I’ve obsessed over this woman all day, while she’s thought nothing of me.

The fire in her green eyes smolders as she stares back at me, into me, damn near through me. “Last night meant everything to me. It’s the first time a man has ever made me feel good doing those things.” Shoulders sagging, she lowers her hand from my chest and takes a step back. “Unfortunately, it was with a priest, so I guess I’m shit out of luck in that respect.”

“And do you enjoy being with him? Letting him do these things to you?”

“No. I dread every second I spend with him.” The sweep of her tongue across her lips draws my attention to the red of her lipstick, making me wonder how it would look smeared across my dick. “He isn’t you.”

Desires ratcheted and out of control, I push her against the wall behind her as that fragile thread finally snaps, and I accidentally knock over a vase set atop the console.

Ignoring it, she tilts her chin back, jaw hard with pride, and licks her lips. “What are you going to do, Father? Punish me?”

Wearing a brief snarl at the thought, I dip my head and take one of her exposed nipples into my mouth, suckling her breasts with enough fervor that she cries out and her nails dig into my scalp, only goading me on. “Did you touch yourself after?” I rasp against her plump flesh and pinch it between my teeth, inciting another squeal and a jerk of her body.

“All night. All morning. And just before you got here.”

Taking both breasts in hand, I squeeze them together, burying my face in her deep-set cleavage and groaning, before I take the other nipple into my mouth. I’ve no right to be frustrated with her, but I am. I’m jealous of the surrounding walls that bore witness to her climax, and her fingers that brought her to that place without me. “You’re a bad girl, pécheresse. You must repent and accept punishment for these transgressions.” Without giving her a chance to respond, I reach down and unzip the crotch of her suit, listening as each tooth of the zipper unravels my control. Once open, I stare back at her as I run my finger over the bare flesh there, watching her eyes roll back and her lip catch between her teeth.

“Please, Father. Don’t leave me the way you did last time.”

“Will you take your penance, pécheresse?”

She slides down the wall as though struggling to stay upright. “Yes. Yes, I’ll take it. All of it.”

“Good.” Spinning her around puts her cheek to the wall, hands flat at either side of her. I kick her legs apart, widening the gap of the latex suit, and unfasten my belt, along with my slacks, until my painfully hard dick springs free. Staring down at the crack of her ass peeking through the suit, I stroke myself, imagining the head of my cock notched between those inviting cheeks. Reaching around the front of her, I glide my fingers down her seam and up inside, where the warmth and wetness greets me with a promise of what’s to come.

Her little mewling sounds taunt me to continue, and her fingers curl, still planted at either side of her head. “Oh, God, Damon!”

In and out, I pump my fingers, sluicing my skin in her juices. “Already wet, aren’t you? You must’ve overindulged. Tell me, where did you touch yourself last night?”

“In the bathroom. Just before my shower.”

“Then, we’ll go there first.” I grip the back of her neck, guiding her toward the bathroom until we stand at the sink, in front of the mirror. Winding her hair in my fist, I tip her head back, setting my lips to her ear. “Is this where you touched yourself?”

“Yes,” she breathes, looking down her nose at me in the reflection, eyes hooded with lust.

I plunge my fingers into her once again, the sounds of suction on the withdrawal tickling my spine, while I stroke my dick. “I absolve you of your sin.”

Her mouth gapes, her ass grinding into me, and when she reaches back to touch me, I push her hand away.

“Where did you touch yourself this morning?”

“In my bed. As soon as I woke up.” Chest rising up and down, she arches as I continue to pump my fingers, and the moment I remove them, her eyelids flip open.

Gaze set on her stare in the mirror, I suck her arousal from my fingers, then guide her toward the bedroom. A stack of what looks like two mattresses sits atop the floor, and I push her down onto the plush white bedding.

“Show me. Show me your fingers inside your eager little hole, just the way you touched yourself this morning.”

Ass propped high, face planted against the mattress, she stares down at me and reaches between her shiny black thighs, pushing two fingers into the open gap of her suit.

God help me.

The sight of her is pure pornography, stirring my loins with a primitive need to fill her. To glut her with years of pent up release and watch as the evidence of my sin spills down the back of her thighs. To cloy this insatiable lust so I can get through my day without imagining this very moment in repetitive torment.

With a level of restraint I can barely contain, I watch as her fingers disappear knuckle deep inside of her and shine on the withdrawal. Squeezing my cock sends a new spurt of wetness across the tip, and I spread it over the head and down the shaft.

“I dreamed … oh, God, I dreamed … you were inside of me. Fucking me.” She keeps on with her fingering, hastening her pace as she works herself up to climax. Sliding her knees outward spreads her legs wider and stretches the hole of her suit, giving me more. So much more.

Bending forward, I push my slacks down to my knees and set my tongue alongside her buried knuckles, licking her, pussy to asshole. I stop to bite her plump flesh, and at the bucking of her hips, I nab her wrist, tugging her fingers from her hole to suck them clean. “I absolve you of your sins.”

Cock in hand, I drag my tip over her entrance, watching her grip the blankets with both hands, as if preparing herself for my intrusion. “And is this where you touched yourself just before I arrived, pécheresse?”

“Yes, Father.”

Yanking her backward, toward me, I push into her, and the outcry that follows skates down my spine with a harrowing pleasure I can’t even begin to describe. The latex suit rubs against my thighs, the zipper teeth set at each ass cheek scraping across my groin, adding an exquisite bite to the pleasure. “You’ve touched yourself so much. Can you even come for me?” My words carry the grit of a tightly clenched jaw.

“Yes, I promise, I’ll try, Father. Please.”

My whole body shudders as her tight walls suck me in then glide across my shaft as I pull out. Head tipped back, I close my eyes, focusing on the torment, and grip her latex-clad hips, digging my fingers into her bones. In and out, slow and easy, I savor the feel of her, the scent on the air, the taste still lingering on my tongue. Everything is as I imagined it would be—irresistibly gratifying and excruciatingly fucking good.

“Ivy. Ah, fuck.” Eyes still clamped, I tug her hips back into me on a hard thrust that rouses another belly-deep cry, and I grind into her ass, stirring my dick so deep inside her, it feels as if I’ll drill right through the woman. “Why does sin feel so good?”

She doesn’t answer, but at the firm squeeze of my balls, I look down to see she’s reached beneath, massaging them as I draw out of her, my shaft glistening with her arousal, and I drive into her again. In a steady rhythm, I thrust in and out of her, each drive smoother with the slickening of her pussy. Faster and faster, I hammer against her ass, while the sticky slap of her suit beats across my thighs.

Moans muffle into the pillows, while she rolls her head and claws at the bedding as if possessed by demons. Maybe she is. Surely, God isn’t present here, while I fuck her with the kind of reckless abandon that’ll land my soul in hell.

Ignoring her screams, I pound with the fervor and dedication of a blacksmith molding soft metal into a sword. A sword that’ll ultimately slice my heart right out of my chest and leave me a bloody fucking mess afterward. But I don’t care, I’m too far lost to the sensation, the exquisite ecstasy that promises a spine-tingling finale.

“C’mon, pécheresse, let me hear you scream.”

Head kicked to the side, her moans heighten, become intense, bouncing off the walls with every slam of my dick. “Oh, God!”

“There is no God here, Ivy. Only me.”

“Damon! Please, Damon!”

Sliding out of her, I flip her over, watching her tits jostle as I hike her leg over my shoulder and enter her again. I pound out the final seconds, muscles tight. Tighter. Holy fuck, I’m so wired I could snap.

Eyes rolled back, her mouth gapes, back arched up off the bed, as if she’s surrendering her soul to me. I want to frame this look, mentally capture it for the nights when I’m alone thinking about her. I want to remember the heat and the muscle cramping tension, the deeply rooted needs begging me to stretch this moment out for as long as I can. To savor every second of my debauchery, while her pussy milks my release.

I can’t. I can’t hold it any longer.

A flash of light explodes behind my eyes, rippling down my spine, and I pull out of her, directing jets of seed onto her tits with one hand as I pump my fingers in and out of her in the kind of rapid tempo that has her juices sloshing across my skin. Shuddering out the last of my load, I groan and clench my jaw, high on the rush that washes over me, rendering me dizzy and weak. Ready to pass out.

She arches her back and screams, her nipples erect and shimmering from my release. Body trembling, she sags against the mattress again and laughs, throwing a sloppy arm across her forehead. “Oh, my God,” she says and giggles again. “First time in my life I’ve come during sex. And it’s with a priest.”

This repletion doesn’t feel like salvation, though. I’m in purgatory, caught between heaven and the hell of knowing it won’t be enough. I’ve not had my fill of this woman, evident in the need to keep her close, the gluttony that burns inside of me for more of her. Like an animal, viciously guarding its next meal.

Completely spent, I collapse beside her, drawing her body into mine, and angle her face enough to kiss her. Our heaving breaths mingle, my mouth dry, and I rest my head against her shoulder. “I absolve you of your sins.”

An hour passes as we lie next to each other, my fingers threaded into hers. She twists toward the nightstand, nabbing an apple she’d set there earlier, and bites a chunk of it. The irony brings a smile to my face, watching the twitching of her lips as she chews, wet with the apple’s juices. The next bite is bigger, and she holds it between her teeth, enticing me to take it.

When I lean forward, accepting the tart apple into my mouth, I also take a moment to lick her lips and kiss the temptation from them. The bittersweet flavor puckers my tongue, and I pause to chew the proffered fruit, savoring the taste of her lips still lingering on mine.

“What did you want to be when you were little?” she asks, as I lay back against the pillows, arm tucked under my head while I stare down at her.

I can’t take my eyes off this girl, this enigmatic, intriguing little creature who’s seized my attention. Commanded my body the way she has.

“A fireman. I always thought it’d be cool to save people from burning houses.”

“Well, in some ways you do,” she says around a mouthful of apple. “I mean, if you think about it, you save their souls from hell.” She holds an uneaten part of the apple to my mouth for another bite.

“I think I just signed your soul over.” Chomping into the flesh of the fruit, I watch her lips stretch into a smile.

Pressed against me, she steals another kiss, sliding her latex covered leg across my stomach, the brush of it against my groin tightening my muscles. “It sucks, you know?” Stretching back, she sets the apple onto the nightstand once again, her breasts too tempting with the bend of her body, and I flick my tongue against her nipple. Her body snaps forward with her giggle, and she clutches the nape of my neck, diverting my mouth to hers for a third kiss. “I mean, it’s not fair to you. Going all those years without sex. How can the church expect that? It’s a natural thing for humans. A beautiful thing.”

“I honestly never had much issue with it until you came along.”

“Why me? What makes me so different from all the other women who probably fawn all over you?”

“I wish I knew.” I exhale a sigh, drawing her closer into me, and kiss the top of her head. “You’re hard to resist. Some women are just naturally sexual creatures and make it harder.”

“It being the beast you keep locked away in those smooth, black trousers?”

With a snort, I reach down to tweak one of her nipples, and she giggles again, slapping me on the chest. My smile withers, though, my thoughts turning sour as the gravity of what we’ve done settles over me. “Ivy …”

Finger pressed against my lips, she silences me and pushes up onto her elbow. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. That’ll just make me feel cheap, like you didn’t want this.”

“You’re not cheap, but I didn’t want to do this. Not to you.”

She crawls over top of me and backs herself down my legs. “You can paint this however you like, Father. But I think you’re incredible. And no amount of guilt, or shame, is going to change that.”

I stare down my body at her, noticing my dick has gone hard again, and eyes on me, she takes it into her mouth. Literally biting my tongue holds back the protest cocked and ready at the back of my throat as I watch my shaft disappear between her lips. A harsh breath escapes me on a groan, the scent of our sex from earlier still seasoning the air, and I suck it in to my chest, letting it poison me with lust.

“I can taste myself on your cock,” she whispers, before deep throating me again, and I arch back against the mattress.

The fistful of bedding at either side of me sates the need to squeeze the fuck out of something as she sucks me, base to tip, circling her tongue over the sensitive head.

“Ivy …”

“No, call me sinner. I like it.” She strokes me up and down with her hand and spits on my shaft.

“Pécheresse … please. This is wrong. We need to … ” The scrape of her teeth along my shaft sends a sliver of pain across my flesh, just enough to make me grip the back of her head as she bobs against my groin. “Fuck!”

In a brief moment of mercy, she releases me on a pop of suction. “Yes, I agree. We definitely need to fuck again.” Her laugh brings a smile to my face, and I curl my fingers into her hair and tighten my fist.

“You’re making this worse.”

“Bad is good, though. Isn’t it, Father?”

“Stop calling me that. Not while we’re doing this.”

“Should I call you Daddy instead?” Cupping my balls in her palm, she squeezes just enough to make me moan and buck my hips.

“No. Hell, no. Damon. Just call me Damon.” I don’t even recognize my own voice, strangled by whatever the hell she’s doing to my cock right now. Can’t even bring myself to look, for fear the sight alone will make me come hard and fast.

“I want you to come for me, Damon. All over my face.” She bobs again, faster, and I can’t hold back as my balls draw up, and I give in to the climax that sends pulsing spurts into her mouth. The excess dribbles out of the corner of her lips as she takes it all, her cheeks engorged with my seed.

In one gulp, she swallows it down, the sight of it sending another jet of release splashing across her chin.

“Ivy …” Chest heaving, I slam my head back against the pillow and take a moment to catch my breath. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

“Making up for years of abstinence, by the looks of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man come as much as you in one shot.”

I breathe a laugh and rub a hand down my face. “A lot of pent-up tension.”

“And how do you feel now?”

Good question. I should feel ashamed for what we’ve done, what I’ve done, tainting the very vows that brought her to me in the first place.

Yet, I feel fantastic. Like the nights after a long workout and a hot shower, but better. More relaxed than I have in a long time.

“I wish I could tell you that I’ll never want this again after tonight, but I’d be lying.”

Crawling up my body, she licks her lips and falls onto the bed beside me. “And lying is a sin, isn’t it?”

“Albeit a minor one.”

Teeth scraping across my jaw, she stops to kiss my throat, like a wily little cat still pawing for my attention. “Maybe you should go to confession.”

“I will. As soon as I’m certain I won’t be tempted to sin with you again.”

“And when do you think that will be?”

Wrapping my arm around her, I take in the feel of her lying beside me, the way her curves meld perfectly into my own, as if her body was made for mine. “I honestly can’t say.”

15

IVY

Sin.

The word threads itself through my skull, wrapping around my recollections of the last two hours, while I lay beside Damon, listening to his steady heartbeat as he sleeps, so soundly. Peacefully. I wish I could sleep like that, but I know it’s only a matter of time before Calvin comes pounding at my door.

My phone flashes with the third text he’s sent me in the last twenty minutes. WHERE ARE YOU? Is written in bold caps that tell me, the next time I see him, those letters will be branded to my ass with his punishment. The clock across from me reads just after eleven, and I roll onto my back, turning away from the reminder that I ditched him tonight and there will be hell to pay tomorrow.

The darkness of the room lights up with another text, then dims and lights up again, an incessant flashing of his growing anger, until it buzzes with a call. Turning to silence it, though, I notice the number on the screen isn’t Calvin’s.

It’s Mamie’s nursing home.

I scramble to answer it, pushing out of bed, so as not to wake Damon, and take the call in the bathroom.

“Ivy.” The familiar voice on the other line belongs to her long-time nurse, Anita, and the shaky quality of it shoots a stab of panic through my chest. “I’m sorry to call so late, but your grandmother … she, um. She suffered a massive heart attack. The staff are working on her now, but it doesn’t look good. She won’t survive transport to the main hospital.”

I feel as if my ribs are cracking, crushing my lungs so I can’t breathe. “Wait. What?”

“She’s not going to make it, Ivy.”

“I’m …. I’m …. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” My lip quivers as I fight the urge to break down on the phone with her. “Please … just … keep trying, okay? Don’t give up on her.” I break on the last word, and capture my sob into the palm of my hand. “I’ll be there.”

It’s happening. I knew it would come, the day when I would have to say goodbye to the only woman who ever gave a shit about me. The only one who took me in and raised me as if I was the one piece of her life she’d been missing and the only thing that made her happy.

Clicking off the call, I scramble to my closet, tugging at the latex that clings to my body like a layer of skin refusing to peel off. Seconds tick off the time my grandmother has left on earth, and here I am struggling to take off this fucking suit that Calvin made me wear. Like an enemy refusing to give up the fight to keep its hold on me.

“C’mon!” I shout louder than I mean to, but Damon’s already standing at the doorway.

“Ivy, what’s wrong?”

Still wrangling to get out of the suit, I hold back the cry of frustration that overwhelms me, but he bats my hand away, tugging the suit off my shoulders. “I, um … I have to …. I have to hurry …” I ramble, tugging a pair of jeans and a bra from my shelves. From the hangers, I yank down a blouse, holding it to my chest as I finally split from the pressure. “She’s dying. She’s dying, and I’m going to be alone.” The tickle of a sob flutters in my chest, and I surrender to it.

Arms envelope me before I can stop him, as if I would, and I weep into his chest.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re going to get dressed. And I’m going to drive you there tonight.”

It feels good to be given direction, so I do as he says, dressing quickly, all the while watching him slip on his white collar and tuck in his shirt. We race out the door to his car, and he drives us what feels like an eternity from my apartment to the nursing home, only ten minutes away.

The woman at the front desk recognizes me and ushers me along without signing in. The halls are quiet, and my whole body is shaking uncontrollably, noticeable when Damon takes my hand. We reach the far corridor, but Anita has tears in her eyes, shaking her head as she approaches.

“I’m sorry, baby. She’s gone.”

Body shuddering with a sob, I let her pull me in for a hug. “I need to see her. I need to.”

With a sniffle, she nods and releases me from her embrace.

“I’ll wait out here, Ivy.” Damon squeezes my hand and takes a seat on one of the chairs set in the hallway.

The room is quiet when I enter, my stomach twisting with anxiety, as she remains concealed behind the drawn curtain. I round the footboard and find her lying peacefully in bed, eyes closed as if asleep. Heart racing, I focus on her chest. Did it move? Did her hand twitch?

But I know my mind is so desperate at the moment, it has me seeing things that aren’t real. Things that’ll never be real again.

She’s gone. And I’m alone. And all I want right now is to hear her laughter again. I want to shake her awake and beg her to tell me the stories of skipping school to go to the movies. To tell me not to hate my mother for being so selfish and immature, as she always did. To beg me to forgive my father, because carrying the burden of grudges is too heavy for a woman wearing three-inch heels, as she always said.

I kneel down beside the bed and take her cold, wrinkled hand, wishing I had one more second, to tell her how sorry I am for being the pesky, petulant child she was forced to raise on her own.

But I already know what she’d say. The same thing she always said to me when I was growing up. She’d tell me the most wonderful things in life are blessings we don’t see coming.

I glance to the side, where her radio sits silent, and I flip it on to Les Feuilles Mortes by Juliette Gréco. With my head resting against her hand, the tears that slip down my temple dissolve into her skin below me.

“Are you okay?” Damon’s deep voice draws me out of my thoughts, to where he stands on the opposite side of her bed.

That’s when I notice the pictures plastered all over the wall, telling the story of her life, the many women she took in, the children she practically helped raise alongside her own. Her friends. And pictures of her, of course, back when she was a teenager, just having crossed the ocean to make a life here. Alone. No mother, father, grandmother. Nothing but self-determination and strong wit.

I am her granddaughter. Born of the same determination. And if she can survive alone, then so can I.

Offering a nod, I lean forward to kiss her hand, and more tears blur my view. “She never gave her last confession. I never gave her the chance.”

“Perfect contrition is a love of God above all other things, and as such will save her from damnation, Ivy. He knows her heart. Don’t worry.”

“That’s all she asked of me, and I failed her. I failed her because I was selfish. Because I—”

“You wanted to keep her a little longer. You loved her. There’s no need to be sorry for loving her that much.”

Sniffling, I wipe the tears from my eyes, unable to look at him. “For the funeral … will you … I mean … is it possible that you can …”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

I nod and lay my head against her shoulder, just as I did when I was a child and she would comfort me. Across from me, Damon kneels at the side of her bed and takes my hand.

“Saints of God, come to her aid.

Come to meet her, angels of the Lord.

Receive her soul, and present her to God the Most High.”

As he recites a prayer, I watch and listen, thinking how beautiful it is in this moment, how fortunate I am to have had him here tonight. It’s as if God sent him to me as a gift, to keep me from going to Calvin’s, who surely would make tonight a nightmare.

“In Your mercy and love, forgive whatever sins she may have committed through human weakness. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” I echo and turn my attention back to Mamie. “Je t’aime.”

“Ivy?” Anita peeks around the curtain and stuffs her hand into the pocket of her scrubs. “Few years back, your grandma asked me to write some things down for you. She made me keep it, in the event she passed away.”

“Oh, God, I can’t.” The urge to sob tugs at my chest again, as she hands me the paper.

“I’m not gonna lie. She made me cry just writing it. So, maybe read it on your own time.”

“Thank you, ‘Nita.”

“She asked me to give this to the priest, as well.” Anita pulls out another note, handing it off to Damon. “I don’t know how that works with confessions, and all that, but I ain’t planning to tell nobody what she made me write down.”

Accepting the paper, Damon tucks it into his shirt pocket, while I watch with pointed interest. Only one thing I know for certain had always tormented her conscience, and if it’s written there, then Anita knows as much as Father Damon is about to find out.

Anita flashes me a smile, not bothering to meet my eyes, as she exits the room, and the worry blossoms inside my gut once more.

“Excuse me, Father.” I push to my feet and chase after her. Once outside the door, I grab her arm. “Anita, wait.”

“Look, I promised her I won’t say anything. And I plan to keep that promise. You should, too, Ivy. Past is past.”

“How can …. How can you know what she told you and say that?” I keep my voice low, eyes scanning down the hall and back to her. “How can you know what I did and …”

“Forgive you?”

Casting my gaze away from hers fails to shrink the shame bubbling in my gut at what surely must be written on that paper for Father Damon.

“Because that’s what we do as human beings. We forgive.”

Tears stinging my eyes, I lift my gaze to hers and shake my head. “I don’t deserve it.”

Returning to Mamie’s room, I take a seat and lift her hand, feeling something crumpled in her palm. Paper. Black and white, it’s stained her skin, and I flatten it to reveal the story she clipped years ago, kept tucked inside a scrapbook of things in her nightstand. A woman and child murdered in their home.

Rubbing my brow, I swallow back the urge to throw up right there on the floor.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Damon slips the paper from my hand, and I let him. There’s no sense keeping secrets, when every detail is undoubtedly written on the page tucked inside his pocket.

His eyes shoot toward Mamie and back to the paper, then to me, and there’s far more in them than mere curiosity. “Why did she have this?”

Ignoring his question, I dare myself to hold his stare. “There’s something I have to confess, Damon.”

“What is it?”

I reach out for the paper, flicking my fingers to make him give it back. “I’ll tell you everything in the car. Please, can I have it back?”

“I’d like to keep it, if you don’t mind.”

“Why?”

“There’s something I should confess, as well, Ivy.” His brows come together as he stares down at the clipping in his hands. “Valerie and Isabella Savio were my wife and child.”

16

DAMON

The drive back to Ivy’s is somber and quiet, her gaze cast toward the passenger window beside her. The note in my pocket practically burns a hole through my chest, as her grandmother’s final words sit tucked against my heart.

“Tell me, Damon. If you know someone committed murder, and you don’t bother to tell anyone, is that a mortal sin?”

“If this is about what you saw me do, I can arrange to have Father Ruiz take your confession.”

“This isn’t about that.” Her neck bobs with a swallow, giving me a sense her preoccupation has nothing to do with me, or the death of her grandmother.

“What is it?”

Hands fidgeting in her lap, she keeps her gaze directed away from mine. “A few years back, Calvin showed up to my work, asking me for the medical record of a man who ended up on the news three days later.” She clears her throat, and I catch the slight tremble of her entwined fingers. “Murdered.”

“And you feel responsible.”

“He was from New York, staying at a hotel downtown,” she continues, ignoring my comment. “Had some shortness of breath, so he came to the ER. His record detailed where he was staying.” Her brow flickers, and she clamps her eyes shut, chest rising with a deep breath. “I provided that information to a man I firmly believe showed up at that hotel and killed him.”

I slow the car to a stop across from her apartment building and kill the engine. Whether the girl is a masochist, or just naturally dominated by her conscience, she can’t seem to stop punishing herself.

Running a hand down my face, I huff. “Ivy, your grandmother just passed away. Just … focus on yourself right now. Don’t trouble your mind with things you can’t change.”

Her head snaps in my direction, brows knitted with a caustic expression. “Trouble my mind? This has been eating at me for years now. Years, Damon. And there’s more.” Chin jutted, she directs her attention toward my chest. “Open my grandmother’s letter. Read it.”

“I plan to read it later.”

Eyes brimming with protest, she stares back at me. “No. Now. Read it right now.”

“Ivy, c’mon—”

“Now! Read it right now!”

Gaze locked on hers, I sneak my hand inside my pocket and pull the note from inside, opening it up to a handwritten letter, addressed to: Dear Father.

In the event I’m not able to confess my sins before death, I feel compelled to cleanse my soul by divulging something that was told to me many years ago. Due to my slowly declining health, I find it necessary to capture my thoughts while I still have my wits about me, and am of sound mind to relay them to my most trusted caretaker, Anita. I’ve kept this to myself for a long time, for fear of what might happen to my only love in the world, my only granddaughter, Ivy Mercier. But I refuse to let this secret follow me to the grave, and so you may take this as my last confession.

First, you must understand, my granddaughter has always been a very happy child, so even through my own malady, I could see something was troubling her. Through tears, she described a man who had come to her work, demanding that she hand over the medical record for a man named Richard Rosenberg. I will never forget his name because what transpired next was a series of very unfortunate events. Not three days after her releasing the man’s record, Mr. Rosenberg showed up dead. Tortured to death and discarded in a dumpster outside of his hotel. Ivy expressed sincere regret and remorse, feeling responsible for the man’s death, and she’s been punishing herself for years since. Though I urged her to go to the police with the information at the time, she told me this Calvin, who demanded the record from her, threatened to kill both of us, if she said a word to anyone. I later learned from a friend of mine, who works at that hotel and had overheard the investigators talking, that this Richard Rosenberg was here on behalf of his client, to secure a witness who might testify against a known criminal. A man by the name of Anthony Savio.

In a brief pause, I stare down at my father’s name written across the page, and suddenly the letter takes on new meaning. This isn’t just a confession at this point, or the mention of a lawyer whose contact information was stored in my dead wife’s phone, but the pieces to a puzzle that have eluded me for the last eight years. It begs me to keep reading.

A few days after Richard Rosenberg’s body was recovered, the daughter-in-law and granddaughter of Anthony Savio were found dead in their home. It is my belief that Calvin was responsible for the lawyer’s murder, and possibly that of the woman and child. He is an evil man who has taken it upon himself to make my granddaughter’s life miserable. I want to make it known to God that my granddaughter, Ivy, is innocent and deserves absolution for the sins she has committed.

God Bless,

Adele Mercier

Cold branches of rage snake through my veins as I stare down at the letter in my hands.

“I didn’t know it was your family until tonight.” Ivy’s voice is a dissonant chime beneath the swish of blood pounding through my ears. A disconnected sound that fails to draw me out of the images passing through my mind, too fast for my brain to keep up.

Visuals of the card I pulled out of Val’s phone case with the lawyer’s number. A hotel room written on the back. The few times before her death when I tried to reach her, and she didn’t answer my call. Her preoccupation that I must’ve mistaken for worry over the cost of Isabella’s treatments. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Is your father Anthony Savio?”

“Yes.”

“From what I’ve gathered, Richard Rosenberg was the lawyer who came to secure a witness against him. They found a broken digital recorder and an empty briefcase in the lawyer’s hotel room. I’m guessing whatever they had on him was destroyed. And I’m pretty sure Calvin, or someone working with him, killed him.”

A sniffle draws my attention toward Ivy, who wipes tears from her cheek.

“There’s something else. On one of the nights I stayed with Calvin, I was nosing through his things while he was passed out, just looking for any information I could find. Not that it mattered, but I needed to know. I needed to know if he killed that lawyer. I found a picture of your wife and daughter with an address clipped to it. I recognized them from the news report after the murder.”

“No. The police … they told me it was a break in.” Even as the words tumble from my lips, I knew back then it was a lie. One I’ve never believed, yet right now, I find myself clinging to it, if only for the sake of my sanity, because the picture Ivy’s painting is too hard to look at. “Val wouldn’t have testified against my father.”

“Are you sure?”

Am I sure? Had she ever once felt anything but contempt toward my father? Was it possible she might’ve seized the opportunity to lock him away for the things she became privy to throughout our marriage, and while working as his bookkeeper? And what wouldn’t she have done to pay for Isabella’s mounting hospital bills, because surely, anyone willing to go after my father would’ve offered a nice sum of cash. “That would mean that … Calvin was hired by my ...” Shaking my head can’t erase the possibility in all of this, the thin shred that makes all of this plausible.

“I told you. Calvin is a bad man who has done bad things.”

Hands balling into fists at my side, I fight the urge to latch onto the brewing anger toward Ivy, the only link I have at the moment. The only thing attaching me to this chaotic mess hammering against my conscience. A living, breathing catalyst to my pain. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t know it was your family. The husband was Anthony Savio Jr. There’s nothing on him.”

“I changed my name after the murders. I joined the priesthood to start over. To get away from the rage and this … life.”

“I’m sorry Damon. If I hadn’t given him that file, he wouldn’t have found your family. It’s my fault.”

Another spike of anger rushes through my blood, and I tamp it down for the pieces of this story that don’t match up correctly. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would Calvin go to the hospital to find out where the guy was staying? How the hell would he even know he was there?”

“One of the security guards saw him enter on camera. I told you, he’s got ties to police and security. Eyes all over the city. He doesn’t deserve to live for what he’s done. Who he’s hurt.”

Which is probably why the police lied to me. Why they played it off as a simple break in, and closed the case as if it no longer warranted further investigation. As if my wife and daughter had died for something insignificant and meaningless. “And you didn’t know it was me? Right. You planned this all along, Ivy. You strung me along, so I’d do your dirty work.” I can’t even bring myself to look at her, for fear I’ll do something ungodly, something I’ll regret when the shock of all this settles in my head. “And now you’re making up some fabricated story, so I’ll kill him for you. You’re manipulative and a liar. So full of shit, it’s leaking out your eyeballs.”

In my periphery, she leans toward me, and at the brush of her hand, I wrench my arm away, not wanting her to touch me.

“I swear to you on my grandmother’s grave, I didn’t make this up. Not this, Damon.”

“Get out.”

“Damon.” The quaver of tears carries on her voice, but doesn’t draw a single ounce of empathy from me. “Please. Don’t do this. I’m sorry. Please don’t shut me out.”

“Get out!”

The moment she exits my car, I hit the gas and take off down the street. Buildings pass in a blur. The sudden need for whiskey tugs at my chest, and it isn’t coincidence when I pull the car into the liquor store parking lot. I buy a fifth and leave the twenty bucks in change on the counter, letting the wrath whisper its dark and chilling assurances in my ear. Whispers that promise pain and revenge—all the things to which I vowed never to fall victim again.

Isabella.

Her name echoes inside my head as, once outside, I tip the bottle back, letting the warm liquor burn my chest and straighten the thoughts beating against my skull in punishing cadence. In the center of the storm is a woman with bright green, hypnotic eyes, the kind designed to draw a man in and make him forget everything. A potent dose of lust that overwhelms the senses and weakens the mind. Even with all this anger, all this reason to hate her, I still want the woman behind those eyes.

The sinner. The manipulator. The unforgiveable starlet in every fantasy I’ve had over the last few weeks. She lied to me, and I was right about one thing all along.

Ivy really is poison in my blood.

17

IVY

Parked on the floor of my apartment with a bottle of wine and a cigarette, I open the letter from Mamie. Probably a bad idea to read it now, of all times, but I need her words more than ever. What I wouldn’t give to have her sitting beside me, stroking my hand with her warm, wrinkled skin, telling me everything will be okay.

Everything works out in the end, she always said.

Maybe it doesn’t, though. Maybe that only applies to the woman who didn’t betray the only man who made her feel something.

It wasn’t a lie, when I told Damon that I didn’t know Valerie and Isabella were his family. Very little was known about the husband, at the time, as he seemed to go off the grid. Just disappeared. The news never once captured a picture of him, not even in the brief minute he was named as a suspect early on. And in a city like Los Angeles, where murders happen every day, theirs didn’t hold anyone’s attention for very long before it became old news.

When Mamie told me what her friend who worked at the hotel had divulged, I couldn’t eat for a week. I wanted to go to the police and confess everything, even if that meant turning over myself, but Calvin had already threatened to torture Mamie, if I spoke a word about the record, and with so many police on his side, I didn’t trust any one of them to take my confession.

Hands trembling, I put out my smoke and read the letter.

My Dearest Ivy,

Your entire life has been riddled with pain and guilt. The sorrow of having a mother walk out on you. Your father, too. The guilt of carrying around another man’s sin on your shoulders. Fact is, people make choices every day to do right or wrong. And sometimes they do wrong in the name of something right. I want you to forgive yourself and learn to accept forgiveness from others. It is not a sin to love someone so unconditionally that you would do anything for them. But the gravest sin of all is not allowing God the opportunity to forgive you.

On se reverra un jour, mon petit moineau.

Je t’aime.

Mamie

My tears wet the page as they fall, and I hold her final words to my chest, wishing I could tattoo them across my heart. I tip back the bottle of wine, guzzling my best bottle of cabernet, but startle at a pounding at the door, dripping wine onto the page.

“Ivy!” The voice on the other side, steeped in menace, carves a hollow dread in my gut.

Oh, no. Not Calvin. Not now.

I reach for the phone I’ve ignored for the last two hours and see he’s texted me a dozen more times, each one increasingly angry in tone. Stomach churning with sickness, I pad quietly toward the door and peer through the peephole, where my fears are confirmed by his furious eyes staring back at me.

“Ivy! Open up!” Three more wallops at the door set my muscles jerking, and I slap a hand over my mouth, my whole body trembling with fear and adrenaline.

“You leab! You leab right now, or I’ll call da police!” Mrs. Garcia’s voice sends a shot of alarm down my spine, and when Calvin spins around, shoving her backward into the door behind her, I snap into action.

Unlocking the door, I throw it open and give a harsh push to his arm, and I fall to my knees beside Mrs. Garcia, who lies on the floor, rubbing the top of her head. “Oh, my God, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Arms band around my stomach, lifting me off the floor, and I scream and fight, elbowing him in the chest as I kick at him.

“You leab her alone!” Mrs. Garcia calls after us.

The door shuts out her threats to call the police, and Calvin drags me across the room, throwing me down onto the bed. He prowls toward me like a vicious predator, backing me against the wall, caging me.

“Where’ve you been, love?” he asks through clenched teeth. “I’ve called and texted and called and fucking texted all night!”

“My grandmother died, you heartless bastard!” I want to say that I regret calling him that, knowing it’ll piss him off, but the events of the night have reset all my instincts. I feel like I’m short circuiting and ready to break down.

A cold, hard sting smarts my cheek, kicking my head to the side. “Heartless? This coming from the bitch who can’t show a little gratitude toward the man who saved her ass?”

“You never saved me. You imprisoned me, and I’ve regretted helping you ever since!”

Another crack against my cheekbone rattles my teeth, and I flinch as the pain shoots up into my sinuses. “Where were you tonight?”

“At the nursing home.” I force calm in my voice, certain that another hit will knock me out. “I told you, my Mamie died.”

“Your Mamie?” He lifts his head, nostrils flaring, and his lips flatten with the hardening of his jaw. “Then, why’s it smells like fucking sex in here?”

“You’re crazy. Call the nursing home, Calvin. They’ll tell you.”

Fucking psychopath!

He pushes off the bed, and lifts the bedspread before letting it fall, then disappears into the bathroom. The sound of clanging is undoubtedly my personal shit he’s throwing around in his tantrum.

Heart pounding in my chest, I watch him move from the bathroom to the closet, and he emerges carrying my black latex suit, holding a section of it marred by a dull streak, where Damon’s cum has dried.

“Yeah? What’s this?”

Eyeballs bouncing from the suit, to the disbelief in his eyes that promises more pain, I clear my throat, hoping to convince him. “It’s nothing.”

“I bought this fucker brand new. So, why’s there a cum stain?” The rancor in his tone tells me whatever I say next doesn’t really matter. His eyeballs practically glow red with the fury I imagine roiling through his blood right now.

While my mind spins for an answer, he lifts it to his nose, sniffing the material, and my stomach twists in knots. “I … Calvin …”

Another backhanded slap with the fabric smarts my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. “You’re a lying cunt. And you know what happens to lying cunts?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. Not that I would. “They get fucked.”

Before I have a chance to fight back, he grabs my ankles, dragging me to the edge of the bed. Kicking out at him is futile while he holds my legs, and with one harsh yank, he flips me onto my stomach. Clawing against the sheets, I scramble on my knees to get away, but he drags me back and presses his weight on top of me.

“How many times do I have to tell you? This pussy is mine! I guess we’ll have to brand it, won’t we? Make sure every motherfucker knows it’s mine. Think it’s time we plugged in that curling iron of yours, Ivy.”

“No, no!”

With a handful of hair, he drags me into the bathroom, while my feet kick and scrape against the floor. Once inside, he doesn’t release me as he kneels down.

I manage one sharp kick to his nuts, which only incites a snarl from him, and he slams his body on top of me.

My ribs feel as if they might explode, all the air rushing out of my chest. I can’t suck in a breath for a moment, and he steals the opportunity to pull a set of cuffs from his back pocket and secure me to the pedestal sink. Still gasping, I turn over, feeling a harsh yank across my thighs, and suck in the first small breath. By the time I have enough air in my lungs, he’s yanked my jeans and panties completely off, leaving me naked from the waist down.

Pushing my thighs apart pins them painfully to the floor, and he bends forward, burying his nose between them. “Smells like another man’s dick.”

Squirming fails to break his hold, and a sharp twinge of pain hits my core as he shoves two fingers up inside me, his nails scraping against my walls.

“Feels like you’ve had someone’s dick up in you. Just like a little whore.” Pushing up to his knees, he nabs my curling iron from the basket where it’s stored, and plugs it into the outlet.

Suddenly, all my fight is gone as I lay there faced with the horrific.

“Please, Calvin. Please don’t do this. Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything for you.”

“Aww, this is what I want, love. I want to fuck you with this and make sure every bastard who tries to fuck you after knows who you belong to.”

“Please, Calvin. Don’t do this.”

“You know how they’re gonna know?” he continues. “Because if anyone tries to put their dick in you, you’re gonna remember how painful it is to be fucked with a hot ass curling iron, and you’re gonna tell them this pussy belongs to me. Calvin Bianchi.”

“No, please.”

He sets a finger to the curling iron, presumably testing the heat, and a wicked grin stretches across his face. “Ding! Ding! It’s hot and ready, baby.”

As he lowers it to me, I kick and squirm, the anxiety causing my field of view to shrink. Smaller and smaller, until the last thing I see is the curling iron set between my thighs.

18

DAMON

Forgiveness hasn’t always been my best suit, oddly enough. So the fact that I’m standing outside of Ivy’s door is a testament of my faith and how far I’ve come from the man who, ten years ago, would’ve put a bullet in the skull of anyone who confessed to having murdered my family. What I know from my years of tracking people down is, this guy would’ve found the lawyer regardless of whether, or not, Ivy handed over that record. Sure, she shaved some time by offering up his exact location, but any killer worth his salt would’ve found another way, and if he has the connections she says he has, it’s a wonder he even bothered with her.

Unless he just used it as an excuse to rope her in.

It was inevitable that he’d find my family, and it makes sense that he spared me, if my father was the one to hire him. Old bastard always had a thing for making my life hell, so why not douse the flames with gasoline by taking the very thing that offered me salvation? The only thing I had to live for back then.

A noise from behind me swings my attention around, and I see Mrs. Garcia, who I remember from earlier.

“You hab to help her. Iby’s in trouble. Please, help her.”

“What’s going on?”

“Dat man came back. He’s so evil! I know he’s going t’hurt her. I called da police, but dey neber come.” Chin jutting toward the door, she scowls. “He’s friends with dem.” With a grip of my sleeve, she stares up at me, eyes earnest and brimming with worry. “Help her. Please.” Sneaking back into her apartment, she closes the door like she’s battening down the hatches for a storm.

Maybe she is.

Wrath moves through me like a dark cloud, and I twist back toward the door and pound against it. Like an old friend, something cold and familiar snakes through my veins, winding itself around my tightly woven composure and strangling my control. While the veil of righteousness clings to my skin, the fire beneath peels away the veneer, threatening to reveal what lies within me.

I drop my gaze so he won’t see my face and pound on the door, harder this time, ready to knock it right off its hinges.

“’The fuck are you?” His voice bleeds through the door, carrying a certain familiarity about it.

“Father Damon Russo of Saint Mary’s Catholic Church.” Hiding the rage is nearly impossible as I answer through clenched teeth. “I just came by to check on Ivy.”

“She’s fine! Go away.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.” Knuckles burning with tight fists, I tell myself I don’t have to kill him. I can spare him after punishment, but I know better. If he’s hurt her, there can be no mercy. “I know she lost her grandmother, and I’d really like to check on her.”

“Listen, asshole—”

The minute the door swings open, I lurch forward and swing. The punch knocks the guy back on his ass, and within seconds, he scrambles forward, barreling right into my gut. Like a linebacker, he tackles me backward into the wall, bumping the mirror, which crashes to the floor.

I manage to get him into a headlock and hammer a punch into his face, cracking his nose.

“Fuck!” Falling backward onto the floor, he cups his nose, but not even that stops him from charging at me again.

I take the hit to my ribs, and he pummels punch after punch, damn near knocking the wind out of me. Blocking the next hit, I swing and crack his jaw, kicking his head to the side on a spray of blood. Another hit kicks it the opposite direction. Another splits his lip open.

Body crashing onto the floor, he weakly blocks my punches, until a stab of pain radiates across my arm, and I pause to see a knife sticking out of my bicep. The distraction costs me the next punch, and he climbs over me, knocking his fists against my arms that shield my face. Blow after blow weakens my muscles, casting a burn through my body. He turns the knife in my wound, and I bellow, my mind snapping with the pain.

I look up and see his face for the first time.

He looks at me.

Vinnie Bianchi. I grew up with the bastard back in New York. Was my best friend and often accompanied me on jobs for my dad. Only, we didn’t call him Calvin back then. He was the wannabe gangster. The kid whose family disowned him for hanging around Anthony Savio’s son. He joined the military for a while, and got shipped overseas. Ended up suffering from post-traumatic stress and got into security work, also known as paid assassinations, and he pulled a couple jobs for my dad, quickly gaining my father’s trust.

The last person I’d expect to see.

“You rotten motherfucker!” A surge of strength beats through my muscles, and taking advantage of what appears to be shock on his face, as well, I throw him off of me.

“’The fuck? I thought … I thought you died. No one heard from you again.”

“You killed my family.” I yank the knife from my arm, capping my hand over the oozing blood.

“That was business. Wasn’t personal. I didn’t want to do it, but your dad paid me a lot of dough for that one.”

“Why? Why would you take everything that ever mattered to me?”

“Why’d you leave, huh? Just up and fucking disappeared? That bitch … that bitch had you wrapped around her finger from the beginning.”

I lurch forward with the knife. Straddling his body, I press it toward him, shaking with the effort, as he fights me, holding the knife away from his throat where I intend to slice him open.

“She … didn’t … love you. She tell you … I fucked her before you left … for California?”

“Fuck you!”

“It’s true. She came … to my house … asking me to … take her in.”

“Liar!”

“You made … her leave … New York. She was … fucking miserable.”

I press harder, putting every ounce of muscle into driving the knife into his throat to silence his words. “So, what did you do? Follow me out to California?”

“Your father … asked me to keep an eye … on you and Val. Val, in particular.”

“And Isabella?”

“I didn’t … want … to kill her. It was … a mistake. She got … in the way … protecting Val!”

Are you resolved to consecrate your life to God for the salvation of his people …

The vows of my ordination are a quiet white noise inside my head, tamped down by the screams that ripped from my throat when I held my daughter’s lifeless body in my arms.

With my eyes screwed shut, my thoughts latch on to echoes of her laughter, a sound I’ll never hear again, thanks to this unrepentant piece of shit.

Muscles quaking, I draw back and punch him in the face. Over and over, I hammer my fists against his bones, sending slivers of pain up through my knuckles, until he stills beneath me.

My body kettles the rage boiling inside of me, threatening to explode in violent bursts of vengeance.

Tears blur his bloody form, further distorting his mangled face, and I push off him to look for Ivy.

I find her in the bathroom, legs spread wide, where she lies passed out on the floor and cuffed to the sink. A curling iron is propped between her legs, the waves of heat painting images inside my head. Murderous images that only serve to fuel my rage. I stride across the room, back to Vinnie, and search through his pockets, finding a key stuffed inside his jeans. Back at Ivy’s side, I unfasten the cuffs and set the curling iron aside, before lifting her up off the floor. I carry her across the room, setting her down on the bed, and cover her up with the blanket.

Still entranced by the adrenaline coursing through me like gasoline, I swipe up Vinnie’s ankle and drag him into the bathroom. Once inside, I cuff him to the sink, just as he had Ivy moments before, and wait for him to come to.

Seconds bleed into minutes.

Camped out with a bottle of wine I found on the living room floor, I smack Vinnie’s cheeks. “Hey. Wake up.”

His swollen eyes blink open, and as realization dawns on him, he immediately scans his surroundings, lifting his gaze toward his cuffed arms. Kicking back away from me, he tugs on the cuffs, as if he could break them, or something.

I hold up the curling iron that’s practically smoking with heat by this point. “What did you plan to do with this?”

The slight roll of his shoulders snags my attention. “Nothing, man. Just messing around.”

“Messing around.” I tip back the bottle of wine, swallowing a burning chug of cabernet, and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “So, when I found her in here with her legs spread, you weren’t actually planning to fuck her with this?”

He snorts and shakes his head, as if I’m the crazy one now. “No. It’s just a game. Just wanted to scare her.”

“Why?”

“She’s mine. She belongs to me.” The possession in his voice doesn’t roll off his tongue like a man who knows love. He sounds like a child guarding a toy that he plans to destroy so no one else wants it.

“What’s so special about this girl?”

The flinch of his eye confirms my suspicions, as if he doesn’t want to reveal her best assets to me and risk I’ll want her more than I already do. “Ivy … she’s not like other girls. She’s the only one who gets me.”

“Gets you? She does what you say because she’s afraid of you.”

“That bitch isn’t afraid of anything. She’s got fight in her. ‘Swhat I like about her.”

Another swill of the wine numbs my conscience, feeding the ever-growing thirst to watch him suffer. “A woman shouldn’t have to fight a man who claims to care about her.”

“Says the fucking priest. When’s the last time you got any action?”

“This evening. Loved the latex suit, by the way.”

“Motherfucker!”

“I didn’t fuck your mom, Vin. I fucked your girl.” Tipping my head, I smile down at him. “Oh, wait, she was never your girl to begin with.” The words tumble easily from my lips in a language I haven’t spoken in years, as if the old me is resurrecting before my very eyes.

He kicks out at me, and I laugh as he fails to make contact. “I’ll kill you!”

“I’m impressed, Vinnie. I never thought you the type to become so … obsessed. Most sociopaths aren’t capable of forming that kind of connection.”

“You oughta know. Surprised you started a family, asshole. You can’t deny what’s in your blood. What’s a part of you.” He jerks his chin, his gaze sweeping over me with disdain. “You might fool everyone else with that righteous bullshit, but you can’t fool me. I know where you come from. I’ve seen the blood on your hands.”

“Then, you know how this ends.”

Sneering, he tugs on the cuffs, as if to suggest the fight isn’t fair. As if fairness was ever considered when he slaughtered my family and attempted to sear Ivy with a hot iron. “Go ahead. Kill me. Ain’t that a mortal sin, your holiness?”

“I’ve already racked up a whole fucking lot of sins. One more isn’t going to change anything.”

Jaw shifting, he flinches again. Perhaps he’s just realized I’ve no intentions of sparing him. “Just so you know? I didn’t take the full payment from your pops. I couldn’t. Val was special to me, too.” He looks away, lips tight, but I’m not buying this show. “I hated having to kill her. I hated that he made me hurt you.”

Bullshit. “Is that your last confession?”

“I loved you like a brother, man. I would’ve killed for you.”

“Instead, you killed me.” As I round his body, he twists, kicking out at me in a piss-poor attempt to keep me from getting close, but I skirt his flailing legs and crouch beside his head. Curling iron in hand, I grab hold of his skull, gripping him in the crook of my arm like a football. “May you burn in hell. In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” I set the curling iron to his lips, holding tight as a scream pounds inside his chest, and his body seizes in a failed effort to break free. “Amen.”

I think of Val, wondering if she’d have wanted this, seeing me so crazed with vengeance that I can’t see past the blinding rage. And Isabella. Would she have feared me afterward? Or been comforted by the slaying of her monster. What about Ivy? Will she wake with remorse?

When I pull the curling iron away, bits of flesh stick to the metal, and he stills in my arms, eyes closed, probably passed out. His swollen lips are sealed together, as though soldered. I release his head and stare down at him.

It’s too late to ponder whether, or not, I’m a good man for what I’m about to do. I can’t see past the tears on their faces, the pain in their eyes. It’s a torment that outweighs my conscience. One that challenges my faith. My devotion to God tells me to forgive this man and let him be judged for his sins.

The stabbing pain inside my heart is a reminder that I can’t.

And as a result, it’s going to be a long night, because I’ve no intentions of granting him mercy.

Blood pools across the white tiles, seeping into the rug on the bathroom floor. The evidence of one fatal crack to a skull. Vinnie’s arms, legs and face bear the burns of the curling iron, while his mangled cheekbones carry the punishing blows of a hammer I found in one of Ivy’s junk drawers in the kitchen. Kneecaps busted, along with several toes, he lies motionless on the bathroom floor, as I wash away the remnants of his blood streaked across my arm into the sink above him.

At the flicker of movement in my periphery, I lift my gaze see to Ivy, standing in the doorway, face a ghostly shade of white, as she covers her mouth. In the next second, she falls beside the toilet and expels a torrent of vomit that splashes up in her face. Over and over again, she empties her stomach, and I stand watching her, drying my hands on the towel.

“Oh, my God.” Another belly-deep cough, and she spits the stringing mucus from her lips into the toilet.

“I told you before, Ivy.” I toss the towel, stained with faint smears of Vinnie’s blood, onto the sink. “There is no God here.” Peeling back the sleeve of my shirt, I notice the bleeding has slowed quite a bit, the slice to my arm burning, gaping with clotted blood, but bearable.

“Calvin … is he dead?”

I glance down at Vinnie, then back to her. “I’d say so. Does the thought of that trouble you?”

“I didn’t …. Oh, God.” She heaves into the toilet bowl again, and I reach down to pull back her hair, catching the flinch of her shoulder when I massage her there. “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

“You doubted me?” Brow raised, I release her, and she rises to her feet and rinses her mouth in the sink, swishing some mouthwash set out on the counter. “Any chance you have a large garbage bag? Like, lawn and leaf size?”

Another glance toward Vinnie, then back to me, and she stumbles out of the room, returning with a shiny black bag that I slide up over Vinnie’s legs. Hands uncuffed, he folds easily, as I stuff him into the bag, my muscles shaking with the effort of manipulating his body. I tie it closed, trapping the demons of my past inside with him. After giving one good yank of the knot to seal it, I push to my feet and check my shoes, which show no trace of blood that could be tracked through her apartment.

“What …. What are you going to do with him?”

More of his blood stains my forearms up to the rolled sleeves of my black shirt, and across my chest. Careful to avoid the blood on the floor, I scrub at my skin once more, washing away the evidence of my cruelty, and dry my hands a second time on the towel that’ll need to be trashed along with the bathroom rug. “I’m going to throw him into my trunk. Drive him to the church. And dump him into the septic tank. Isn’t that what we talked about?”

“Yes, but—”

Gripping her chin, I guide her eyes toward mine. “No buts. This is what you asked for, isn’t it? The only way out?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re going to clean up the blood on the floor. Bleach it. And burn the rug. I don’t want to see a trace of blood when I get back here, understand?”

She nods, eyes filling with tears that I know aren’t for him, but because she’s scared. A trembling little mouse who narrowly missed the bite of a venomous snake.

“Don’t be afraid. He can’t hurt you, anymore. You’re free, Ivy.” Planting a kiss to her lips, I grip the back of her neck, staring down at her. “Now I need you to clean up as good as you can. Can you do that for me?”

With an emphatic nod, she licks her lips. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” One more kiss, and I release her, keeping my eyes on hers for any sign that she might lose it while I’m gone. For now, the dull shine staring back at me tells me she’s resolved. Perhaps relieved, if she were to be honest with herself.

Hoisting Vinnie up onto my shoulder, I carry him across the room and out of the apartment. As I spin around to make my way downstairs, I see Mrs. Garcia staring at me with one arched brow.

I pause to stare back at her.

Clearing her throat, she rolls her shoulders back. “Tell Iby I hab some lumpia for her. I’ll bring dem later.” Her eyes shift to the bag and back to me. “There’s a door out back to dump garbage.” She purses her lips and slips back into her apartment, as if it isn’t obvious the massive black bag slung over my shoulder is a body.

With a smirk, I keep on down the stairs and exit out the back door of the complex, where I set his body on the stoop like a bag of trash. Observing not a soul in sight, I jog back to the front of the building and drive the car around, drop him into the trunk, and make my way back to the church.

It’s after one in the morning when I arrive, noting the rectory standing dark and quiet behind the church. Like déjá vu, I drive the car around back, my skin prickled with the anxiety coursing through my blood. Nabbing the same shovel I used to dig the hole last time, I work quickly in the moon’s faint light, excavating through fresh dirt to the access lid of the septic tank. Vinnie’s body sits in the garbage bag beside me, and a scant amount of blood from my cut has trickled down my arm in all my toil. One more glance around, and I bend forward to lift the heavy concrete from the tomb below it.

It feels heavier this time, or perhaps that’s the weight of my crimes bearing down on me as I hurry to bury the evidence. I steal a quick breath and hoist the lid off to the side, exposing the reeking hole where Chuck’s body is hardly visible in the darkness. I’m tempted to shine my phone light inside, just to be sure he’s still there, but instead, I drag Vinnie closer to the hole, setting the bag at the edge of it.

“Damon?” The familiar voice from behind ripples down my spine and wraps itself around my chest in one suffocating squeeze.

I turn to find Ruiz standing behind me, a look of confusion painted across his face. Seconds tick off with the pounding of blood inside my ears, as I watch his gaze dip to the black bag and back to me. Breaths slicing through what little my lungs will allow, I contemplate my choices: confess to my crime—crimes—or eliminate my witness, as I would’ve done ten years ago without question.

“What are you doing?” he asks, lifting a slice of apple to his mouth. It’s then I notice the fruit in the palm of his hand, and his unfocused gaze while he chews it.

“I’m … taking out the trash?” The words hardly slip past the dry knot in my throat.

He looks around one more time, the crunching of his apple filling the awkward silence between us. Stepping over the bag, he pats me on the shoulder, as he passes on his way toward the rectory. “See you at mass.”

As I watch him make his way down the path, without so much as a glance back at me, I exhale a shaky breath and keep on.

It takes an hour to dump his body into the septic tank, where I discarded Chuck’s only just over a week ago. By the time I return to Ivy’s, she’s already cleaned up the mess on the floor, and I double check the grout for any residual specks she might’ve missed, but find nothing. Everything is bleached white and the rug has been removed. I exit the bathroom and find her sitting on the bed, back against the wall with her knees pulled into her chest.

“Damon, I’m so sorry for everything. Will you ever forgive me?” She crawls across the bed and lowers to her knees in supplication before me. “Please forgive me.”

“Only God forgives, Ivy.” She stares up at me with pleading eyes, and, hand set to the top of her head, I feel my body harden. Every cell of my being is on fire with the sins coursing through me. The need to push her away, to ignore the temptation of feeding my cock between those eager lips, is smothered by the weight of culpability already pressing down on me. A suffocating iniquity no God could ever forgive.

Why should I be so virtuous, then?

Unbuckling my belt, I lock my eyes on hers as I slide it from the loops of my slacks, and fasten it around her neck like the white collar at my own throat. “But your penance is my pleasure. And you have much to atone for.”

One small tug, and her mouth gapes, her chest rising and falling with what could be fear, or excitement. Or both.

“Your lust and temptation. You must expiate these sins in equal measure to the way you’ve made me suffer for them. Will you accept this punishment, Ivy? Will you give your body over for these trespasses against me, these licentious thoughts you breed?”

“Yes,” she breathes, eyes hooded, as she reaches for the belt caught in my fist. “I’ll take whatever punishment you decide.”

“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Eyes on me, she reaches up to glide my zipper down slowly. “Amen,” she whispers, yanking my slacks to mid-thigh, springing my dick free. Another tug of the belt at her throat guides her forward, and the moment her lips meet the head of my cock, I’m certain there’s no chance of redemption for me. No going back.

Feeding my shaft down her throat, I lay my hands on her head, as if conferring the Holy Spirit upon her, and tip my head back when she sucks me base to tip. “Yes, that’s it. Take all of it, Ivy. Every inch of what you’ve sown.”

Threads of tension wind deep inside my stomach, as she takes me in her mouth again. And again. Moving up and down my cock with such deference, such devotion to the act, while stripping away what little piety is left in me.

“Pécheresse, you’ve damned my soul with these lips,” I say, curling my fingers into her hair. “Fucking hell.”

Hands still pressed to her head, I wrench my cock from her mouth, breaths heaving, every muscle in my body keening with the loss of contact, begging for more of that delectable constriction. I want to punish her for the way she commands my body. How easily she invites me to sin, as if it’s the answer to my every prayer.

There’s no fighting this, though. And the truth is, I was damned the day I was brought into this world. There’s no denying that anymore, either.

As a father, a husband, and a priest, I like to think that, for a short time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be a good man. One of integrity and good intentions, with the capacity to forgive and show mercy. But I’m the son of Anthony Savio, a criminal by my very birth, and no matter how far across the country I travel to get away, or how many times I change my name, killing will always be in my blood.

It’s who I am.

Loosening my collar, I remove it from my neck and toss it onto the nightstand. I won’t need it after tonight, as I fully intend to turn over my resignation to Bishop McDonnell first thing in the morning. Next, I unbutton my shirt, peeling it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, beside Ivy, my temptation in the flesh, who watches me undress. Patiently waiting, like a good little supplicant.

I wish I could say that the blood I’ve spilled is enough, but just as I know I can’t stay away from Ivy, I’m certain it isn’t in me to forgive my father for having murdered my family. So, as much as I wish I could be a man of virtue and unyielding devotion the church, the truth is, I’m not finished with this wrath.

Or indulging in my darkest fantasies, for that matter.

I crawl over top of Ivy, while she backs herself onto the bed, eyes carrying what I surmise is something carnal. Wicked.

Far too irresistible for my slowly unraveling control.

Taking the end of the belt in hand, I urge her beneath me, licking my lips like a wolf at the thought of what’s to come.

Tonight, I’m going to fuck her. I’m going to glut on her body until I’ve had my fill. Until there isn’t an ounce of lust left in me. Then I’m going to fuck her again after that.

And tomorrow? I’m going to fly back to New York to make my father answer for his sins.

Sins that can never be absolved.

PART II

ATONEMENT

19

DAMON

Skyscrapers flank the steeple of St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue. Its neo-gothic architecture is a stark contrast to the modern buildings of the city. A stern pillar of virtue that bears down on me, as I stare up at it, recalling the many times my aunt and mother dragged me here as a kid.

I’m not here for church, though.

I’m here to kill my father.

Food, urine, and exhaust fumes mingle with the bitter scent of betrayal, as I keep on toward the parking garage at the end of the block. Figures that it’d take my old man to bring me back to the one place in the world I swore I’d never return to again.

Even as I keep on, I feel the weight of the cross pressing against my shoulders, reminding me that I’m still bound by my vows, seeing as Bishop McDonnell insisted I take some time for myself before throwing in the white collar and hanging up my vestments for good.

There’s the issue of Ivy, too. As many times as I’ve tried to get her out of my system over the last week, I’ve found her to be the most difficult temptation to break. Leaving her back in L.A. was not only for her own safety, but also for my sanity and what little is left of my soul.

Across the East River lies Corona, a borough of Queens where my father has lived for the past couple of decades now. Even with my absence, the chance of getting recognized there isn’t worth the risk of word getting back to him, not before I have the chance to slit his throat, so I’ve been keeping my distance in the city of the faceless, until I’m ready.

And I am ready.

My rental is a small black sedan that could be any one of the three parked in the same row on the second level, and I have to tap the remote to determine which is mine. Once settled into the driver’s seat, I grip the steering wheel to calm my nerves.

Killing is instinctual. Killing my father could almost be viewed as barbaric, if not for the fact that he sent a man to butcher my family, and the knot twisting in my gut is the brewing anger I’ve tamped down for two days in a hotel room, waiting for the moment to do this, building up my resolve.

If love is a measure of a man’s heart, then my chest must be as hollow and empty as his guilt for having arranged such a callous murder. What love I had for the man is now buried alongside the bones of my wife and child.

With a deep breath, I drive the car out of the garage and through downtown Manhattan, toward the Queensboro Bridge. The city passes in chaotic streaks of red and gray, while my mind spins with the visuals of his face in the fatal moment when I’ll slide the blade across his throat.

I thought about shooting him, but a blade just feels more personal. More fitting for the way my wife and daughter were slaughtered in their sleep.

I come to a stop along the curb in front of my father’s unimpressive Colonial in Corona, one of the only single homes on a block that’s packed with duplexes and apartments crammed together. Where one might expect a small front yard there’s nothing but a slab of concrete, upon which my dad’s Bonneville he bought back when I was a teenager sits parked. For a man who hoards enough blood money to man his own army, he lives a rather unassuming life. By choice. He told me once, when I was just a kid, that kings without castles never fall. By staying ‘low to the ground’, as he called it, living in the same working class neighborhoods as the people he screwed over, he could keep a pulse on what was going on.

The dull buzz of a flickering street lamp is the only sound as I make my way toward the dark and quiet house. Neighboring yards stand unkempt, with toys and kids’ rusted old bikes lying about. A light dusting from an early snowfall does little to hide the patches of brown grass where dogs have undoubtedly pissed. Place hasn’t changed much.

Memories of hot summers and kids playing in the streets are quickly tamped down by the bone chilling breeze that brushes over my skin. The lingering hum in my blood is my nerves acting up again.

Last time I visited my father was just before Val and I took off to California, when I told him I wanted no part of the family business. I had no idea back then I’d be back less than a decade later to settle a score with him.

I slip through the narrow gap between my father’s house and the neighbor’s, toward the back door. For a criminal who’s amassed as many enemies as he has, his security system is a simple keypad lock on the door that, once entered, bypasses the alarm settings. Anyone watching him long enough could’ve easily learned the code by now, but I guess, when a man has been dubbed The Savage of Corona, based on his rather unconventional kills, people tend to keep their distance.

I punch the familiar code, my birthdate, into the keypad, wondering if he changed it after I took off. At the green light, I turn the knob, greeted by a cold blast of air and darkness, and enter the small mudroom. In high school, the room smelled like sweaty gym shoes and the ammonia my aunt used to scrub the floors when she came to help out my dad a few times a week. Now it smells stagnant and unused, like damp wood and mold.

The mudroom opens onto the kitchen, and I quietly pad through, taking note of only a few dishes in the sink and a lineup of pill bottles on the counter. The streetlamp outside offers just enough light through the window over the sink to make out both his name and those of the medications. Some kind of stool softener, oxycontin, a vitamin, and a few others I can’t begin to recognize. I could almost think he’s swiped them to sell, if his name weren’t printed on every bottle. A surprise, considering he always hated doctors.

The house is still on my quiet pass through the dining room, and toward the staircase, across from the front door. Avoiding the creaking first stair, I take slow and careful steps, skirting where I know the wood is old and weak, until I arrive at the top.

Somehow, the air feels thinner here, my heart pounding against my ribs as I stare down the hall toward my father’s closed bedroom door. Hand gripping the hilt of the blade I purchased my first night here, I glance down at the weapon I intend to use on my father. One of sturdy steel and jagged teeth.

My thoughts drift back to the night he came home late with blood on his hands. I was thirteen when I woke to the sound of him stumbling in drunk, washing his hands in the utility sink. I asked him what happened. Thought he’d gotten hurt, and was bleeding out from some wound. Instead, he smirked at me, before going back to washing, and said, “A man does what he has to, in order to protect his family. Even if it means killing his own.”

I had no idea what that meant. If he killed my mother and lied about how she died, or murdered the man who killed her. He didn’t say then, and as the years passed, he didn’t say much at all about his comings and goings. It was the only night in my entire childhood that he exposed me to the man he was outside of this home. The ruthless legacy he hoped to pass down to me.

I make my way toward his bedroom, pausing at the door to listen. An incessant whooshing sound bleeds through the door, like compressed air, a sound I recognize as a ventilator from my many visits to critical care units at the hospital. I turn the knob and open it to a dark and quiet room.

Scant rays of moonlight offer a luminous blanket over my father’s sleeping form, where tubes stick out of his mouth, connected to what I correctly identified as a breathing machine. Frowning, I edge toward him, fingers curled tight around the blade, and watch his chest rise and fall in time with each whoosh of the vent.

His gaunt face and white hair betrays his age, adding decades on top of the ones I missed. Bags hang from a pole beside the bed, dripping fluids into a long clear tube that disappears on the other side of him. The stench of death hangs on the air, hitting the back of my throat with sterile scents of disinfectant over the musky odor of urine and infection.

I had no idea. The last time I saw him, he had far more weight on his bones, while he sat sipping his bourbon and smoking his favorite cigar.

Aside from his lungs expanding and contracting, he doesn’t so much as flinch beneath the blade I lift to examine, and I wonder if he’ll even know he’s dying when it slices across his throat. I twist the metal in my hand, and catch the tremble that has my muscles vibrating, my chest cold with the tickle of nausea. For every inhale and exhale of the machine, I take three breaths, feeling light with nervous anticipation.

Something about this doesn’t feel right to me. I clamp my eyes closed, desperate to remember Isabella’s smile, but all I see is my father’s, as he sat in the passenger seat of his Bonneville, his arm stretched across the back of it, while I awkwardly steered the car down the street, driving for the first time at age fourteen. “That’s it, Son! Drive it like you stole it!” he chuckled with pride.

Tears blur his form, and I swallow back the memory, grinding my teeth to stoke the wrath from before.

A click from behind has me spinning me around, knife outstretched.

From the corner of shadows across the room, he darkness comes to life. The business end of a gun breaches the light first, before a figure sits forward to reveal a face I know I’ve seen before, but can’t place.

“You brought a knife to a gunfight?” The distinct clip of a Brooklyn accent only adds to my confusion.

I study the man further. “Who are you?”

“Hand over the knife.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re here to kill him?”

The urge to glance back at my father is smothered by the need to keep my eyes on this guy. “What is he to you?”

He doesn’t answer, and the slight cant of his head tells me he’s studying me with the same curiosity that I’m studying him. “These are his final hours. He asked that I give him a peaceful death.”

“You wish to kill him?” I ask.

“No. I offered to kill anyone who tried to interrupt his last moments.”

“I’m his son.”

His eye twitches with a dubious sweep of his gaze, but he doesn’t bother to lower his gun. “His son is dead, last I checked.”

“My presence must come as a disappointment, then.” I finally glance back at my father, who looks even weaker than when I first saw him this way. “What’s killing him?”

“Cancer. Stubborn bastard waited too long. He’s been going downhill fast these last couple months.”

“And you’re his bodyguard, or the man who plans to clean out his accounts after?”

With a snort, he drops his gaze and shakes his head, stuffing his gun back into its holster, and my muscles finally settle for the first time in the last ten minutes. “I don’t need his money.”

“Well, let’s see. My father never had friends, only enemies. And you don’t strike me as the type who volunteers his time to help the sick and dying. So, what’s your purpose? What is he to you?”

“Same as what he is to you.”

Frowning, I rewind his words in search of clarity. “How so?”

“He’s my father.”

A burst of a laugh escapes me in my effort to understand what he just said. “Your father.” It shouldn’t surprise me, really. Good ol’ Pops certainly didn’t wait for my mother to pass before indulging in other women. I often heard her accuse him of infidelity during their many heated arguments as a kid, but he never once mentioned so much as the possibility of a brother to me.

“So, you are here to clean him out.”

“I told you. I don’t need his money. The old man took care of me and my mom. Gave us a decent place to live. Sent her money when she needed it. I’m just repaying the favor.”

“He never mentioned you. Ever.”

“He never mentioned you, either, until about ten years ago. Said he thought it’d be best if we didn’t know each other.”

“So I skipped town, and you swooped in to play house? He have you take over the business, or something?”

“I’ve got my own gig. I’m just here to carry out his final wishes.”

“He murdered my family. Ordered to have them slaughtered. He doesn’t deserve a peaceful death.”

“So, you’re here to … slit his throat? Seems a bit dramatic. Messy.” His gaze trails over me in appraisal. “You strike me as a bit more meticulous than that. Smarter. Which tells me you’re not as smart as you look, or you didn’t really have the balls to do it.”

Without a word, I spin around to the machine and grip the electrical cord.

“He didn’t do it!” His words halt my next move, and I crane my neck to see him holding the gun on me again. “He didn’t murder your family.”

“He did. I was told by the man who carried it out. He’s dead now, too, in case you’re wondering where this is going.”

“Tony sent me after Vinnie. Dumb prick stole about ten grand, killed Gus, and skipped town.”

Killed Gus? His lawyer for the last thirty some odd years was probably the closest thing my father had to a friend. “How’d he get his hands on ten grand?”

“Pop paid him to go after someone, and the punk skipped off.”

“Yeah, that someone was my wife.”

“Nah. It was someone coming after you, actually.”

“Who?”

“All I know is his people call him El Cabro Blanco and he’s known for some pretty ruthless shit. Has ties to the cartels down in Mexico. Probably lucky he didn’t find you first.”

“Vinnie killed my family. Val planned to testify against my father. He had every reason he needed to kill her.”

“You’re wrong. He offered to pay for all the kid’s treatments in exchange for your wife’s silence. Three times what that lawyer planned to give her. She agreed to it, as I understand. Vinnie was sent to deliver the deal to her, too.”

Shock settles over me as I twist to look back at my father, trying to imagine him willing to give Val anything, as angry as he was when I left New York. “No, that’s not him. He’s neither charitable, nor forgiving.”

“You’re right. He isn’t. But neither would he slaughter his own family.”

“I’m pretty certain he’s the reason my mother’s dead.”

“The same way you’re the reason your wife is dead.”

The tension in my muscles sends me to my feet, and I flip the knife into a stabbing position, teeth gritted with anger. “Maybe I’ll whet my blade with your bones, first.”

“I meant no disrespect. I’m just pointing out that your name’s a curse.”

“Thought it was your name, as well.”

“Probably be dead if Tony hadn’t insisted on my mother’s family name for me.”

It’s then I recognize his face. “You’re a … MMA fighter, or something, right? Machete something.”

“Mac,” he answers in an unimpressive tone. “MacConnell’s my mom’s name.”

From what little I’ve seen of him while living on the west coast, he has a huge following here and fought in some decent-sized venues. Doesn’t seem likely that he’d have time, or interest, in playing gopher for my father. “You seem pretty well-established. Why would he send you after Vinnie?”

“Family first. No matter what. I came from the streets. It’s in my blood. Chances are, I’ll die there, too.”

Exactly what I hoped to avoid in my life, though I’m sure he’s beyond those life lessons to bother with a lecture. “Where do I find this El Cabro Blanco?”

“No idea. Guy’s like a ghost with all the stories about him.”

Vinnie would’ve undoubtedly known where to find him. But Vinnie’s dead.

I don’t know what compelled my father to send Vinnie to make any deals with Val, but I guess that’s the nature of betrayal—you don’t always see it coming. “Can I have a minute?”

He seems to chew on the inside of his lip and flicks his fingers at me. “Knife.”

With a small bit of reluctance, I hand it over, and watch him back out of the room before closing the door behind himself.

Huffing out a breath, I twist around to face my old man once more. All these years, I hated him. I did everything in my power to avoid becoming like him, moving as far away from this place as I could possibly get. Mac is right about one thing, though: my family’s name is a curse. There’s no getting away from it. Wrath winds itself around every letter of the Savio name, strangling the life out of it, just as Father Vicio said back when I was young. It’s a poison I can’t escape, because as of tonight, I’ve just added another to my kill list. Whoever Cabro Blanco is, he’s just acquired a new enemy.

I don’t know if what Mac told me about my father is true. All I know is I can’t conjure a single reason he’d lie. Perhaps my father did try to intervene, to spare my family. Maybe I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.

Maybe I never really knew him, at all.

I kneel at the side of my father’s bed and bow my head in prayer. I’ve no right to offer him any measure of absolution after the sins I’ve committed, and those I intend to commit, but it isn’t in me to let this hate go on beyond death. I offer him the Prayer of Commendation and take his cold, wrinkled hand in mine. “For so many years, I hated you more than I loved you, but I hope you’ve found peace.” My words fail to breach his slumber, as if I’m already talking to his corpse. “You would’ve loved Isabella. She had Mom’s eyes.” Through tears, I smile, recalling moments when she lay in my arms, staring up at me, as I struggled to put her to sleep. “And her feisty temper.” Rubbing my thumb over his, I sniff and keep my eyes focused on the task. “I forgive you for not being the perfect father. You didn’t come from a particularly good life, but at least you tried.”

There’s no movement.

Nothing.

Yet, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders as I push to my feet. I don’t want to be here when he takes his last breath.

I open the door and find Mac finishing a cigarette, which he stamps out in an ashtray set on a table that’s butted up to the wall. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to look through some of his old books before I go. See if I can figure out who this goat man is.”

“Don’t bother me any.” Mac shrugs, and glances back toward the bedroom. “Don’t think he’d give a shit at this point.”

“You, uh … need anything?” I ask, as he hands me back the blade.

“Nah, I got people lined up when he flatlines.”

“Why didn’t you kill me the moment I walked in? Why let me get close to him?”

He pushes up from the chair and straightens his neatly-pressed slacks. “Pops told me only one person knew that code, and there wasn’t a cold chance in hell he’d use it. Figured it must be snowing in hell somewhere.”

With a snort, I shake my head. “I’m not going to stick around. I’ve made my peace.”

He gives a nod, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “And the funeral?”

“Unless I can assist in some way, I’d prefer to avoid it. Most think I’m dead, and I’d like to keep it that way.” I hold out my hand, not surprised by his tight grip when he returns the handshake. “Nice meeting you, Mac.”

“Yeah, same. If you’re in town again sometime, hit me up. I’ll get you front row seats to a fight.”

“Thanks. If you’re ever on the west coast, feel free to hit me up too. I’ll, uh … get you front row seats for Sunday Mass.”

“You a priest, or something?”

Good question. “Something.”

He rubs a hand down his face and shakes his head. “Sorry. Wouldn’t have held a gun on you. Or cussed so much.”

“I’m a priest. Not a saint.”

“Right. Well, it was good meeting you, Damon.” The corner of his lips kick up to a half smile. “I’d call you Father, but that’d sound kinda weird.”

“Damon’s fine. Take care.” I pat his arm on the way toward the staircase and make my way down to my father’s office.

The smell of leather and cigars hangs like a cloud of memories, as I step through the door and flick on the light, taking me back over ten years into my past. I remember sneaking into his office to stare at the picture of my mother on his desk. The only place he ever kept her pictures in the house. For hours, I spun in his swivel chair, holding the picture frame to my chest.

It’s also where I first set my eyes on Val, as she sat hunched over his books.

I never met the offspring of my father’s business partners, until her, and I remember how strange it felt to see a young woman weeding through his dirty laundry. Embarrassing, almost.

I cross the room to the file cabinet, where the key to his safe is tucked away.

My father wasn’t stupid enough to have anything but legitimate documents visible. The rest was hidden, locked up in his corrupt little fireproof cabinet.

Weeding through folders, I find the key toward the back of the drawer, in its usual place where I saw Val store it hundreds of times, and I carry it toward the closet across the room. I kneel on the floor and remove the banker’s boxes and golf equipment stored there. Once it’s cleared, I raise the carpeted panel, which looks like nothing more than a closet floor, and find the safe set inside.

Here is where the real secrets lie.

I punch in the code my father made me privy to a number of times, particularly when he went out of town, thinking he might not come back. The key clicks, and I open the safe to a pile of documents inside. All of his financials, as well as some stacks of cash that I don’t bother to take. Blood money. Makes me sick to think how many people probably offered up their lives for this cash.

Beneath the papers and cash is a stack of binders, in which Val used to clip spreadsheets for all his dealings. If the FBI ever found these books, they’d have the names of just about every criminal in New York, which is ultimately what made Val a target.

I drag my finger down a list of names, but only recognize a few, like Val’s father and her older brothers. I stop on McConnell, noting a payment of six grand, which repeats on the next page for the following month. Mac’s mother, I’m guessing.

Dozens of names make up his payroll, not a single one offering a clue into this white goat. He could be any one of the men on this list.

Takes about a half hour for me to search the other binders, which give just as little insight, before I decide these books are useless to me.

With a huff, I replace all of them back into the safe, closing it up beneath the panel, and set the boxes and golf equipment back as I found it. At some point, the state will have to go through all his things, unless Mac decides to take that upon himself. Won’t be me, if I can help it.

On the way to my car, the early winter breeze tickles the back of my neck as old instincts kick in, and I look around the quiet neighborhood.

Feeling eyes watching me, I glance back to the house, but no one stands in my father’s bedroom window. After another sweep of the neighborhood, I slip into my vehicle, heading back toward downtown Manhattan.

20

DAMON

A green light flicks on when I slip my keycard in the slot to unlock my hotel room, and I pause before taking a step inside. Call it old habits dying hard, but this is the second time I’ve gotten a sense that someone is watching me.

Carefully sliding the knife from its holster tucked beneath my coat, I let the tenebrous room swallow me as I make my way inside, eyes scanning in what little glow slips through the cracked door behind me, before I flick on the light to find a familiar face sitting in the chair opposite the bed.

He tips his bald head, smoke from his cigar climbing toward the ceiling. Val’s oldest brother, Andrea, must be pushing fifty now, his face carrying a little more chin than the last time I saw him.

A click behind me signals the door closing, and at the sight of the second familiar face, I grip the knife tight, muscles taut and ready to attack. The youngest brother, Cristian, hasn’t changed much. Still tall and gangly, but no less intimidating when pissed off.

“Well, look what the fucking wind blew in,” Andrea says, while Cristian stands guard at the door. “I didn’t believe the rumors that you were back in town. But here you are.” His deep brown eyes match his sister’s, eyes that once looked at me as a friend. Instead, they’re filled with the kind of venom that tells me I won’t be leaving this hotel room alive.

Andrea pushes up from his chair, while the youngest closes in from behind, the two of them caging me in the narrow hallway. “You had some business with your father, as I understand.”

“I did.”

“He’s alive, then?” Andrea slips a pair of brass knuckles over his gloved hand and puts his cigar out in the half glass of water I left on the dresser this morning.

I watch every move, choosing my words carefully, my whole body poised in defense. “Not for long.”

“Good. One less to kill.”

“You honestly think I was capable of killing her? Ever?”

Brows winged up, he shrugs. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. Let’s get this over with.”

“Isabella?”

At my question, I catch a flicker of pain dance across his face. If anyone in the world loved my daughter near as much as I did, it was Val’s brothers.

“All I know is, they’re dead. And you’re alive.” He lurches toward me, but when I pull the knife from beneath my coat, he stops short and shakes his head. “Savios carrying knives now. ‘The fuck’s the world coming to?”

“I came here to kill my father.” My hand is trembling, which tells me years of priesthood has reconnected me to some small measure of my humanity again. Andrea catches it, too, judging by his subtle glance toward my hand still holding the knife. “I planned to slit his throat.”

“And?” Only a slight air of intrigue colors his otherwise bored tone.

“Vinnie killed them.”

“Vinnie worked for your father. This conversation is getting old.”

“He skipped out with ten grand from my father.”

Lip snarled in disgust, he shakes his head. “That’s all my sister’s life was worth to you? Ten grand?”

“He was paid to kill someone else. Goes by El Cabro Blanco. You heard of him?”

I catch a brief exchange between Andrea and Cristian, before they look back to me.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“What would he want with my sister?” The clench of his teeth betrays his emotionless face.

“All I know is Val planned to testify in court. She’d met with some lawyers.”

Andrea’s eyes flutter shut, and he drags his hand down his face, finally setting my muscles at ease. “Fuck.”

“Who is this guy?”

Letting out a huff, Andrea retreats back toward his chair and lights up another cigar, spitting the clipped end of it onto the floor before taking a puff. Cristian plops down at the end of the bed, rubbing his hand over his skull.

“What’s his story?” I ask again, trying to decipher their body language, which seems uncharacteristically defeated.

“Locals call him the White Goat. Drug trafficker.” Andrea tips his head back against the chair and exhales hard through his nose. “’The fuck was she thinking?”

“Where do I find him?”

“You don’t.”

“He slaughtered my family.”

“And my sister. But I’ve no intentions of walking into the mouth of hell. Not when I have my own family to think about.”

Cristian shoots to his feet, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. “I’ll do it. For Val.”

With a roll of his eyes, Andrea shakes his head. “You might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. It’d be a much faster and merciful death.”

“She’s my sis—”

“Sit your fucking ass down. You’re not going anywhere,” Andrea snaps.

After a lengthy challenging stare, Cristian concedes and takes a seat.

“Tell me where to find him.” My voice is far more resolute than Cristian’s.

“No. Go home, Anthony.” It’s strange hearing someone call me by my old name. For a brief moment, I feel exposed and vulnerable all over again. “Do what you been doing for the last few years. Don’t come back here.” Once again, he rises to his feet, and signals for Cristian to follow after him, but I step in front of Andrea.

“Do you have any idea how much blood was on those sheets?” Tears swell in my eyes, and I scowl to keep my emotions in check. “They told me Isabella was alive when Vinnie finished off Val.”

His jaw shifts in anger, and he snaps his head away to keep from showing the tears I see in his eyes, too. “If I hadn’t already gotten word he was dead ...”

“He was paid. By someone who gets to walk free and clear of his crimes. Tell me where to find El Cabro Blanco.”

“I don’t know.” He rolls his head against his shoulders and sniffs. “He has operations in Calexico, at the border. That’s all I know.”

“It’s a start.”

“You go there, you ain’t coming back.”

“If I don’t, their killer walks free.”

“You won’t find him before he finds you. But I wish you well, anyway.” He pats my shoulder as he passes, and Cristian does the same, offering a sympathetic smile on the way.

“Andrea,” I say, before he exits the room. “Did you honestly think I could hurt them?”

He doesn’t even take a moment to contemplate. “No,” he answers, which is likely the reason I wasn’t dead before my key hit the lock.

The two of them leave, closing me in the small and suffocating hotel room. My first thought is Ivy. Convincing her to stay back from this trip was hard, but nothing compared to how I suspect she’ll take the news that I’m planning to go to Calexico, with no intentions of returning.

Running both hands through my hair, I drag my palms over my face and exhale hard against my skin. What the hell am I doing? What am I thinking?

I fall onto the foot of the bed beside me, which sits across from the oversized mirror above the dresser. Dark circles shadow the bloodshot eyes in my reflection, proof that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week.

It took me years to lay my wife and daughter fully to rest, and here I am, tearing open the wound for the pure sadistic joy of it. I killed the man who physically murdered my wife and daughter. I avenged them. Going after what essentially sounds like a ghost will only drum up old enemies.

My mind drifts to the day, at just fifteen years old, when I showed up at Our Lady of Sorrows after sleepless nights, lost in the fantasy of killing my mother’s murderer. The church has always been a source of opposition to my otherwise irrational thoughts. It was the first place I stumbled into after my wife and daughter died, as well. However, I remember, when I was a young boy, Father Vicio sat quietly, listening to my confession, my vow to avenge my mother.

I remember his imparted words with such vivid clarity, it’s as if he’s speaking them to me now: Wrath is a terrible poison, Son. A wound that festers and bleeds, until all that's left is the putrid stench of death.

Killing this goat will only bring more pain and suffering, and I won’t risk Ivy becoming a target as a consequence.

From the small fridge, I grab a fifth of whiskey and pop open the cap. Warm liquor coats the flames burning inside of me, numbing them for the cool buzz of the alcohol, and the hurricane of thoughts inside my head somehow settle on the simple task of returning back to California. Reclaiming the life I’ve worked hard to build in the aftermath of Val and Isabella.

Perhaps I can start over with Ivy. She’s young and vibrant and makes it exceptionally difficult to keep my hands off her.

Perhaps God sent me here for a reason—to show me that life is far too short and fragile to waste on wrath that will never be sated.

My father spent his entire life hunting down his enemies, and now spends his final moments guarded by the only person he can trust in this world.

I don’t want that to be me someday.

The throbbing inside my skull intensifies, and on a new wave of pain, I screw my eyes shut and sit up in bed, the heel of my hand making a futile attempt to soothe the ache at my temples. Alcohol flows thick in my veins, as the dark room spins in my periphery, before my vision lands on a figure standing in the corner. I squint and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand that still clutches the fifth of whiskey.

“Are you having a nightmare, Daddy?” Isabella’s soft voice soothes me like a warm glass of milk laced with poison.

She isn’t real.

“You’re not really here.” I frown to hold back the tears, kicking myself back against the wall behind me. “You’re not real.”

Through my frantic attempt to wake myself up from this torment, I see her step closer. The nightgown she wears is the same one she wore in the hospital during her last bout of chemotherapy.

“Daddy? I don’t want you to go after that Goat man.”

My frown deepens, the confusion muddling my brain, as I try to decipher whether, or not, I’m awake, or asleep. My heart prods me to reach out for her and not let go, but my instincts don’t dare try to touch her.

“He’s dangerous. And bad. He’ll do bad things to you,” she adds, wringing the fabric of her gown as she stands off from me.

“He’s the reason you’re not really here, Bella.”

“You’re the reason I’m not here. Or Mommy. You left us alone.”

The words pierce my heart, offering proof that one still resides inside my chest. “Please … don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You left us alone. And now you want to leave us again. Promise me you won’t go to the Goat man.”

With tears in my eyes, I lurch toward her, heartbroken when she backs herself away. “I promise. I won’t. I won’t leave you again.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

The edges of her form begin to fade, and with urgency in my muscles, I scramble forward, reaching out to grab the nothingness, and lose my balance. The cold crack of wood hits my temple as I crash to the floor, and I stare up at the ceiling as it fades in and out.

Standing over me, Isabella stares down, until everything fades to black.

21

IVY

There’s a method to murder, I suppose—a way that those who commit it on a regular basis manage to skate through the aftermath without a single drop of remorse.

I’m not one of those people. On one hand, that comes as a relief.

Parked at the side of the church in Damon’s car, I stare off through the long-settled night toward the shadowed yard in the back, where I know Calvin’s body is buried.

No, not buried. Dumped.

The car sits just outside the halo of light from the street lamp, concealed in the darkness, in case Father Ruiz happens to be up and about this hour. I told Damon I’d drive the vehicle only when necessary, seeing as how not actually owning a car over the last decade has severely impaired my skills. I don’t know that the trip to the church qualifies as necessary, but it has become my source of torment over the last couple of days, in my masochistic attempt to reconcile the guilt swimming through me. A reminder that I took part in killing a man.

He’s dead because of me.

It’s been about a week now. Some days, I can easily justify his murder, reminding myself that he slaughtered an innocent woman and child, and who knows how many more, besides them. Other days, I wish this guilt—killer’s remorse, as Damon once called it—could be wiped from my slate. That I could go back to before that night and leave L.A., as I’ve plotted so many times over the last few years.

Calvin would’ve found me, though. He always did, somehow.

I glance down at the digital clock to see it’s after eleven. Three times since that night, I’ve come here to stare off and contemplate all the possible consequences of this slaying, not the least of which is that my soul will inevitably burn for it. My hell will be spending an eternity in flames with the very asshole I helped kill. I wonder if Calvin was actually dead when Damon threw him in there, or maybe just deeply passed out from the torture he endured.

Two nights ago, I dreamed I was trapped in that suffocating stench of shit, with no light, no air, no hope. I woke up sobbing in an empty bed. Damon’s assured me, numerous times, that there’ll be nights like that, nights when I’ll swear I hear Calvin’s voice in my apartment, or feel him crawl into bed beside me.

I want these unreal encounters with him to go away, so I can forget him, perhaps even long enough to be able to look at myself in a mirror again without cringing.

Mamie’s funeral is tomorrow, right here at the church, and I’m grateful that it took a bit of time to arrange, because a week ago, I probably would have stood up during the service and confessed to Calvin’s murder.

Setting the car to drive, I step on the gas, and the car lurches forward before halting fast when I slam on the brakes. For Chrissakes, teenagers have a better handle on driving. Hands set to ten and two, I steer the vehicle back onto the mostly empty road and head in the direction of Calvin’s place.

This little diversion isn’t a typical part of my guilt trip, but last night, I went to bed with paranoid thoughts of police snooping around his house after a while, and finding things. Things like the medical record I know he still has in a box on the floor of his office, one which belonged to a lawyer. The lawyer he murdered because I supplied the information packaged in a handy little file for his perusal. A record they could easily trace back to my department at the hospital.

Not to mention the nudes he has stored on his computer that he emailed to my boss a while ago, which could be seen as motive on my part.

A number of small clues would send even a newb investigator to my door, and because I’m a shitty liar, the idea of that terrifies me. More than the hallucinations and nightmares and bad dreams. Having to keep all the lying details straight, while looking into the eyes of a skeptical investigator, follows a close second to thoughts of BASE jumping off a skyscraper.

If it came down to it, though, I’d probably opt for the skyscraper and a parachute. Considering Calvin was buddies with half the police in the city, my odds would be better, even with a faulty chute.

Two homeless guys are in the thick of a brawl on the street corner, but barely distract my thoughts as I pass. Los Angeles is a city that never sleeps. Any time of night, one can find junkies stumbling about, and it’s certainly not unusual to catch a spectator’s view of fights like these. Maybe one of them will die in the scuffle, and for a split second, I wonder what the victor would do with the body? Discard it? Or leave it and run?

I turn the car down Loma Vista, and pull up to the curb in front of a single-level Mission Revival-style home. Cinder blocks and a plank of wood create a makeshift porch, and the window shutters hang cockeyed, clinging to the house by sheer will. A total dump, if not for the half mil price tag.

Scanning the slumbering neighborhood, I scamper across the sun-fried lawn, which crunches beneath my ballet flats, and punch in the security code to enter. The door clicks, disengaging the locks, and I slip inside.

Something knocks my toe as I stumble toward the curtains to close them. “Ow! Fuck!”

I flip on the light to find boxes set out by the entrance. A peek inside reveals some kind of electronics—walkie-talkies and what looks like small cameras.

Rubbing against the fabric of my shoe, I frown and keep on toward the bedroom. An eerie feeling chases after me as I walk through Calvin’s house, which isn’t as filthy as one might expect if judging by the exterior of the place. The inside is fairly well-kempt and organized, and I can’t help but feel like Calvin’s going to jump out of the shadows any minute, screaming at me to leave my shoes by the door.

Once inside his room, I try not to look at his bed, where I’ve spent hours doing things I wish I could erase from my brain. How messed up does a person have to be to make someone literally sick everytime they think of sex with said person?

Had Damon not come along, I’d have thought myself ruined for good. That I’d never enjoy being with a man again. Under normal circumstances, I’d be craving my dirty priest like a girl lusting for her dildo after an Avengers movie, but with Mamie’s funeral and my creeping paranoia over the last few days, all I can think about is not tripping up during the eulogy and spilling the location of Calvin’s dead and undoubtedly decaying body.

The box with his files usually sits next to his desk in the corner of his bedroom, but tonight, it’s not there. My toe throbs a reminder that this was a bad idea, and only getting worse by the second. The more time I spend in here, the more fingerprints and trace evidence police will have when they finally come looking for him.

I throw back the closet door to find it’s not in there, either. Or under the bed. I can’t find it anywhere in the bedroom. I search the hallway closet. Nothing. The bathroom. Nothing. Kitchen cabinets and cupboards. Nothing.

Panic blossoms in my chest, as it begins to settle over me that I may not find that lawyer’s file tonight and I’ll have no idea what Calvin did with it.

In an effort to keep moving and avoid a break down, I head back into his bedroom and begin the tedious process of disconnecting his computer. It takes a good thirty minutes to unhook the monitor and speakers, and I carefully cart each piece out to my car, always scanning so no one can catch me and call the cops. My nerves are cold and rattled, but I keep on until the entire computer is packed.

On the return trip to lock the place up, I catch sight of a gleaming white crawlspace cover on the side of the house.

Oh, God, no.

I know if I don’t look, I go home to nightmares of police finding the box down there and showing up at my work. If I do, I go home to nightmares of whatever I might find down there, and knowing Calvin, it could damn well be a dead body.

With a deep breath, I round the house and come to a stop before the entrance.

Please be locked. Please be locked.

To my utter disgust, it isn’t, and a waft of mold and dirt hits my nose. With my luck, I’ll end up with a black mold infection that kills me, and Calvin will get the last laugh, as always.

I flick on the flashlight of my cellphone and wave it around, to see the small space is really as horrific as I imagined, with it’s low ceiling and stained concrete walls. Stacks of boxes line the wall to the right, across the dirt floor I’ll have to crawl over to get to them.

I step down into the entrance, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up at the thought of someone coming along and locking me down here. Once on my knees, I do another sweep, and let out a squeal when I pan over the darkness and find two glowing eyes staring back at me. The small critter skitters off, but my muscles won’t relent their tight clench of my stomach. I contemplate the odds of police finding that file, so I can abandon this madness and get the hell out of here, but shake those thoughts off. I have to find it. The male to whom it belongs is the victim of murder that Calvin committed, and the hospital name, where I work, is smack on the header.

It takes twenty minutes of fishing through slightly damp boxes before I find the one I’m looking for, and I damn near clap at the sight of the file. Crackles of movement behind me are a reminder not to spend too much time celebrating down in this shithole, while the mice and rats and whatever else lives down here decide I’d be enough food to get them through the winter.

I climb out of the crawlspace, and the second I’m standing upright, my arms jerk with shivers as I brush out any webs or bugs from my hair, with the sensation of something sliding over my skin sending me into a swatting dance.

“What are you doing here?” The unfamiliar voice shoots a paralyzing jolt of panic through my back, and I twist to someone standing behind me.

Familiar, but I’m not immediately certain as to how.

The young man wears a sleek, black suit, with his hair slicked back, like something out of Wall Street or a Tarantino movie. I’ve seen him before, but where?

“Calvin here?” he asks, no longer waiting for my response to the first question.

Swallowing a gulp, I shake my head. “He’s … maybe out?”

His eyes dip to the file clutched against my chest for a moment. “What’s that?”

My brain is still weeding through hundreds of faces, like a jukebox searching for the right song, to match this guy up with where I might’ve seen him. “Just some paperwork of mine.”

Stone gray eyes study me with apathy, and I suddenly remember where I’ve seen him. My apartment. The night Calvin let his buddies over for cards. He was the one who urged Calvin to stop his torment. At the time, I thought of him as someone regal, or important, some kind of mysterious business contact. A breath of fresh air to the other thugs gathered around the table that night, but at the moment, he’s a suffocating source of tension, holding up my escape.

“I’ve been trying to reach Calvin for a week.”

“Um. I haven’t seen much of him. We broke up. Asshole cheated on me.” The lies tumble from my lips easier than I thought they would, which comes as a bit of a surprise.

“Cheated on you.” The dubious tone of his voice sets my teeth on edge, meaning my lies aren’t as convincing as I thought, which also means there’s no way an investigator is going to buy whatever bullshit I offer. His nose twitches as he sniffs, and it’s when his hands come together that I notice he’s wearing black gloves. Like a man who doesn’t want to leave prints at a murder scene. “As I recall, Calvin’s pretty obsessed with you. Perhaps to a fault. He strikes me as the ride-or-die type.”

This guy has no idea.

Or maybe he does. Maybe it’s written all over my face. What would he think if he knew I helped murder Calvin? Avenge his friend? In a desperate attempt to school my face, I offer a slight smile.

He steps toward me, and I clutch the file tighter, scarcely able to draw in a breath through my clamped lungs. His gloved finger traces down my temple as he brushes my hair behind my ear. “You know what I think?”

Surely, he can hear my heart practically pounding up in my throat.

“Pretty thing like you.” Warm breath hits my neck as he leans in to my ear, and I want to burst out of my skin and run. “I think you’re the one looking for fresh dick to fuck. Am I right, sweetheart?”

I don’t know the right answer. I can’t think fast enough to know if answering yes will sound too suspicious.

“Give me five minutes in the backseat of my car, and I’ll make you leave him for good.”

Wait. What?

My body freezes as I stare up at him, searching for the joke in his eyes. “Have you lost your mind?”

Lips stretching into a smile, he drags his fingers down to my mouth, and I swallow back the lump in my throat as he inserts the tip of it inside and back out, then back inside again. He slams his palm against my ass, jerking me against him, and the file falls out of my hands. With a gasp, I kneel down to gather all the scattered papers back into its folder, and a force hits the back of my head, knocking me into the cold bite of a zipper, where he holds me pressed against his crotch. “Blow me, and I won’t tell Calvin you were here.”

I want to laugh at that, but a small strand of my hair is caught in his zipper, and I’m certain there’s a scratch on my cheek. Frustrated, I push away from him. “I’m not blowing you. I’m not fucking you. And I don’t give a damn if you tell Calvin.”

Amusement colors his face as he licks his lips. “Feisty. Just the way I like my bitches.”

“Well, I’m not your bitch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late.”

I twist to leave, taking no more than three steps, when he calls out for me.

“You forgot one.” The sound of that curdles my blood, and I turn to see his eyeballs trailing over the small paper in his hands. Intake sheet, going by the size and color of the page. When his eyes find me again, they’re brimming with a knowing smile, as he holds the page outstretched. “Paperwork, huh?”

Clearing my throat, I step toward him, slow and careful, knuckles burning as I grip the file.

He allows me to slide the paper from his fingertips, while my body stays poised to fight, or run. “Have a good night. Ivy.”

I don’t bother to turn, but back myself up just enough to provide a comfortable distance to run. I watch him casually light up a cigarette, not bothering to move from where he stands, staring back at me. Once at my car, I insert the key with shaky hands and take off down the road, away from that place.

I swear, I’ll never go back there for as long as I live.

22

DAMON

Once back in LA, I call an Uber to pick me up, praying I make it in time for the funeral of Ivy’s grandmother. Originally, I planned to carry out the service myself, but upon finding out about my father’s involvement in Val’s and Isabella’s murders, I asked Ruiz to cover it, while I flew out to New York on a personal matter. He still has no idea that I’m planning to leave the priesthood, and I almost dread telling him more than having to go back to Bishop McDonnell to inform him I’ve no intentions of staying, in spite of his insistence.

I’ll be homeless, jobless, and for the first time in years, I’m looking forward to the possibilities with another woman.

Assuming she’ll want anything to do with a man who essentially has nothing.

I glance down at my watch. Ten thirty. The service begins at eleven, so I’ll be cutting it close. Real close.

“You’re a priest, right?” the Uber driver asks, eyeing me from the rearview mirror.

Observant, this one, considering I’m dressed in my collar and black button-down.

“Yes.”

“So, I had this chick call for a ride the other day. Beautiful, busty, nice bod. I mean, smokin’. She’s from Switzerland, you know? Anyway, she asks me to drive her around to do some sightseeing. So I do. And we’re about an hour into it, when she tells me to pull over in some rundown strip mall, and get this …. She wants me to bang her right there in the car.”

Here we go. I will myself not to roll my eyes, knowing he can see me in the rearview. “We have confession at the church on Tuesday night, Saturday morning, and by appointment.”

“No, no. I’m not looking for confession. I just have a question for you.”

“Okay.” Trying not to sigh aloud, I clear my throat instead.

“So, this chick says she’s never banged an American, and she wants to experience it. Well, who am I to deny a girl her dream, right?”

Right.

I clear my throat a second time, watching the city pass by the window, mentally calculating the minutes left in this car ride.

“We’re kissing, feeling each other up. I’m getting into it. And that’s when I reach up her skirt. Chick has a cock bigger than mine. No shit! Here, I’ve made out with a goddamn, I mean … pardon me, Father. A fucking tranny!”

I pinch my face muscles to keep my reaction in check. Not so much that he made out with what he realized was a guy, but that he clearly didn’t welcome it.

“I know God is against gays, and all that, so am I going to hell? I mean, I didn’t do anything. I wanted to, though. You know, for a dude, this chick was hot.”

“God is not against gays. And no, you’re not going to hell.” It’s all I can tell him without bursting into laughter.

“Good. Because if my wife found out I almost hit some tranny ass, she’d probably divorce me.”

I can’t help but frown, staring back at this guy, mentally forcing myself not to shake my head. Thankfully, the car comes to a stop in front of the rectory, and as I reach inside my back pocket to pay the fare, he waves his hand in dismissal. “On the house, Father. Need to work on my karma.”

“I appreciate it, thank you for the ride.” I gather up my two small duffle bags and exit the vehicle.

After dropping my bags just inside the door, I hustle toward the church, straightening my slacks and shirt along the way. Through the back door, I make my way into the nave, where Ruiz stands before a small gathering, giving the funeral mass. Ivy sits in the front row, wearing a sleek, black dress and a black beret hat with black netting that covers her face. I try not to stare at her smooth legs, covered in thin black nylons that undoubtedly have a black stripe up her calves. It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen her, and it surprises me how utterly weak I feel at the sight of her. Whatever will power I worked up to stay away from the woman before is gone now.

She catches sight of me, her head lifting in my direction, and I can just make out bright red lipstick through the netting.

Without interrupting the service, I slide into the empty pew before me and do my best not to steal glances of Ivy, while sitting in front of the small congregation.

A good half hour passes, before Ivy makes her way to the lecturn to deliver the eulogy for her grandmother. I’m finally given the opportunity to drink her in, and I wish more than anything that I could sweep her up into my arms, as she dabs her eyes with a Kleenex. She’s nervous, standing before the crowd, her hands trembling like leaves on a frail limb.

“Je’taime,” she finally says, and takes her seat.

At the end of the mass, I head back to my office in an effort to avoid any suspicion. While I should be addressing the stack of paperwork accumulated in my absence, I stare through my office window, down toward the mound of dirt where two bodies now lie in a stinking cesspool of shit and decay.

Twenty minutes later, the door clicks, and I turn to find Ivy closing it behind her.

“You decided to cremate instead of burying her at the cemetery?”

She nods and clears her throat. “How was New York?” she asks, her voice still affected by tears.

“The same. How are you?”

Leaning against the door, she shrugs. “Some days are good. Some are bad.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you this week. I should’ve stayed.”

“You had family business, too. I understand.” Sauntering across the room, she sets my heart pounding inside my ribs as she approaches my desk and rounds it, making for the window on the other side. “I can’t stop thinking of him.”

I frown at that, my gaze dipping to see her nylons do, in fact, have the black line up the calf. “Thinking of him in what way?”

Without turning to face me, she keeps her gaze cast toward the window. “In the way you said I would. Dreaming of him. Hearing his voice. I’m so paranoid, I’ve come back here three times this week to make sure he didn’t crawl out of that hole.”

“Ivy, you can’t keep coming back here. Someone could be watching you without your awareness.”

She finally turns to face me. “Someone like who?”

“Calvin had a lot of contacts. I’m certain some of them will begin asking questions. Snooping around.”

“And if they come after me? What then?”

It’s lack of strength that guides my eyes down her legs and back again. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You’ve been gone all week. It could’ve happened already.”

“I’m here now.”

“And what will you do, Damon?” She saunters up to me, and on instinct, my gaze shoots to the door to make sure she’s closed it. Blood red fingertips slide down the front of my shirt, reminding me what I’ve missed the last few days. “Will you sleep in my bed every night? Or keep me locked away in the rectory?”

“If necessary, yes.” I like this little game we play, just not here.

Her nails run over the back of my neck, and I stiffen at the thought of them scoring my sweat-drenched spine. “What if we get caught?”

Snatching up her wrist, I feel her pulse thrumming against my fingertips. “We won’t.” The words hardly slip through my clenched teeth, as I fight to keep my composure around this woman. It’s her grandmother’s funeral, after all.

“I missed you.” Head resting against my chest, she reaches down and strokes the front of my slacks. “Oh, Father, I can’t tell you how much I missed you this week.”

“Ivy.” My voice carries a warning as weak as my resolve to fuck her right here in my office. “This isn’t the time.”

“It’s the perfect time. I’ve been so desperate for distraction. And now you’re here.” She pulls back the veil of her hat, beneath which those bright ruby lips beg for a kiss. Damn this woman. Damn her. “So distract me, Father.”

“You’re practically begging to get caught.”

“And you’re practically begging to fuck me. I can see it in your eyes.” Her lips brush against my earlobe, teeth scraping over my skin. “Did I mention I’m not wearing any panties?”

It’s impossible to stifle the shiver that vibrates down to my bones, at the visual she’s planted in my head. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you. What if I hadn’t shown up today?”

“You promised. And I know you’re a man of your word. But I’m sure Ruiz would’ve been happy to—”

I slap my palm over her mouth, furious at the thought of another man’s hands on her, even one as unlikely as Ruiz. “You want me to commit a sin, right here in the church? To soil the very desk I’ve used to uphold my vows?”

Her eyes don’t waver as she breathes hard through her nose.

I lower my hand from her mouth, practically tasting those lips on mine.

“Tell me that doesn’t turn you on, and I’ll leave.”

It takes all my strength not to throttle this woman. This beautiful, exotic creature who excites me in ways I don’t dare admit aloud. Not here.

Without a word, I reach up under her skirt, eyes furious and burning as I stare into hers, and I nearly buckle when I run my finger across the apex of her thighs to find she wasn’t lying about the panties. Wadding a handful of the nylon material in my palm, I yank hard enough to hear them tear and her lips part, then stretch to a wicked smile. Through the hole in her nylons I dip my finger knuckle deep, greeted by the wet slick that coats my skin on the withdrawl. Across from me, the crucifix hangs on the wall, the weary eyes of Jesus watching me, as I push my fingers up inside of her again. And again. And again.

Her moans and choked breaths, eyes hooded with lust, urge me on, confirming what I already know: I cannot deny this woman, even when my virtue and character are at stake. “Please, Father. Fuck me.”

The knock at the door skates down my spine, and Ivy ducks beneath my desk, like this is some kind of drill we’ve practiced before.

I clear my throat and take a seat, my knees knocking into what I presume is her shoulder. “Yes, come in.”

Ruiz peeks his head through the cracked door and steps inside. “Pardon the intrusion, but did you happen to see Ms. Mercier?” he asks in his thick accent. “I wanted to ask her some things before they take her grandmother to the crematorium.”

“I, um … if I see her, I’ll be sure to tell her you’re looking for her.” Something brushes against my groin, and I shift in the chair, clearing my throat for the second time. I jerk my knee to make her stop this torment. “Thank you for handling Mass on short notice.”

“No problem. Hope everything was well in New York.”

“Yes.” At a grip of my balls, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping aloud. The tickle of my zipper sliding over my boxers draws my hand beneath the desk to stop her, but she swats it away, the noise drawing Ruiz’s attention.

“Everything okay, Damon? You seem … stressed today.”

Cool air hits my groin where Ivy has sprung my cock free, and I swallow hard, pressing my elbows into the desktop as she strokes her hand down my shaft.

“Jet lagged,” I choke out.

“Ah, yes. You probably need some rest. Perhaps you should snooze a bit.”

Muscles steeled with her assault, I screw my eyes shut, as wet lips suck me inside her mouth, so warm and soft, I have to squeeze my fingers together to keep from gnawing them. “You’re probably … right. I’m … not … so good.” Air trapped in my lungs, I hold my breath while she runs her tongue over my weeping tip.

Brows winged in concern, he cants his head. “Anything you need? I’m happy to help.”

For a split second, a visual of Ruiz’s hand performing the work of Ivy’s mouth makes me want to cringe, but instead, I shake my head more frantic than I intend. “I’ll … get sleep. As you suggested.” I draw in a shaky breath, my hands practically white with tension, as I wait for him to get the hell out of my office.

“Good, good. Perhaps we can have lunch?”

“Sure. Lunch … lunch works.”

“Excellent, I’ll finish up with Ivy and meet you back at the rectory.”

“Okay, I’ll finish up with Ivy, too.” Alarm shoots through me at the slip of my words, and when Ruiz tips his head in confusion, I let out a nervous laugh. “Paperwork, I meant. When I finish … paperwork.”

“Ah, okay.” With a nod, he turns and exits my office. The moment he’s gone, I push away from my desk, furious and hard enough to hammer nails.

Lipstick smeared over my shaft marks her torment, and the moment she pushes to her feet, I shove her back against my desk.

“You have no idea what you’re toying with, woman.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing.” The sweep of her tongue over her lips sends another shiver down my spine, as the pain of blue balls settles in. “I’ve had it inside me many times now.”

“He’s looking for you. You better find him.” My eyes dip to her mouth and back. “Fix your lipstick first.”

Her eyes dip between us and back, as well. “Might want to fix yours too.”

With more reluctance than I care to admit, I stuff myself back into my slacks and straighten my shirt. “I’ll be at your place tonight. Six sharp.”

Her face turns smug enough that I want to smack the smirk right off her lips. “I’ll have bells on.”

“Keep the nylons on.” Leaning forward, I avoid her red lips to plant a kiss on her cheek. “And the heels.”

Brow cocked, she wipes the smeared lipstick with the same Kleenex she used to dry her tears earlier. “Kinky, Father.”

“I told you to call me Damon when we’re doing this.”

“I like Father. It has the same ring as Daddy.” She grips the back of my neck, leaving a kiss on my cheek, and the second she pulls away, I slap my hand over it to wipe the evidence away. “I’ll put on fresh lipstick, too.”

On her way toward the door, I ogle her legs, the black nylons reminding me of the hole I ripped just moments before.

Goddamn, this woman will be the end of me.

Back at the rectory, I watch Ruiz take careful bites of his ham and cheese panini. The man handles his lunch with the same attentive movements as he does while offering communion.

“You’re from the south, right?” I ask before shoving a bite of my sandwich into my mouth.

“San Diego, yes. I was born in Chula Vista.”

“Ever been to Calexico?”

“Of course! I know the priest at Our Lady of Guadalupe. We attended Seminary together.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s very well respected in his community. A little overwhelmed, though, as I understand.”

“How so?”

“Their congregation has grown somewhat exponentially over the past few years. He’s scheduled six months out for weddings, Quinceañeras, baptismals. It’s just him down there.”

“The diocese won’t send him some help?”

“They have, but it just doesn’t work out. People in the community have come to trust Javier.” He tips his head, setting down his panini. “What interests you in Calexico?”

Shrugging off his question, I sip my water while I contemplate the answer. I’m not sure why I bothered to ask. I’ve already relinquished the idea of going after El Cabro Blanco, and perhaps going back to being just a regular guy. “Just curious.”

“I’ve given thought to offering him some help, but … the gangs and cartels are just too dangerous. I’ve read awful things they’ve done to innocent people. It doesn’t surprise me that parishioners have reconnected with their faith.”

“And what about Javier? How’s he dealt with their violence?”

Setting down his sandwich, he lifts his chin a bit and rests his elbows on the table. “It’s strange, you know. I think they respect him. Faith is a very strong connection for some people. Even the ones who commit atrocious crimes.”

I stare down at my food, thinking back to earlier in the week, when I murdered a man and my initial thoughts were how disappointed Bishop McDonnell, and even Ruiz, would be if they ever found out. “It is.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d stay away from there. I’ve heard a number of criminals seek out those border towns.”

“Ever hear of one called Cabro Blanco.”

Dropping his gaze from mine, he furrows his brow. “I would encourage you not to throw that name around much. Even here.”

I’ve never known a man, besides my own father, who’d become a household name for being a bastard, from the east to west coast. “Then, his reputation is everything they say?”

“It’s hard to discern what’s fiction from non-fiction, but none of what I’ve heard is good. I believe human beings are capable of carrying out evil acts against God. But none have shocked me as much as those carried out by that particular man. If you can call him that.”

The more I hear about this man goat, who has taken on the form of a mystical creature in my head, the more I think the world would be better off without him in it, but that’s no longer my place. I’ve handed over my wrath for the sake of what little soul I have left in me.

Rising up from his chair, Ruiz pats me on the shoulder. “Be grateful you chose a path least likely to cross his. A man like that has no business with God.”

With a nod, I keep my eyes on my food, trying not to think of Val and Isabella, who unwittingly made the goat’s kill list. “Thanks.”

He gives one more squeeze, and clears his dishes from the table before exiting the room.

Tonight, I’ll draft the email for Bishop McDonnell. Probably best to resign face to face, but the likelihood of him talking me into staying is far too realistic to chance it.

23

IVY

Aside from my apartment, the rooftop of my building is something of a second sanctuary. For whatever reason, no one else comes up here, maybe because of the plethora of flowers and vining plants I’ve cultivated, along with a cute little table and chairs I bought from a secondhand shop that make it look occupied. As though they’re intruding on someone else’s space, though it belongs to all the apartment tenants. Not that I’m complaining. Makes it another peaceful spot for me to unwind after work.

I took the evening off, since it’s Mamie’s funeral, but part of me wishes I’d just gone in, to keep from sitting here and thinking all night. My phone tells me it’s ten to six. Dusk has settled over the city, burning up the sky in shades of orange and red.

Mamie loved sunsets. She called it a heavenly fire, nature’s passion, and tonight, the embers burn in her memory.

When warmth swaddles my shoulders, I twist to see Damon wrapping his coat around me.

“You’re early.”

“A man can only stare at a clock for so long. Besides, I want to see the pussy.”

I smile at that, wrapping myself in his coat, which smells of spice and delicious masculinity. “Obviously, you’re talking about Philippe. And I have to say, for a holy man, you do quite a bit of creeping around at night.”

He stares off toward the sky that has slowly dissolved into darkness.

“One luminary clock against the sky. Proclaimed the sky was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.”

I study his profile, the contemplative look on his face, which I find most attractive about Father Damon. I used to think this expression was disdain for all the sinners’ paths he crossed. Now I know it’s a man divided by his thoughts. “A verse from the Bible?”

A quick glance in my direction, and his brows soften with a smile. “Robert Frost.”

I reach for his hand as I push to my feet. Something hard hits my thigh from inside his coat, but I ignore it for the urgency to get inside, and hands entwined, I lead him back through the door, and two floors down to the door of my apartment.

“Iby, is dat you?” Mrs. Garcia calls from inside her apartment.

“Yeah, just me!” I call out over my shoulder, hiding a smile.

“No handsome priest?”

I grin back at Damon, who shakes his head, urging me to lie. “Yeah, he’s with me, too.”

The door swings open, revealing my neighbor chewing on something, her brow cocked in suspicion. “You know I met da Pope once.”

“That must’ve been an incredible experience,” Damon answers, while I unlock the door, inwardly chuckling at her obvious flirtations. “Life changing, I’d imagine.”

“It was. I’ll tell you ‘bout it sometime.”

“I’d like that very much.”

She makes a sound of approval in her throat. “Me, too,” she says, before slipping back into her apartment.

Damon follows me into mine, and the moment he closes the door, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in for the kiss I’ve been craving all week. “She has the hots for you, in case it’s not as obvious as it looks.”

“Must be some strange forbidden fantasy.”

“It’s not that strange. You’re a hot priest. I’m sure half the congregation only goes to church to see you.”

“Slightly more than half, surely.”

Laughter fills my chest—it’s the first time I’ve felt the urge to smile in a week. “If they knew how dirty you were outside of church, I’m certain you’d double the parish.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be overwhelmed with a crowd of women trying to get into my pants.”

“How about one?”

“One is plenty.” The soft stroke of his hand down my face draws my attention to his stern eyes. Always so serious, so troubled. Admittedly, it’s taken some time to get used to Damon’s gentle touch after dealing with a ruthless asshole for so many years. “What if I don’t go back.”

“To New York? Well, I’d be glad about that.”

“To the congregation. The church. What if I walk away from the priesthood?”

“Why would do that? I mean, the church is your life. You’ve dedicated so much.”

“It’s helped me get through a very difficult time in my life, yes. But I’m ready to move on now. I’m ready for something else.”

If we were a cartoon right now, my heart would tumble out of my chest and unroll into a long red carpet. “What are you saying? With me?”

“It’s not a marriage proposal, Ivy. I just thought, maybe we could have coffee and breakfast together. On a more regular basis.”

“That sounds nice. Real nice.”

Something brushes past my calf, and both of us look toward the cat that’s entwined itself in Damon’s legs. “Ah, there’s the pussy I missed.”

Slapping his arm, I chuckle, before he reaches down to lift the cat, giving a kiss to the top of his head. It only takes a few seconds of petting for Philippe to get bored and leap out of Damon’s arms.

Huffing, I cross my arms. “Glad it’s not just me. Was starting to think it was personal.”

“He’s not one for affection.”

“He inherited that from you, right?” I slip out of his borrowed coat and hand it off to him, trading that warmth for the chill of my apartment, as he chuckles, draping the coat over his arm.

“I’m going to put in my resignation tomorrow.”

Excitement blossoms in my chest at the thought. How beautiful and perfect each day would be with him. “How about if we practice breakfast together in the morning?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, tugging the front of my shirt and yanking me to his lips that damn near melt against mine with the heat he’s stirred. “We have important matters this evening.” The chair at the desk behind him catches his coat with a thunk, and the sound draws my attention only briefly, before he tips his head to guide my eyes back to him. My skirt lifts where he’s hitched it up, giving him full access to the hole he put in my nylons earlier. “Good girl.” Voice layered thick with lust, he hikes one of my thighs over his hip and hoists me up into his arms. “I was afraid you’d disappoint me by taking them off.”

I wrap my legs around him, slanting my lips over his as he steals the oxygen from my lungs in a white hot kiss. “I like to please you, Father Damon.”

“Then, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.” One arm banded around my back, he holds me against the wall, using the flat surface to hold me up, while two fingers push past slick skin, up inside of me with ease. It’s almost shameful the way his fingers turn me into some kind of sex deprived kitten. On their withdrawal, I tip my head back, smiling as he holds his shimmering digits before me, inhaling the scent, before stuffing them into his mouth. “I missed the taste of you.”

His jaw clenches as he stuffs his fingers up inside me again, in and out, until the sounds of his toil announce what I already know about the man—he makes me wet. Lips curved with a snarl, he viciously stokes my excitement, as if it pains him to know what effect his hands have on my body. As if he could possibly deny the chemistry that explodes between us.

Seemingly satisfied with my level of lubrication, he lowers me back to the floor, and eyes on me, he sets to unbuttoning his black shirt. “You enjoyed tormenting me earlier today?”

The deep ridges of his chest muscles momentarily distract me from the question, and he cocks a brow, as though he expects an answer. Biting back a smile, I lower my gaze from his, so as not to incite the genuine anger I could sense back at his office. “Yes, Father.”

The rubbing of his hands, those strong and ruthless hands that wrung Calvin’s blood all over my bathroom floor, battles for my stare. “The Epistle of Jude refers to your kind as wild waves of the sea, casting up the foam of their own shame; wandering stars, for whom the gloom of utter darkness has been reserved forever.”

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing? Because it sounds painfully romantic.”

“Painful indeed.” Reaching back toward his coat, he removes a small wooden object from an inside pocket that appears to be a paddle with it’s flat surface and handle, upon which sinner has been carved. “Face the wall, Ivy. Spread your legs and bend forward. I want you to grip your ankles.”

Swallowing a gulp, I force back the rush of excitement itching to break free on a childlike giggle.

Mamie once told me, back during the one year she attended a Catholic high school for girls, that one of the lay teachers administered corporal punishment after catching her smoking behind a dumpster. She told me while it was the most humiliating moment of her life, it was also the most erotic. According to her, he wasn’t the best looking, but as male teachers were rare, she found herself somewhat smitten with him.

Cupping the paddle with one hand, Damon stands expectantly, and I take the cue, twist to face the wall, finally letting my smile break.

I bend forward slowly, looking to the side at where the paddle sits in my periphery. “Be merciful. Please.”

“Were you merciful? Did you pity me when you left my office, having roused the most painful erection I’ve had in weeks?”

“Forgive me.”

His warm palm cups one of my ass cheeks, and when he squeezes, I let out a quiet moan. Everything the man does is unwittingly sexual. “Forgiveness only comes with divine punishment, Ivy. Reparation for your sins.”

His knuckles jerk me forward as he tears my nylons, and I brace a hand on the wall to keep from tumbling forward. Once stable again, I grip my ankles as he commanded me to and lick my lips, imagining the sting of that paddle against my flesh.

A smooth, cold object brushes against the lips of my exposed pussy, and I dig my nails into my ankle bones, my muscles trembling with the added imbalance of the heels still strapped to my feet.

“I bought this in New York. The moment I saw it in one of those sex toy shops, it reminded me of you, pécheresse.”

“What were you doing in a sex toy shop?”

“Looking for a gift to bring home to you.” He spreads my ass and groans, running his thumb up and down the seam.

Eyes closed, I focus on his touch, the faint tickle of his skin over my sensitive flesh.

A hard thwack against my ass sends an outcry shooting up my throat, and I suck my lip between my teeth, concentrating on the delicious sting that follows. Another smack follows the first, creating jagged flashes of light behind my screwed eyelids, the hot wash of tingles chasing the fleeting pain.

“The Sacrement of Penance is the most beautiful act of obedience. It renews and washes you clean. And you are filthy, aren’t you, pécheresse?”

His thumb presses against my asshole, and I don’t realize I’ve bitten into my lip until the salty taste of blood hits my tongue.

Another hard crack smarts my flesh, and I cry out when the burn of my punishment trails over my ass. A cool breeze provides just enough tickle, and I twist to see Damon’s face hidden behind my propped ass, where he blows on the tortured flesh.

“Perhaps I was too rough that time?” The stern command in his voice gives way to the soft-spoken man from before, and I can practically hear the remorse in his tone.

“I’m fine,” I rasp, still wracked with lust.

He rounds my body, positioning himself between me and the wall in front of me. Something brushes my lips, and I look up to see his fist clamped around his cock. He drags the weeping tip across my cheek, the fluids drying as fast as he smears them there. On another sweep over my mouth, I strain my neck to suck the tip of him, keeping my hands at my ankles, and the sharp sting of his palm gripping a handful of hair has me breathing hard through my nose, exhaling the pain.

“On your knees.”

I don’t have to look up to know that strained voice is spoken past clenched teeth.

Releasing my ankles, I fall to my knees, grateful to be upright again, and take him into my mouth once more. Ridges and soft skin glide over my eager lips, as the ache from sucking him pulls at my jaw.

“On the bed, Ivy. I can’t do this anymore. I need to be inside of you.”

As he commands, I stumble toward the bed on wobbly heels, and the moment my knee hits the mattress, Damon’s palms are at my hips, drawing me back into him. Pressure hits my entrance before he slides inside, filling me, and I grip the sheets as those hands keep me still while he grinds himself so deep, I swear, he’s pierced my womb. Head buried into the mattress, I let the waning oxygen give just enough euphoria to feel high from the pleasure, and when he jackhammers against me, jostling my tits, my belly tightens with the first twinge of orgasm.

Tender flesh marks the spot where angry fingers dig into my hips, and his pace hastens with the rush of blood that swells his cock inside of me. “Ah, fuck!”

A cool rush chases after warm tingles as the climax explodes through me, and Damon’s fluids dribble down over my ass and thighs where he’s directed warm jets of cum. Probably the fastest, no-nonsense sex we’ve had yet.

“You really did miss me, didn’t you?” I ask through harsh breaths and the constant thump of my heart against my ribs.

The mattress bounces, where Damon collapses on the bed beside me, his skin glistening with sweat.

“More than I care to admit.”

“What does that mean?”

Hand stroking down his face, he looks like a man tortured by his desires. “It means the hotel sheet I slept under has probably seen better days.”

A chuckle escapes me, and I crawl over the damp, crumpled sheets of my own bed to lie next to him. “Did you look up an old girlfriend, or something?”

He lowers his hand and lifts his head off the pillow just enough to meet my gaze with a frown.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know priests masturbated in their free time.” Tracing a finger over his nipple, I glance up at him. “Is that what priests do when they’re alone in bed?”

“I wouldn’t begin to know what other priests do when they’re alone in bed.”

Again, I chuckle, but the laughter fades with a random flash of Calvin’s face in my thoughts. I’ll never get this bastard out of my head.

“I have to tell you something, Damon.” I don’t want to tell him, but staying quiet feels like a lie, and maybe it’s because he’s a priest, but that just doesn’t sit well with me.

“What is it?”

“I went to Calvin’s house—”

“Ivy …” he interrupts, slapping a hand over his eyes. “You can’t go snooping around like that. Someone might see you.”

“Um. Someone did.”

He jerks upright again, staring down at me.

“One of Calvin’s friends. A guy he plays cards with. I told him I was there to pick up my things. That we broke up.”

Head slamming back into the pillow, Damon’s displeasured groan only makes me feel worse.

“It was stupid of me to go back there, but he had the file from the hospital. If anyone came across that? They’d trace it right to my department. Right to me.”

He sighs, tucking his arm under his head. “You were able to retrieve the file?”

“Yes. And his computer.”

For the second time, his attention snaps to me. “Computer?”

“He had nudes of me. Again, not interested in anyone finding that shit. Could be motive. Don’t you watch crime TV?”

“I lived crime TV for most of my life. While I understand and appreciate your efforts to eliminate traces of evidence, the bottom line is, what you did was dangerous. Do you even know this guy? What he does? Because I’m guessing a friend of Calvin’s is most likely a business transaction.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

“Did he say, or do anything, threatening?”

“Only that he wanted to take me to the back of his car to help me forget about Calvin.”

His face morphs from concern to murder, and if I happened to be the reason for it, I’d be considering last rites right about now.

“I’m only telling you this because I think he might’ve bought my story. I declined, not exactly politely, but still, he let me go.”

Silence hangs between us for what seems like a whole minute.

“He let me go, Damon. And I promise you, I won’t go back there again.”

“Good. Because this guy who let you go? He’s damn sure he’s going to cross paths with you again.”

“What makes you so sure of that? According to Calvin, the guy fucks supermodels, or girls that look like one, anyway. He’s not going to waste his time on me.”

“He will if he thinks you know what happened to Calvin. And if Calvin is someone important to him, he isn’t going to wait for you to come to him.”

24

DAMON

It’s three in the morning, when I wake up from only two hours of sleep. After Ivy dozed off, I spent the next few hours thinking, contemplating my life.

Dryness in my throat begs for some water, so I push up from the bed, my attention catching on something at the window across the room. Rubbing my eyes, I squint against sleepiness.

The window is wide open. An object dangles from the cord of the shades.

Sliding from the bed, I tip my head, padding quietly across the floor to keep from waking Ivy, and the object sharpens into view.

Philippe hangs by his neck, not moving, his vacant, glassy stare telling me he’s gone.

The rage starts small in my stomach, churning up sickness, before exploding into my muscles. With clenched teeth, I rush toward the window and find what I’m certain is his murderer, an intruder who broke in while we were sleeping, clambering down the fire escape. Heel slamming into the underside of the window frame, I widen the gap and climb through, racing barefoot down the stairwell after the asshole. The metal structure sways as I hustle down each flight, and that’s when the bastard glances back at me.

I don’t recognize his face, but now I’ll never forget it, with his dark hair slicked back and pretty boy features that tell me he probably spends more time primping than killing. Which is why he opted for an innocent cat, instead of killing Ivy and me.

I haven’t even broken a sweat when I reach the bottom stair and hop over the railing to the sidewalk. Cold pavement slams against the soles of my feet, as I gain on him.

Not so much a runner, either.

Up the next block, I lower my shoulder and barrel him into the alley between the apartment building and a small strip mall. The two of us crash to the concrete, the surface scraping across my skin on impact. As he reaches down his pantleg for what I assume is a weapon, I scramble over top of him and hammer my fist into his face.

Once. Twice. Three times to the face.

Hot adrenaline takes over, and I take hold of his collar, lifting his bloody face to mine. “Who the fuck are you?”

He spits blood at me, and I drop him, cracking my knuckles against his cheek in a backhand smack.

Weary laughter breaks through his mouth on a spray of new blood. “You kill me, and you’re a dead man.” The nasally tone of his voice tells me his nose is broken.

“You killed my fucking cat. I have no mercy for you.” I draw my fist back for another punch.

“Neither will El Cabro Blanco,” he says, before I follow through with the hit.

“What did you say?”

“Your girl is marked. She’s been marked since she got involved with that dumb fucker, Calvin. He protected her. But he ain’t here to protect her anymore.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“You wouldn’t be sleeping in her bed, if he was.”

“What are you to this El Cabro Blanco? You’re obviously not a killer. Of humans, anyway.”

Head rolling against the pavement, he snarls his lip and flinches. “I’m the eyes of the goat.”

“Why kill my cat?”

“To send a message. Let her know they’re coming for her.”

“Where is he? Where can I find El Cabro Blanco?”

“You can’t. But he’ll find you. His pajaros are everywhere.”

The smug expression on his face is enough for me to want to snap his neck right here. He murdered my cat. The last living piece of my old life. “Do you know why that cat is special to me?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “He belonged to my daughter. My murdered daughter.”

His lips stretch to bloodstained teeth. “I know. I was there the night Calvin killed them. Didn’t believe it was you until I saw you lying in bed with Ivy. Boss is going to shit his pants to know you’re still breathing.”

Tipping my head, I study him, my mind spinning with a million scenarios of what he could’ve possibly done to assist in their murder. What role he may have played prior to their deaths. Lookout? Tormentor? Did he hold Bella down while they brutalized her mother? The unknowns wind around my spine, awakening something dark and wicked, long forgotten. Shadows I buried years back, for fear of what they’d do to my mind.

Biting back the rage, I pound my fist into his face, which knocks him out cold.

The streets are quiet when I sling him over my shoulder and carry him back up the fire escape until we’re on the roof of the building. I discard his body onto the gravel and catch sight of a steel flask on the inside of his coat pocket.

“Damon?”

The sound of Ivy’s voice fails to deter me from my task. There’s a rag, left out beside a spray bottle filled with clear liquid, on the small table up there, and I use it to remove the flask and open it.

The scent of whiskey waters my tongue, and I dump some of the liquor into my mouth, before pouring it over the man lying before me.

Ivy comes to my side, and still, I don’t bother to look up at her. “He’s … he’s the one who—”

“Yes.”

The stranger sputters a cough, sending whiskey down the front of his shirt. Too woozy to know he’s going to die tonight, and instead he rolls his head back and forth on the gravel, moaning.

Pushing to my feet, I grab hold of his arm and drag him across the gravel to the wall of the roof.

“Damon, what are you doing?” Ivy’s voice is low, almost a whisper trailing after me.

“Go back to your apartment.”

“Wait. I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them he broke into my apartment.”

I finally turn to face her, studying her eyes to see if even she believes that calling the police will do any good. After all the times she attempted to get Calvin out of her life, surely she’s lost her faith in them.

“I just don’t want this traced back to you. Just leave him, and we’ll go. We’ll get out of here. Out of this city.”

“They’re after you, Ivy. Whoever Calvin worked for, is after you now.”

Her eyes fall to the stranger for a moment. “He told you that?”

“They work for the same man. One who has links to cartels.”

“Who?”

It’s better if she doesn’t know. Asking about him could get her killed, if the rumors are anything to go by. “Take whatever money you have. Get out of here. Don’t tell me where you’re going. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

Eyes wide, she throws up her hands and shakes her head. “Whoa. Wait. What are you saying, Damon? You want me to just up and take off? Without you?”

“Yes. And don’t tell me where you’re going.”

“I have a job. An apartment. A life.” Her hands fly to her hips. “One I thought you wanted to be a part of, but if you don’t, that’s fine. Either way, I can’t just up and leave.”

“You don’t have a choice. You stay, and you die. These cartels don’t fuck around. Whatever connections Calvin had afforded you some immunity, but now that he’s dead, you have to leave.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m not staying, either.”

Another moan warns the stranger’s slowly coming to, and I knock my fist into his face again to silence him. When I look up, Ivy has tears in her eyes, arms crossed in what I’m guessing will be a stubborn attempt to fight me on this.

“I’m not going anywhere, Damon. I’m sorry about Philippe. That’s on me, and I take full responsibility for what happened to him. I should’ve never gone to Calvin’s that night. But you’re … you’re not being rational right now. You’re making fast decisions, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.”

Striding toward her, I note the few steps she takes back, but I reach out to grab her arms, and she stills, casting her gaze from mine. “What happened to Philippe wasn’t your fault. They’re coming for you, regardless of Philippe.”

Her gaze finally lifts to mine, and I can almost see the realization dawning in them. “You’re going after him, aren’t you? You’re going after the man Calvin worked for.”

“He doesn’t know I’m alive. But the moment he finds out, I’m as dead as the rest of them.”

“Take me with you.”

“No. You need to find somewhere safe and lay low for a while.”

“The only place I know that’s safe is with you.”

“Not anymore, Ivy.”

“Well, I’m not leaving.”

“You no longer have that choice.” Eyes on her, I back myself to where the man still lies passed out on the gravel. I lift him up onto the wall of the roof and roll him over the edge of it.

He doesn’t even scream before he smacks against the cement below in a pool of blood and cracked skull, but the gasp from behind tells me Ivy is one breath away from freaking out.

Twisting to face her, I find shock plastered to her face behind trembling hands. “This is a crime scene now. Cops will be all over the place. You need to leave.”

The expression on her face, brows drawn tight, is a cross between confusion and disturbance. “What have you done?”

“What I had to do to buy you some time. If he hasn’t already gone back to his boss, whomever he’s affiliated with will eventually show up, too.” In three long strides I’m standing in front of her again, noticing the white pallor of her face. Gripping her shoulders, I want to shake the shit out of this woman, to make her understand the gravity of the situation. That the stories I’ve heard about this man would send her straight into the arms of a straight jacket. “I care about you. I won’t let someone else I care about end up in a coffin.”

Eyes vacant, she stares off at the wall behind me and shrugs. “Where do I go?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

“It doesn’t matter where I go. They’ll find me. Won’t they?”

“You wanted to go to France, Ivy. Go. Get as far away from here as you can.”

“You’re asking me to give up everything. To leave everything that means something to me.”

“I know it’s not easy, but yes.”

“I don’t even have enough saved for once I get there. I’ll be living on the streets!”

“You’ll figure it out. The clock is ticking here.” I drag her behind me, through the door and down the stairs to her apartment. Her hands shake and fumble as she stuffs the key into the lock and opens the door. Once inside, I stride ahead of her to the closet and yank down the suitcase stored on the shelf, toss it onto the bed. Peeling away clothes from their hangers, I fill the suitcase with as much as she can handle carrying, while Ivy pulls pictures tacked to her corkboard, of her grandmother and a few people I don’t recognize. From a drawer inside her desk, she pulls out a jar filled with cash and dumps it onto the bed.

Philippe lies on the floor, where Ivy lay him. I kneel down and pet his lifeless body.

Daddy? When I die, will you take care of Philippe? Isabella’s words echo inside my head, springing tears to my eyes, as I work the knot of the cord at his throat. Promise me you’ll take care of Philippe forever.

A scream outside the window breaks my thoughts, and I approach cautiously, back pressed flat against the wall, and peer down to where a man and woman stand over the stranger’s crushed head.

Eyes back on Ivy, I give a nod. “Hurry it up. You’re going to have to leave out the back door.”

She gathers up all the cash and stuffs it into her purse. The mound of clothes in her suitcase smashes down as she closes it and clicks the locks in place. Together, we exit her apartment, tiptoeing past Ms. Garcia’s door, so as not to rouse the woman’s curiosity, and slip out the back entrance of the apartment. Only seconds later, sirens can be heard off in the distance.

I shuffle Ivy into my vehicle and toss her suitcase on the backseat. As I drive the car out of the lot and round the corner, a flash of lights draws my attention to the rearview mirror, where the police have arrived on scene.

“The computer you took from Calvin’s. What did you do with it?”

“Smashed it with a sledgehammer and tossed it in the dumpster. Garbage day was earlier this morning.”

“Good. And the file?” I glance away from the road only long enough to catch her hands fidgeting in her lap. She’s nervous. She should be.

“Filed it away yesterday morning, before Mamie’s funeral. The hospital will never know it was missing. And where are you taking me?”

“The airport.”

“Damon, stop. Please, pull over. Just for a minute.”

With some reluctance, I turn the car into an empty lot of a Cantonese restaurant, and flick off the lights, so as not to draw any attention from the few cars that pass.

“Look, it’s late. I’m exhausted. I’m not flying off on a spontaneous trip, to a country I’ve never set foot in. And I don’t know many people, aside from my boss and co-worker. There’s no way in hell I’m asking either one of them to let me couch surf. I literally have no place to go. So you might as well turn around—”

“No. Absolutely not.” I reach to turn the key again, but she grabs my wrist.

“Please. No one knows we had anything to do with him. If the police question me, I’ll tell them I was upset about Mamie’s funeral. I sought out my priest for comfort. You’re a solid alibi. Who would believe a priest would have anything to do his murder, or suicide, or whatever they’re dreaming it might’ve been.”

“That’ll be on the news by tonight. The men who are after you will surely see it and know exactly who was behind the murder. Only, they won’t go to the police. They’ll come right for the source.”

“I don’t have a choice. Aside from a few nights at a hotel, there’s nowhere else I can go.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, staring off at the red door of the restaurant.

Somehow, everything in my life seems to come back to the church. Whenever I think I don’t need my faith the same way, the church catches my fall every time. Bringing Ivy there will undoubtedly stir curiosity with Ruiz. I can’t seem to be within inches of this woman without my body sounding off the litany of sins running through my head. But like her, I can’t think of anywhere else I could possibly take her.

I slowly nod. “I know of a place you can stay for a while.”

25

IVY

Damon parks the car in the small lot beside the rectory building and cuts the engine. His silence during the whole ride over tells me this doesn’t sit well with him. I imagine finding Philippe weighs heavy on him, as well, so perhaps it has little to do with me, but he seems to have grown wearier over the last half hour.

“Look, if this is going to get you into trouble ...”

“It won’t get me into trouble. The church is a sanctuary for those seeking asylum. It was mine for a long time.”

The building stands dark and quiet as we exit the vehicle, and I follow Damon around a small paved path to a backdoor. He fumbles through keys until he finds the one for the door, and opens it onto a dark hallway inside. “Ruiz occupies the upper level,” he whispers. “To avoid any suspicion, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“That doesn’t sound very comfortable for the longterm.”

“It won’t be longterm.”

On the right, we pass a workout room filled with equipment and free weights. Further down the hall, he comes to a stop in front of two bedrooms.

“Can’t you sleep in there?”

“Too close.”

“Ah, yes. My sinful lust might seep through the walls, and you’ll be masturbating all night.”

“Ivy ...” His voice holds a warning, and one glance into his sad eyes confirms that something is wrong.

“Philippe?”

His brows come together as he lets his gaze fall from mine. “He used to greet me every night that I’d come home. Sometimes, it felt like Isabella, when she’d come sit on my lap, while I worked.” He clears his throat and enters the room ahead of me, setting my suitcase down on the floor. “I’ll let you get settled.”

“I’m sorry. For Philippe. He’s with Isabella now, though. Right? In eternal paradise?” I speak with caution, because I know, in spite of my Catholic upbringing, those thoughts don’t always bring me comfort. They don’t always steal away the selfish desire to have the one I love here beside me.

He nods, though, and offers a slight smile when he looks back at me. “Yes, I’m certain of it.”

“So … I guess I’m going to try to get some sleep. Whatever sleep I can tonight.”

“Yes, of course. And … please don’t walk around in just a T-shirt.”

The idea that he’d even have to say that irritates the shit out of me. “Don’t worry. I’m only a whore for assholes. Ruiz is safe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ignoring him, I make my way toward the bed, but at the tight grip of my arm, my body falls into attack mode. I spin around and throw my arms out to push him back, but he grips my other wrist. Wriggling to get loose is futile with this man, who hardly puts much effort into holding me still.

“Listen to me.” It’s worse that his voice carries an eerie calm that is naturally threatening, yet commanding, at the same time. “I need you to lay low. To be invisible. Not because I think you’re a whore, and I’m sorry if I implied that. In the last few weeks, only two things have come to mean something to me, and one of them was hung by his neck tonight. I don’t want to find you that way. I won’t let it happen, hear me?”

There’s an ardent fury in his eyes, and if I stare long enough, I swear his pupils are dilating.

In a matter of a week, I’ve witnessed two occasions when the man has clearly lost his shit. In the strength of his grip, I can feel myself shaking with my frustration, but I nod and smile, curious as to what it means when he says he won’t watch me hang. What is the unseen plot behind his eyes?

“Please tell me you’re not giving serious consideration to going after him.”

“I’m not giving serious consideration, Ivy.” He releases me, taking a step back toward the door behind him. “It’s already been decided.”

“And if he ends up killing you first?”

“Resign yourself to the idea of hopping on a plane to France.”

26

DAMON

Arm tucked beneath my head, I stare up at the ceiling. A barrage of thoughts beat inside my skull, battling against the ache of my eyelids that beg for sleep. I glance up at the clock, which reads six in the morning. Not even a minute later, the light flicks on, and I lift my head to see Ruiz scratching his lower back, as he makes his way toward the kitchen.

Through a yawn, he squints and comes to a stop beside my makeshift couch bed. “Oh! Damon? Did you sleep all night on the couch?”

Pushing to a sitting position, I clear my throat of the urge to come clean and confess that the woman I’ve been fucking for the last week is sleeping in my bed. “I hope you don’t mind. A friend of mine is in trouble. She needed a place to stay.”

His brows wing up. “She?”

“Ivy.”

Arms behind his back, he nods. “She isn’t mourning her grandmother’s death well, I take it.”

In the thick of all my thoughts, I’d almost forgotten about Mamie’s death. “No. She feels quite alone and vulnerable. I offered that she could stay here at the rectory, temporarily, of course.”

Lips forming a hard line, he contemplates this for far longer than I did at first. “Provided you’re comfortable sleeping on the couch, I don’t see a problem. Although, there is the other room down there.”

“The couch is fine. Thank you for understanding. I know Ivy will appreciate it.”

“She’s quite a woman, isn’t she? Interesting personality, that one.” He chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. “She reminds me of a girl I dated before heading off to seminary.”

“Yeah?”

“Feisty personality. Quiet. Beautiful.” Stroking his chin, he smiles as if at some unspoken thought in his head. “A rare flower in the desert. I was supposed to marry her, but God had other plans for me.”

“Do you regret it?” I dare to ask him, wondering if he’d bother to answer honestly.

“I do not regret the choices I’ve made in life, but I do regret the possibilities, at times.” He breaks from his musings, and as if the guilt I’m feeling is written all over my face, he tips his head. “Why do you ask, Damon? Do you feel regret in your decision?”

“No. But I do ponder the possibilities from time to time, as well.”

“Last I checked, she had gotten married, has a grown boy and girl. A happy life, it seems. I like to think my choices helped lead her to that happiness.”

I stare down at my hands, rubbing them together as his words mingle with the indecision I’ve warred with most of the night. Perhaps Ivy and I aren’t meant to be together. Maybe the intruder who visited us, who didn’t bother to kill us in our sleep, was a divine intervention, of some sort.

Perhaps Ivy would be better off finding her own path, without me. I give a nod and pull my knees up, resting my elbows on top of them. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

Shrugging, I lift my gaze to his. “For giving me perspective.”

“Eh, for what my perspective is worth, anyway.”

I chuckle, as he walks off into the kitchen and preps his morning coffee. The second he leaves, I lift my phone and send a text to Bishop McDonell.

I’ve done as you asked and taken time to ponder what would make me reconsider my decision to leave the priesthood. Only one thing would make me stay.

A transfer to the Catholic church in Calexico.

My heart is pounding against my ribs as I stare down at the text, and before I can stop myself, I click send.

It’s not without a heavy heart that I make this request, as Bishop McDonnel and Ruiz happen to be two reasons I didn’t drink myself to death all those years ago.

It only takes about ten seconds for the dots to show up, indicating his reply.

I’ll check with the San Diego Diocese and see what I can do.

If he comes through on this, it means the possibilities with Ivy are over.

It means I’ve chosen to become my bastard father.

27

IVY

The blur of sleep sticks to my eyes, as I open them to find a figure standing in the closet across from where I lay. Pushing myself up onto my elbow, I wipe and blink away the film, focusing on Damon’s profile, as he stares up at something.

“What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“That’s strange, I could’ve sworn it was later than that when you brought me here.”

“In the afternoon.”

“Seriously?” I stretch out on the bed that had me drooling all night from how it smelled like Damon. “I think the last time I slept in that late, I was eighteen years old.”

“I’m leaving, Ivy.” In spite of the resolution in his voice, he apparently hasn’t worked up the balls to look me in the eye. “I’m transferring to another church.”

A mirthless laugh escapes me, and I kick myself back against the wall. “That’s … that’s brilliant. Some crazed asshole is coming after me, and you’ve decided to split the scene.”

“Ruiz has agreed to let you stay here as long as you need.”

“Damon, I have shit that will be thrown out onto the streets. Okay? You’re asking me to quit my job without notice. Quit my rent. Quit my life.” It’s hard to believe I can muster another tear, but the moment that familiar sting hits the rim of my eyes, I have to swallow back the emotion in my voice. “I don’t have much. But I’ve busted my ass for everything I own.”

As though ignoring me, he reaches up and grabs a box from the top shelf of the closet, then strides toward the bed. “After Isabella and Val, all I had from my own life fit into this box.” A smile creeps across his otherwise somber face while he stares down at it. “And Philippe, of course. Leaving was the hardest and most necessary thing I’ve ever done. It saved my life.”

“And so, I’m supposed to just hang out here at the rectory until what—they stop chasing me? How the hell will I know when that is?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“Well, answer this: Can you live with the possibility of them finding me? Can you live with the guilt of whatever it is they plan to do with me once they have me?”

“Ivy …” his voice holds a warning, but I don’t bother to stop. Fuck him.

“I mean, I can’t imagine any man affiliated with the cartels would be merciful to a woman he’s made a target, right? They’d probably have their fun with me for a bit first, I’d imagine.”

“Stop. So long as you stay here, you should be safe.”

“Should? And what happens to Ruiz, if they find out I’m here? What if he witnesses everything? Do you think they’d go easy on a priest? Or would it be amusing to have a holy man watch a woman get violated.”

“Enough!” The venom in his eyes stings like it’s hit my skin. “What would you have me do? I’ve spent all night pondering that question, and I still don’t have a good answer.”

“Take me with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“You’d be walking straight into the mouth of hell, itself!”

“And I’m pretty sure that’s the last place they’d think to find me.”

Mouth hung wide, he stares back in silence, the argument undoubtedly cocked at the back of his throat failing to break free, as if he’s contemplating the possibilities.

“I’m going to be in a new church. You can’t stay at the rectory there.”

“I’ve got enough cash to float me about for a month in motels.”

“And that’s how you’d choose to spend your life savings? Holed up in a motel somewhere?”

“Damon, I feel safe with you. If being holed up in a motel means I stay close to you, then yes. That’s exactly what I choose.”

“And your apartment?”

“I’ll pay one more month and go from there. Look, I can’t talk you out of going, I know that. But I’m not letting you go there alone.”

“And if something happens to me. You won’t try to play some avenging angel and get yourself killed?”

“Only if you promise to do everything in your power to keep something from happening to you.”

He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. It sucks that I’ve had to back him into this corner, but every word I’ve said is true. I have no one for me here, and having no one is dangerous. “What if there’s a better path for you, Ivy? One with marriage and children and a happy life?”

“Seems to me, going along with you is the best way to sweeten those odds.”

Lips pressed together, he seems to chew on his thoughts, before his shoulders sag in defeat. “Fine. You’ll come with me and stay in a motel outside of the city.”

“Not too far outside, though.”

“God help me, if anything happens to you …”

“God will have to help himself. Can you imagine me trying to get inside the pearly gates?”

His lip lifts to a slight, crooked smile. “No. Oddly enough, I can’t.”

“Neither can I. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” I crawl across the bed to where he stands beside it and push up to my knees. Snaking my arms around his neck, I let him pull me in for a kiss to my forehead. “When do we leave?”

“Week’s end. Square away what you need to before then.”

“What’s his name?” At the unyielding look in his eyes, I glide my thumb across his lips that refuse to speak it. “If you fail to kill him, I’ll need to know who’s coming after me next. It’s hard to run from a faceless shadow.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before his eye twitches the way it does when he’s about to give in to me. “El Cabro Blanco. The White Goat. But from what I’ve gathered of the man, if he kills me first, you won’t even see him coming.”

28

DAMON

Calexico is a border city, spanning about six hundred square miles, directly across from Mexicali. If one were to drive through, they might think it nothing but another heavily-influenced Mexican town in California, but this city happens to exist in the shadow of its sister across the border, making it one big, extended multicultural family.

There isn’t much here, no main strip, really, and the only entertainment seems to be the local theater up the road. Homes and open spaces. And fields. Lots of fields. At a glance, it doesn’t seem like the kind of town that’d house gangs, or one of the more dangerous men in the crime world, but as I’ve come to know, looks can be quite deceiving.

I’ve got Ivy set up in a small, but clean, motel, about twelve miles north of here in El Centro, one of the bigger nearby cities. One I hope she’ll blend into without getting noticed. Hard to expect from a woman who never goes unnoticed. Even ten minutes away seems too far, for the way this place makes me uneasy, but there might be some logic to staying right under the Goat’s nose.

I turn the car into the parking lot of Our Lady of Guadalupe, toward the parish offices at the back. Exiting my car, I notice a kid, maybe sixteen, or seventeen, leaning against the wall of a cheap motel across the street. When I nod at him, the kid flips me off.

Nice town.

Inside the building, a short, pudgy woman, pushing sixty, is sitting at a desk, and she greets me with a smile. “Hello,” she says with a strong Spanish accent. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Father Damon Russo.”

“Ah! Welcome, Padre! We’ve been expecting you! One moment.” She pushes up from the desk and hobbles off toward what must be offices behind her, stopping at the first door on the right. “Padre Damon está aquí.”

I understand a sparing amount of the language to recognize she let him know I’m here.

“Gracias.” Seconds later, he exits the office with a smile that withers as he approaches me. “You’re the new priest?” Like the secretary’s, his accent is also strong.

“Yes. Damon Russo.” I hold out my hand, and he frowns as he returns the handshake.

“Javier.” He tips his head, studying me. “Are you bilingual, Damon?”

“No. I understand some Spanish, having lived in LA, but I don’t speak it fluently.”

“I see. The diocese typically sends Spanish-speaking priests, based on the demographics here.”

“I’m assuming many of your parishioners understand English?”

“Of course, but they prefer a priest who is familiar with their ways. The church has become a very strong presence in this community. I’m not sure you’d be a good fit for our congregation.”

There’s something odd about this priest, a strangeness to his personality that already has me on alert, but it’s also the first time any man of the cloth has ever attempted to turn me away. His mannerisms are a red flag.

“I worked in the same parish as Fernando Ruiz. He told me about your church. How you needed some help.”

The mention of Ruiz seems to spark some small measure of curiosity, at least, when his brows wing up. “Ah, yes. I’ve been trying to get Ruiz himself down here.” His eyes sweep over me, and he clasps his hands behind his back. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll try a few days, and if it works out, you stay. If it doesn’t, well, you wouldn’t be the first.”

“There’ve been many who left?”

He glances back toward the secretary, who has her head buried in paperwork, and returns his gaze to me, giving a nod. “Let me show you the rectory.”

I follow him out the door of the offices, and both of us come to a stop beside my car, where Vete al carajo has been spraypainted in black on the side of it. Go fuck yourself. I know that one, too.

“My apologies, Damon.” With a sigh, he shakes his head. “I’m trying my best to reach out to these kids, but it’s not been easy. My comments earlier have little to do with you, and more to do with the experiences I’ve had with other priests.”

“Were they non-hispanic, as well?”

“No, we had one … Father Vasquez. They found him to be quite strict.” He blows out an exasperated breath and waves his hand for me to follow after him. “They drew obscenities on his alb and tied an obscene sex toy to his window, using his cincture.”

Rounding the church brings a fairly modern, two-story house into view. Flowers planted in the front gardens, and the nicely trimmed lawn, make me wonder if Javier manages it himself.”

“The church must be very sacred to these kids?”

“I wish I could say that’s true, but none of them tend to show for mass, or reconciliation. And believe me, they have much to atone for.”

“Then, why are they so protective of this particular church? And why haven’t they run you out of town?”

Brows raised, he shrugs, and a smile stretches across his face. “It makes no sense to me, either. I didn’t request you. I haven’t requested help in quite some time. We’ve managed just fine here.”

I know he didn’t request me. I requested myself, and by the looks of things, that request wasn’t welcome. “I see that. But perhaps I can take some of the pressure off of you.”

He leads me inside the house, which is far more modern and well-kempt than the rectory back in LA. “You pretty much have full run of this place.”

“You don’t live at the rectory?”

“No. I like having my own space, so I rent a home across town.”

There’s no way our church would’ve supported an unused home like this and paid rent for a second home across town. “How does the church afford it?”

“Generous donations from the congregation.”

Taking the lead up the staircase, he points out the two bedrooms of the upper level, which make my old, small room look like a closet. What looks to be a king-sized bed doesn’t even take up half the room’s size. A dresser made of polished cherry wood and a walk in closet fill some of the space, too. The bathroom at the opposite side of the room looks like something out of a magazine, with beautiful ornate tiles, and a glass shower stall with shiny brass hardware. Excessive.

“This is quite opulent,” I say.

“Either bedroom is open to you. They’re both similar in size and layout, though this has the nicer view of the neighborhood. The other is just the backside of the church.”

In all my years as a priest, I’ve never stayed in anything more than what the church was able to afford, which in all cases, didn’t come close to this.

“I’m speechless. You must get rather large donations.”

“We do. Our older, retired members, in particular, insist on taking care of their priest. I have to admit, it’s what has kept me here. Not the money, of course, but the loyalty and generosity are unlike anything I’ve seen anywhere else.”

“Likewise.” I stare out the window, where the kid from earlier, the one who flipped me off, sits smoking on the curb across the street. “You said old, retired members, correct?”

“Yes. They make up the majority of the congregation.”

“Any gang members?”

“A few. Some of them have oddly skewed views on what is considered sin, but either way, we don’t discriminate, so long as they don’t bring trouble into the church. So far, that hasn’t been an issue.”

“I’ve heard rumors of one. He goes by the name El Cabro Blanco.”

“Ah, yes. The fabled white goat of the south.” There’s an air of amusement on his voice, in spite of the man’s austere demeanor.

“Fabled?”

“I’m afraid his stories are a bit taller than his actual accomplishments.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him, just as you. If you stay long enough, you’ll find he’s not the threat everyone makes him out to be.”

“I think you’re the first to tell me that.”

He chuckles, crossing the room to stand beside me, where he looks down toward the kid still sitting on the curb. “Pajaros.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

With a nod toward the kid, he doesn’t bother to break his stare. “They work for him. The Goat. He calls them his little birds. Supposedly. They keep an eye on things. You’ll be fresh news.” Stepping away from the window, he shuffles back toward the door. “Get settled. I’ll have you perform Reconciliation tonight. This Sunday, I expect a large turn out for Mass, and I’ll be sure to introduce you then. Our secretary, Ramira, took the liberty of stocking the fridge in case you get hungry.”

“Thank you.”

“Buena suerte,” he says, before exiting the room.

Seconds later, the click of the door on the lower level tells me he’s left.

When I look out the window again, the boy is gone.

29

IVY

My room smells like chlorine from the pool at the back of the building, and the throbbing ache in my skull tells me I need some fresh air. Rubbing my temple, I step out onto the balcony of my room, two stories up from the sidewalk, and light up a smoke. Okay, not quite fresh air, but it’ll do. While El Centro is one of the bigger cities this far south, it’s certainly not as overwhelming and smoggy as Los Angeles.

“¿Como te llamas, Mami?”

The shout comes from below, and I look down to see a young kid, maybe eighteen, holding his junk as he kisses two fingers and points toward me.

With a frown, I ignore him, and his request to know my name, and take a drag of my cigarette.

“S’like that, huh?”

I don’t even spare him the glance this time. Reason number two I’ll be swapping rooms. Preferably one too high to hear his catcalls.

“Juliet! Oh, Juliet! Come down on Romeo!” He snickers and thrusts his crotch toward me, but doesn’t see the older woman who comes up from behind and slaps him upside the head. “Ah! I’m sorry, Abuela! I’m sorry!”

A chuckle escapes me, watching him try to duck away from her swatting arms.

She points a finger to him, then to me. “Si no tienes nada bueno que decir.” Gripping his chin, she looks him in the eye. “Mejor no digas nada.”

My Spanish is horrible, but I’ve picked up enough to know she’s chiding him.

His face scrunches with remorse, and he drops his gaze. “Lo siento.”

For the second time, she points to me. “La dama.”

The huff of frustration tells me he’s embarrassed, but he steps toward me, fingers curled around the stick of his broom. “I’m sorry if I disrespected you.”

Snorting a laugh, I shake my head. “It’s okay.”

His grandmother hobbles off back inside, and he goes back to sweeping the sidewalk in front of what appears to be a mom and pop kind of store.

I take another drag of my cigarette, eyeing him as I do. Not a bad looking kid, with his sun-bronzed skin, light colored eyes, and dark hair—certainly one who doesn’t need to solicit strangers to get attention, that’s for sure.

Once he’s finished, he plops down on the curb beneath my balcony and lights up a smoke of his own. “Are you here for business, or pleasure?” he asks, resting his elbows atop his knees.

“I’m not answering that.” I stare off across the street at the La Taqueria calling my name.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I just mean … what brings you here?”

Shrugging, I flick my ash into the styrofoam cup I left out from last time. “Just visiting. Hey,” I say, nodding toward the restaurant. “They have good food?”

“If you like the fast food shit. My abuela makes the best tortas and tamales on the block.”

Leaning forward, I scan over the fruit set out on the sidewalk in baskets and a sign in the window that reads las mejores tortas y flautas de tu ciudad. “Cool. I’ll stop in.” Flicking the butt of my smoke into the cup, I swirl it around in the small bit of water until it’s out. “So, what’s your story? You work for her?”

“For a while. Until I head off to community college.”

“College? Really?”

The look he shoots me, brimming with all kinds of disdain, makes me regret the comment.

“Sorry, I just thought—”

“I was a thug. Tunnel rat?” He takes another drag. “My older brother went that route. Didn’t work out for him. ‘S’why I’m working here. I’m getting out of this city. Gonna make something of myself.”

“That’s great. I didn’t mean to imply …. I think that’s awesome. What will you study?”

“Agriculture. Maybe business. My grandma and grandpa opened this place, one of a handful of changarro, back when my mom was a baby. Been here ever since.”

“You have a better plan than I do. Stick with it.” Rubbing my hands together, I smile. “My name’s … Ivy.” The small bit of hesitation is quickly doused by the understanding that this kid probably isn’t hanging around known criminals, if he’s working toward college.

“I’m Sergio.”

“Nice to meet you, Sergio. See? Isn’t that so much nicer than what’s your name, Mami?”

A burst of laughter escapes him, and he shakes his head. “I try.”

“Well, try harder. Me gusta que me traten como a una dama.” I like to be treated like a lady. I don’t speak a lot of Spanish, at all, really. Think I might’ve heard that one in a song, or something.

With a smile, he nods. “No disrespect.”

30

DAMON

An hour has somehow slipped by, and not one person has entered the confessional, but that doesn’t exactly trouble me. I’m not here for the parish, I’m here to find a killer, a ruthless murderer, who, in spite of what Father Javier says, is thought to be responsible for unspeakable atrocities. Including the slaughter of my family.

I thought the church would be a good cover and help me lay low, but there’s something odd about the way the street kids, or pajaros, as Javier called them, seem to be connected to this place.

As if they’re protecting it from outsiders.

Why?

I’m guessing the only way I’ll ever truly know is by asking, and I’d have to get close enough to do that, which would put me well within spray painting distance.

With a huff, I exit the confessional. While it’s been a good opportunity to sit and reflect, as I’ve always enjoyed, there’s no sense wasting anymore time. About a dozen bowed heads greet me as I exit the stuffy box, not one of them bothering to look up at me as they kneel, scattered throughout the pews.

Javier stands off to the side of the sanctuary, speaking with an older woman. He smiles and kisses the top of her head, before leading her toward the confessional.

As I make my way back inside, Javier sets his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take her confession, Damon.”

Rolling my shoulders, I glance to where the woman has stepped inside already. “Of course.”

“I know you’ve had quite a day. Perhaps you’d like to get some rest in preparation for tomorrow morning’s mass.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“Have a good night, Damon.” With a pat on my shoulder, he disappears inside the box, and simply out of curiosity, I wait a couple minutes to see the woman step out, and another enter after her. A few of the others glance up from their prayer, as though gauging their turn.

Shaking my head, I make my way back to the Sacristy to remove my vestments, and take the back entrance toward my graffiti-laden car. I’ll have to Google what effectively removes spray paint without messing up the paint job itself.

The moon is high and bright here, where the open spaces and lack of big city lights make the stars pop. I round the church on my way to the rectory, and a force hits my spine, knocking me forward. Pavement scrapes against my skin, tearing my palms as I smack the cement. Before I can turn to face my attacker, another whack hits the back of my thighs.

Red heat climbs my muscles, where an aching throb has settled down to my bones, and I can damn near feel the bruise taking hold there.

“Ah, fuck!” I twist just enough to catch the business end of a baseball bat raised above the masked face looming over me, and I lift my arm to shield what little I can.

“Hey! What are you doing?” A distant voice calls out, and when the masked man startles, I steal the opportunity to kick his legs out from under him.

His body crashes to the ground, spine-first, and the bat rolls onto the street.

The pain in my legs turns numb for the rage that seethes in my blood, offering just enough adrenaline to scramble over top of him, fist drawn back, and yank his balaclava mask away to get a good look at the face I’m about to mutilate.

It’s the boy from earlier. The one who flipped me off and watched me from the rectory window. No doubt, the one who spray painted my car. Brows pinched together and hands raised to shield his eyes, he looks like a frightened child beneath me.

“Why are you doing this? What is this church to you?”

The voice from before belongs to an older man, who hobbles alongside the two of us, and I glance to the side to see him bent forward, catching his breath. “Phew! Time to trade this model in for a new one.” He doesn’t carry a Spanish accent, and the redder tones of his skin that I can make out under the street light tell me he probably isn’t Mexican. In fact, his graying beard and silvery hair, pulled back into a slick ponytail, makes him look like Santa Claus in the off season.

I lower my fist, and the boy slides out from beneath me, scrambling to his feet.

The old man straightens himself, and the small bit of amusement on his face hardens to something more threatening as he points a finger toward the kid. “I’m watching you. Get your ass home, before I tell your madre what happened here.”

The kid swipes up his bat and mask, and books it down the street.

The pulse in the back of my legs and between my shoulder blades is a reminder that I just got my ass kicked by a teenager, as I push off the pavement to my feet. As soon as he’s out of sight, I turn to the good Samaritan and extend my hand. “Thank you for saving my skull from an aluminum bat. I’m Damon.”

“Ah, yeah, you’re the new Padre at the church.” His accent is terrible, spoken like a true Gringo. “I’m Gordon. Gordon Tuefel. Nice to meet ya, Father.”

“Please, call me Damon.” I rub my thumb over the burn on my palm from the scrape there, wishing I had some water to douse the flames across the heel of it. “You know that kid’s mother?”

“Oh, yeah. I know just about everyone in this town. Knew that kid when he was running around his front yard in diapers.”

“Any idea why he seems to have a problem with me?”

Scratching the small patch of skin above his beard line, he huffs. “While they’re not all that religious, folks in this town can be superstitious and suspicious. ‘Specially toward what they deem a gabacho who shows up out of nowhere. Probably doesn’t help that Father Javier didn’t speak too highly of you coming last Sunday.”

“He’s not fond of newcomers, either, is he?” Running my hand over the back of my thigh reveals the knot I can feel forming beneath my skin where I was hit.

“Always found him a little strange. He has a way about things. Very private man.”

Private indeed. I still find it curious that he’s chosen to live across town from his church, when there’s a perfectly good and well-maintained rectory right up the street.

“In the case of Rafael, the kid who swung a homerun on your leg there.” Gordon nods toward my thigh that continues to throb beneath my hand, as I rub the ache through my slacks. “I think he blames the last priest for his brother ending up in prison. Seems Father Vasquez wasn’t quite so patient about their pranks as you seem to be.”

It has nothing to do with my patience, but I don’t tell him that. I don’t need the police nosing around right now.

A quick glance around shows a number of cars parked along the street curb, any one of which could be his. “Do you live around here?”

“Few blocks over. The less affluent part of town.” It’s only then I notice his flannel shirt is somewhat worn, along with his jeans and shoes.

“The rectory is right here,” I say, pointing to the house on the corner. “Can I offer you a coffee, or something to eat?” Admittedly, I haven’t even looked in the fridge yet, to see what Ramira stocked for me.

“No, thank you for your generosity. I’m just gonna mosey on over to the church to get my confessions out of the way.”

“I’m happy to take confession for you, if you’d like.” One hobble toward the church, and I notice the tight stiffness forming in my thigh muscles.

Perhaps taking notice of my limp, he shakes his head. “No, that’s quite all right. Kinda got accustomed to doing it in Spanish, ya know? Makes it easier to come clean.”

“I see. Well, thank you again, Gordon. I hope to see you at Mass sometime.”

“Same. And give these kids a bit of time to warm up to you. They do, eventually, believe it, or not.”

“Thanks. I’ll certainly believe it when I see it.”

“So, when do I get to spend the night?” Ivy asks, between chomping whatever she’s eating on the other end of the line.

Peering through the bedroom window of the first floor, I stare down at the empty street, before pulling the curtain closed. “It’s not a good idea to come here. The locals have been somewhat hostile.” I’d have taken one of the two nicer rooms upstairs, but the thought of climbing a staircase with a battered leg has left me content with the simpler room. Besides, after the night’s events, I’d prefer to sleep where I can hear what’s going on.

“How so?”

I scratch the top of my head and limp toward the bed, falling onto the mattress there, and massage the lump on my thigh. “Let’s just say, I’ve learned more about spray paint than I ever cared to before.”

“Oh, no. Seriously?”

“They advised that I go fuck myself.”

She snorts a laugh. “That’s horrible. Why would you fuck yourself when you’ve got someone eager to do it for you?”

“Perhaps I should’ve made the drive north tonight, in spite of the graffiti on my car.”

“I certainly would’ve made it worth your time.” The slurping sound announces she’s reached the end of whatever she’s sipping. “I met a friend today.”

“Ivy ...” The reflexive pinch of my muscle upon hearing that makes me flinch. “Thought I told you to lay low.”

“I am.”

“Making friends isn’t laying low.”

“Well, he insisted.”

“He?”

“A kid whose grandma owns the little shop next door.”

“He didn’t harass you, did he?”

“At first, but grandma whooped his ass for it. Was a total gentleman after that. Anyway, his grandmother made me some tamales and torta.” She adds a Spanish accent to the last word. “Was so good.”

“Look, we don’t know who’s connected down here yet. I learned the goat has little birds keeping an eye on things for him.”

“I know. But I doubt Sergio is one of them. He’s planning to go to college next fall. Has been saving up for years for it.”

“It seems you’ve learned quite a bit about your new friend. Still. Don’t get too friendly. And don’t give out your real name. If they find out you’re here, it’s game over.”

“Sure. Got it.” The brevity in her voice isn’t reassuring, at all, though. “So, when do I get to see you again? I’m bored and hot.”

“Did you go to the pool?”

“Yes. I went to the pool twice. I’ve worked out. I’ve showered. I’ve touched myself. I still miss you.”

“And I miss you. Give me a day, or two. Perhaps they’ll lose interest in me by then. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

“I like the sound of that. I get to call the shots this time?”

“C’mon. You know better than that.” The thought of her pleading eyes staring up at me, asking that question, brings a deviant sort of smile to my face.

“Okay, I guess. Sweet dreams, Father Damon. And remember, masturbation is not a sin.”

“I’ll remember that. Goodnight.”

Clicking off the phone, I stare up at the ceiling, and it’s then that a thought pops in my head. Call it old habits, but on one gimp leg, I search the ceiling, the floor, the lamp, the bed, the closet and the bathroom, for any sign my room has been bugged. In my short and cursory hunt for anything unusual, I find nothing.

Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention toward the wide nightstand beside my bed—one I thought oddly monstrous for such a small and simple room. Tipping my head, I take careful steps toward a whitish-looking object that’s half crawled out from beneath the nightstand, pale against the dark gray carpeting. It scampers backward, and before it can attack, or escape, I nab one of my shoes from beneath the bed and crush it, grinding its crunchy carapace into the carpet.

Scorpion.

I open the cupboard of the nightstand to make sure there aren’t any others, and the air catches in my lungs. My stomach turns over on itself.

What in God’s name?

31

IVY

Freshly showered, I head out to the balcony, fluffing wet hair with my fingers, and swipe my pack of smokes from the table. I’ve done more smoking in the last forty-eight hours than I have in the last month. If this Mexican druglord doesn’t find and kill me first, the cigarettes surely will.

As I plop down on the cheap plastic chair out here, I glance downward to find Sergio setting out fruit in baskets. The moment he catches sight of me, he smiles and deposits the rest of the fruit, before plopping down on the curb to light up.

“Please let your grandmother know I lurved her tamales,” I say, resting my elbows on my thighs. “Best I’ve ever had.”

“I will.” He stuffs his smoke into his mouth and rolls his sleeves up, exposing a tattoo inked across his forearm.

“What’s that?” I nod toward the dates beneath something in Spanish.

“Quisieron enterrarnos, pero no sabían que éramos semillas.” The way he stares down at it, gently running his thumb over the ink tells me it holds somber meaning to him. “They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds. The date is my brother’s birth and death.”

“The one you spoke of yesterday?”

Staring off, he nods and draws another hit of his smoke. “Was killed in a drive-by shooting down in Mexicali. At a buddy’s house. I was supposed to go with him that night. He planned to introduce me to some cholo he rolled with at the time. Said he could help me make fast cash for school.” With his cigarette dangling from his fingertips, he picks at his thumbnail. “Stupid culero got himself killed.”

“Gang members shot him.”

“These weren’t gangs. They’re worse. There’s brotherhood in gangs. Friendship. This was business. No family. No heart.”

“What made you stay back that night?” I wonder if he’ll tell me it was divine intervention, or an act of God, and that he’s lucky to be alive.

Instead, he shakes his head and flicks his ash. “I chickened out last minute. Decided I didn’t want to get caught up in all that shit. I should’ve though. I should’ve been there. Maybe he’d still be here.”

I lower my gaze and shake my head. “You don’t know that.”

He doesn’t respond, still staring off.

“Sergio … are you familiar with a man who goes by El Cabro Blanco?”

Twisting around, he swings his attention to me, brows set to a frown. “Where’d you hear that name?”

“Around.”

“I’d keep it to yourself, if I were you. People start talking. They get suspicious.”

“Do you know him?”

“Everybody knows of him.”

“Any idea what he looks like?”

“I’ve never seen him. But people say he’s big. And his eyes are black as death.”

“That … sounds like something out of a Twilight book.”

“Look, don’t fuck with that name, or those people, okay? They’re not good people.”

“What makes them bad?”

“They kill children. Rape women. Murder brothers.”

“They killed your brother. He did. This El Cabro Blanco.”

He flicks his cigarette onto the street and jumps to his feet. “I’m not going to tell you again, Ivy. In this place? The girl who noses around, gets her nose cut off.”

Face colored in frustration, he storms off.

32

DAMON

Although it’s entirely in Spanish, I attend mass early following morning prayer, but the sound of Father Javier’s voice is only white noise to the thoughts in my head.

The night before, I opened the cupboard of my nightstand to find something I’d never seen before in my life. Something that keeps my focus glued to Father Javier, examining much closer than before, searching for evidence that this man might be capable of the atrocities I’ve heard about. That he might be capable of murdering my family in cold blood.

The bottom of the cupboard had been removed, and a hole big enough for one body extended into the darkness, with a ladder for someone to climb down into it. An underground tunnel that, if I had to guess, was, or is, likely used to smuggle drugs.

And who would question, or bother to investigate, the rectory?

Maybe that’s why none of the other priests have worked out. Maybe they opened their mouths. I probably would, too, if I didn’t come from a world where one keeps their enemies close, until they’re ready to strike.

After mass, I steal the opportunity to greet some of the parishioners in the narthex, most of whom ignore me for Father Javier. A few of the younger women offer flirtatious smiles, but for the most part, I get the sense they haven’t accepted me quite yet.

Standing back a few steps, I observe his interactions with them, the way he’s far more affectionate and kind than he seems. There’s an air of discomfort in the way he keeps his smile slight and clasps his fingers together between greetings.

This is his mask, the face he puts on for others, and I intend to find out what’s behind it.

“And there he is!” The familiar voice draws my attention toward the bottom of the concrete stairs, from where Gordon waves.

With a smile, I meet him there and offer a handshake. “I didn’t see you during mass.”

“Nah, I only go to church on Sunday. Just here to meet with Father Javier about something.”

“Ah, then you’ll bear witness to my first homily in the new place. Or, as I like to call it, the Mass Disaster.”

“You’ll do fine.” He turns away from me, and a smile crinkles the deep grooves already etched in his face. “Well, well. Look at this rowdy bunch of trouble makers!”

A beautiful young girl with long black hair that’s held back from her face by a thick headband and bronze skin steps forward in a beige skirt and white top. She’s probably sixteen, or seventeen, I’d guess. A slightly older replica of her follows after, wearing a bright smile and a floral dress, and behind them, a man dressed in slacks and a crisp white shirt.

“Gordon, you’re already harassing the new priest?” the older woman says, offering me the first friendly, non-sexual glance I’ve received today.

“Somebody’s got to!” He shoots me a wink and sets his hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “Father Damon, allow me to introduce you to the finest family in Southern California. This is Ariceli, her mother Veronica, and our much respected mayor, Raul Martinez.”

“Mayor?” I hold out my hand, certain I’ve made a grave error by assuming the church will help me to lay low. I don’t even know the mayor of Los Angeles. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Welcome to Calexico. We’re happy to have you here, Father Damon.”

“Some more than others, I suppose.”

“Yes, eh, seems Father Damon has been subjected to the unofficial greeting committee.” Abandoning the young girl, Gordon stands beside me, and the pat on my back hits the bruise there, making me flinch.

“My apologies, Father.” Raul lowers his gaze and sighs, frowning like he’s had this conversation before. “We’re working on a solution for the gangs that seem to be cropping up in our town. We’ve assembled a small task force and neighborhood watch.”

“Task force? They’re kids.” Arms crossed, Gordon shakes his head and scoffs. “C’mon, Raul. The solution is the checkpoints. It’s not a gang problem, it’s a bunch of bored kids borderhopping. Get some business going here. Open a damn mall. Give ‘em something to do. We’ve talked about this.”

“And now is not the time to continue this discussion.” Raul carries the calm diplomatic warning in his tone that I expect from a politician.

“Right. Sorry.” Gordon turns toward the young girl once again. “Hey, I hear you plan to go to Pepperdine next year. That’s great! Fantastico, young lady.”

“Yes, we met with admissions last week, and it seems like a good fit,” Veronica, answers for her.

“Bet you’re looking forward to moving onward and upward! No farming for this one, no, sir. She’s smart.”

Raul sighs and nudges his wife and daughter. “Again, we’re happy to have you here, Father. Should you need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“I’ll be in touch!” Gordon calls out to him, but only Veronica offers a sheepish smile and waves back.

“Gordon, give me five minutes.” Javier says from behind me, and I turn to watch him head back into the church.

“What did you mean by check points?” I ask, recalling Raul’s disinterested reaction to such a suggestion.

“Ah, it’s a longstanding battle with Raul. He thinks we have a gang problem here. That these kids are hooking up with some big drug lord and cartel across the border.”

Perhaps not across the border. Perhaps right here in this very church. But I don’t say that to Gordon. “I say they’re just a bunch of bored kids with nothing to do.” He waves his hand out toward the surrounding neighborhood. “You’re from LA. Look around, Father. There isn’t much to do here. We need some business. Some commerce running through here. Kids get idle … they get … antsy. Violent. Unpredictable.”

“I don’t think a mall will be the solution for kids who take baseball bats to newcomers.”

He flinches and shakes his head. “Maybe not. But not all these kids have the opportunity to get out, like Ariceli. They’re angry. They feel stuck. And when you’re backed in a corner, the only way out is sometimes violent.”

“Which makes them easy to manipulate. The promise of something better is a great motivator.”

His appraisal of me holds more suspicion than anything else. “Raul thinks these kids are following some mythological goat, like some messiah of the underworld. He’s an excuse. That’s all. A scapegoat for politicians to ignore the real problem, which is lack of opportunity.”

“You don’t believe he’s real, then?” It was Javier who first blew him off as nothing interesting, perhaps the only one I’ve come across who didn’t seem threatened by the circulating stories.

“The goat?” He shrugs and looks out over the neighborhood again. “I’ve lived here for decades. The biggest criminal I’ve seen is wasted potential. It’s everywhere you look.”

I feel oddly compelled to tell him he’s wrong. That my family was the victim of this mythical goat, whose reign extends well beyond this small town, and that I stumbled upon a curious portal in my own bedroom. Now’s not the time, though. I have far more to investigate before I begin throwing around accusations in this town. “And the stories? The murders? The families he’s terrorized?”

“Is that why you came here, Father? To deliver us all from the great white goat?” He scratches at his beard, and doesn’t prod when I don’t answer. “Every murder holds a truth. Some are more obvious than others. For the ones that aren’t, I suppose a mysterious goat who runs with dangerous criminals makes for a good story.”

I send a quick glance back toward the church, before returning my gaze. “Well, I don’t want to hold you up. I’m sure Father Javier is waiting for you.”

I click out of the website on my laptop, a discussion board I found on a subreddit from two years ago. Some guy posted a story about El Cabro Blanco and how he came from Mexico to the US back in the early eighties, seeking asylum from a druglord, who apparently wanted to buy his wife. He refused, and managed to cross the border before he was captured by guards who’d been paid handsomely to turn him over to the druglord. The druglord then proceeded to rape his wife and murdered his daughter in front of him. He thought he’d murdered his son, as well, but the boy survived. The story went on to say that El Cabro Blanco took revenge years later by raping the druglord’s wife and teenage daughter, before setting them on fire. He then decapitated his young son and castrated the druglord, as a means of ending his bloodline. Others on the thread debate the story with their supposed facts, until it’s so damn convoluted, I have no idea what originally happened. Whether he originated in the US, or came from some small Mexican village.

None of the stories seem to derive from any credible source, either. Other than the urban legends, there are no pictures of him, no news stories. Surely, a man embedded that deep in the criminal world, with the reputation of that many kills, would have some history of arrest, embroiled in one of the many murder rumors that seem to involve his name.

I’m chasing a ghost.

As for Father Javier, he could fit the bill—I’d guess him to be somewhere in his fifties, which would make him quite young in the early eighties, but it’s plausible. As for him being a priest, well, I know better than anyone how easily one can hide in plain sight.

Setting my laptop aside, I climb out of bed and kneel down beside the nightstand. Opening the door brings me staring down into a black hole again. The entire inside of it has been hollowed out completely, leaving an empty shell of furniture that covers the gaping entrance to a tunnel. I reach for the same flashlight I used the night before, and peer into the hole, which must extend a good fifteen, or twenty, feet down. The smooth surface of the dirt, reinforced by concrete, shows great care in constructing the tunnel, and the ladder appears to be anchored into the earth.

Sliding the flashlight between my teeth, I set my foot onto one of the ladder rungs and push down on it to test its capacity. Through the cupboard door, my other foot joins the first, until I’m half in and half out of the nightstand. Ducking down, I step down another rung, and another, each time pressing down on the ladder to test its weight. In minutes, I’m fully inside the nightstand, what seems to be around halfway down ladder, and twisting around, I point the flashlight toward the darkness below me. More dirt. More tunnel.

With slow steps, I descend the ladder farther, occasionally glancing up to see the light from my bedroom diminishing, the deeper I go. When I reach the bottom, the air is cooler and feels damp at the back of my throat with every inhale.

I point the flashlight ahead of me to see the narrow tunnel extends far beyond the arc of light. Thousands of feet, I guess, beneath the border wall into Mexicali. It’s big enough that I can stand upright down here, and the air isn’t as thin as I expected. Perhaps because of ventilation systems installed throughout, which line the ceiling alongside electrical wires connected to the lamps. I’ve read about them in passing, state of the art tunnels designed to transport goods, but I always imagined some sketchy-looking abandoned joint being the entry, or exit, point. Certainly not a rectory, which makes it somewhat brilliant, in all honesty, if not a little unnerving.

I can’t imagine it stands useless, or unused, which means someone has access to my living space. Javier must have expected that, at some point, I’ll come face to face with an intruder.

Still scanning over the surroundings, I take a moment to imagine what that means for the other priests who’ve come and gone.

Pulling myself up the rungs of the ladder, I ascend the hole back up into my bedroom, where I crawl out of the nightstand and tumble onto the floor beside the bed. Flicking off the flashlight, I stare at the entrance, silently measuring the pros and cons of keeping this discovery to myself.

One thing is for certain, I can’t allow any trace of who I really am to remain at the rectory.

And should anyone come through that entrance while I’m here, I only hope they’ve made peace with God beforehand.

33

IVY

The moon sits high in the sky, as I finish up the last of my smoke and head in for the night. Tomorrow, I plan to do a bit exploring throughout the city—at least go for a walk to shake off the boredom of living out of a small hotel room for the next three weeks.

A notification lights up my phone, and I stare down at an email address I recognize, before clicking it open to a message from my old boss in the medical records department. Perhaps the only person, besides Mamie, who happens to have access to my personal email.

A man came by looking for you today. Suit and tie, carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. Told him you didn’t work here anymore. He gave me his number in case I heard from you. 555-347-2991. Hope everything is well with you.

Barbara

Suit and tie, and expensive briefcase? Could’ve been an investigator, or worse. Hopefully, he won’t return there, and I won’t have to watch another news report of someone indirectly murdered because of me.

For kicks, I look up the number, which takes me to some law firm out of Los Angeles.

Law firm? With a frown, I scour my brain for any recollection of the place, and the only thing that comes to mind are the fees that shithead Calvin supposedly got waived for my grandmother. Perhaps this place got word of her death and wants to strap me with her debt.

Shaking my head, I delete all evidence of the phone number from my search, and the email Barb sent, to which I have no intentions of responding.

A noise from inside my room steels my muscles, and I push up from my chair, hidden outside the curtain of the door, and peer inside.

Damon stands at the entrance, emptying something from his wallet onto the dresser.

With a smile, I run my fingers through my hair, and take a quick sniff of my armpits to make sure I remembered deodorant, before stepping back inside. His eyes devour me from where he stands, and I’m pretty sure if I was a slab of steak right now, I’d be half eaten already.

“Well, well. Look what el gato dragged in.”

Lips pressed in a poor attempt to hide the smile that dimples his cheeks, he tosses his wallet onto the dresser and removes his white collar. “I see you’re picking up the language.”

“To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Arms crossed, I lean against the frame of the door to keep from jumping into his arms.

“I have some things I need to keep here. Personal effects I don’t want rummaged.”

“Is that a warning to me?”

“I get the impression my new home isn’t very private. And my colleague isn’t quite as oblivious as Ruiz.”

“Wow. That pretty much defeats the purpose of joining the church down here, doesn’t it?”

“This is not a typical church. But I’m certain that, by staying there, I’m as close as I could be to finding our goat.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I think his business operates out of my bedroom.” His fingers work the buttons of his black shirt, and he tilts his chin in that authoritative way that tells me he didn’t just come here to drop off some personal stuff. “Are you going to take off that shirt and shorts, or do I need to rip them off of you myself?”

Like him, my attempt to hide a smile is useless. “My, aren’t we anxious?”

“Stressed. I need to clear my head, and you’re the only source of distraction that seems to be effective for me.”

“Well, then ...” Tucking my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt, I lift it over my head and slide my shorts down my thighs. It’s been weeks since I’ve worn one of my vintage dresses, and if I knew he’d be popping in on me tonight, I might’ve opted for one. I’m just glad I was bored enough earlier to shave. “Forgive me for the sins that I’m about to commit.” As I lower myself to kneel before him, his palm wraps tight around my throat, bringing me to a halt.

Eyes brimming with torment, he doesn’t let go as he casts his gaze from mine. “Perhaps I’m in the most dangerous place I’ve ever been, with criminals who would gut me alive”

If he thinks his words are a turn on right now, he’s wrong. My libido is fizzling like a deflating balloon.

Pressure builds inside my throat, where he curls his fingers around my neck, physically passing off his frustration into me.

“My head is spinning, and yet, the very sight of you still brings me joy. Contentment.” He articulates every word, as though it’s the opposite of what he’s conveying. As if this fact frustrates him completely. When his eyes meet mine, his grip loosens only slightly. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, Ivy. Because I’m not convinced that bringing you here wasn’t the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done, and if something happens to you …” There’s a sudden rage in his eyes, a cold blackness that tickles my skin as he stares down at me. “God will never forgive me for what I would do. I’ve lost everything in this world, but you.”

I want to remain untouched by his words, to smile at them, for fear that the moment they seep into my skin will be the moment I know immense pain. But I’m past that. I’m so far out of my comfort zone with him, that I can’t even confess I’ve fallen in love with him.

The tickle at my temple are the tears his eyes track, and when they find me again, there’s an unspoken understanding between us. By my throat, he pushes me onto the bed and holds me down, as he forces his way past my thighs. He enters me in one rough thrust, without remorse or apology. His face turns red with anger, the veins popping out of his neck, and he throttles me as if he’d prefer to kill me himself, rather than watch me die by someone else’s hands.

His cock stretches and fills me, sliding inside of me with ease, while I revel in our sin. Head tipped back, I close my eyes and gasp for the breath he’s denying me. My lungs pulse, begging for one drop of air with each dizzying stroke of his cock.

“I will not allow another man to touch you,” he grits through clenched teeth, and I wonder if its me he’s seeing, or the men who would die at his hands.

Part of me longs to question his preoccupations, but a larger part of me is distracted by the lack of breath and the climax that awaits.

The fringes of my vision begin to flicker, blackness seeping in like poison, threatening to take me under, but the tight clench of muscles and the throb of my pussy sends me arching into him, writhing for both oxygen and release.

In one blink, the world explodes behind my eyelids, and a flash of blinding light chases the cool drink of fresh air that fills my lungs.

I open my eyes to see Damon’s head tipped back, his body arched and shuddering, as he bangs out the last of his release on a curse.

Holding my neck, I roll over and cough, slurping up air like I’ve just come back from death. As I struggle to catch my breath, I’m ashamed of the sensation creeping beneath my skin. I’ve never climaxed through asphyxiation before, but it might just be my new favorite thing.

Lying beside him, I snuggle into Damon’s chest, breathing in the delicious masculine aroma of his cologne. I trace my finger over the small bit of hair on his chest. “What were they like? Your wife and daughter?”

His body shifts beneath me. He’s likely frowning down at me, but I don’t bother to look up at him. Perhaps it’s masochistic of me to ask, but I genuinely want to know how he loved them.

Chest expanding with a deep breath, he sighs. “Val was … beautiful and smart, like you, but bolder. Sometimes foolish because of it.”

“I’m not foolish?” I ask, surprised that he wouldn’t think so.

“Sometimes.” At that, I do sit up and smack him on the arm, and he laughs, pulling me back against him. “You’re more calculated. You know when to lie quiet and wait.”

“She was impulsive, then?”

“Yes. And Isabella was the opposite.” His thumb traces over my shoulder, and he leans forward to kiss me there. “She was patient and wise. And so very strong. My fighter.”

“I’m so sorry they were taken from you.”

“I’ve made peace with that. And now, I’m just trying to make things right.”

“Why Val, though? Why did El Cabro kill her?” I know I’m walking on eggshells, but I have to know.

“She was privy to my father’s dealings. And in the world of crime, where knowledge is power, she was a threat. And threats are eliminated without question.”

“Why didn’t they kill you?”

“There’s an etiquette to murder. Killing Val was business. Killing me would have ignited a war with my father.”

“And Isabella?”

His brows flicker with the inclusion of her name. “An innocent casualty.”

I don’t want to admit that I had a conversation with Sergio about El Cabro, but the nagging thought that he would so willingly kill children, like Sergio’s brother and Isabella, tells me he’d never spare Damon, if it came to that. “You don’t have to do this, you know? We could leave this place and never come back.”

“We could.” The slightest smile stretches his lips, but disappears with the tight knit of his brows. “The night before they died, Isabella had woken up from a terrible nightmare. As I tucked her back into bed and sat with her, she asked me what I would’ve done if she’d died of cancer. I spent so many months pushing that thought away that I never really thought about it until right then. There was only ever a black void. I told her I didn’t know.” Exhaling a long breath, he folds his arm beneath his head, staring off at nothing. “With cancer, there’s only the emptiness after. No one to be angry with, except maybe God. And whether you forgive, or drown in that anger, the cancer just keeps on, killing one child after the next. All you can do is move on. But murder … now that’s something else.” His eyes are lost to the words, holding a level of fascination that’s unfitting for who he was only weeks ago. “I can’t walk away, Ivy. Since Calvin, I’ve had these lucid dreams of Isabella, reminding me how young and innocent she was. It’s not right, the way she fought so hard to survive, only to be ripped out of this world by some greedy bastard.”

“Why does it have to be you, though? This isn’t like going after Calvin. This is a cartel.”

“And I’m only after one person.”

“Yeah. The big boss. And I don’t need to read about your body ending up in an oil drum for it.”

“I’m a priest, Ivy. I’m sure they’d be a bit more respectful in my disposal. Maybe bury me alive in concrete, or something.”

“Do you even have a plan? I mean, you came down here on a whim to take out a cartel. That’s a little irresponsible, to be honest.”

“My plan is to figure out who ordered the murder of my family. I’ll figure it out from there.”

The lack of information stirs my frustration, promising more weeks in this lonely place. Yes, I volunteered to come with him. Yes, I understood the consequences. And yes, I recognize going after a drug lord isn’t something a man rushes into, to spare his girlfriend the boredom of spending weeks in a motel. It still pisses me off. “You worry so much about something happening to me. But what if something happens to you, Damon? Did it ever occur to you that I might go apeshit, too?”

“You and apeshit don’t belong in the same sentence, but yes, it has occurred to me. Which is why I’ve told you repeatedly now: having you here isn’t a good idea.”

Groaning, I push up from him, and at the grip of my arm, I bat him away. “You know what I wish? I wish I would have gotten a pair of handcuffs, because I’d cuff you to the bed right now, and keep you cuffed until you grew some sense!” Throwing the blanket off of me, I shoot out of bed, my frustration at it’s height. “Putain! Fais chier! Merde! Ferme ta gueule!”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I have to admit, it’s quite a turn on.”

“I curse in French when I’m beyond pissed!”

The smile stretching his lips only goads my anger. “Va te faire foutre!”

“What was that?”

“Fuck off.”

The dimples in his cheeks betray his shitty attempt to hide his smile, as he pushes up from the bed. “Ivy, come here.”

With a fake smile, I curtsy. “Va te faire foutre.”

“Please.”

“Why? So you can rope me into falling deeper in love with you, and then go off and get yourself killed? No thanks!”

Pulling his knees up, he rests his elbows there, the sheets bunched between his legs and making him look like some David Gandy GQ spread. Disgustingly handsome. “I’m just observing right now. Watching. Learning. I don’t have a plan because … I don’t know what I’ll do yet.” He runs his hands through his hair and down his face. “When I found Isabella, covered in blood and lying next to her dead mother, I remembered her question the night before, asking what I would do. I felt helpless. And hopeless.” The tight pinch of his brows and the shine in his eyes tugs at my heart. “At the very least, I want to look her killer in the eye. I want him to know what he stole from me. I want him to feel pain and suffering, and helplessness and hopelessness, just as I felt. But most of all, I want him to know how special that little girl was, how she was loved so much, that her father would do something batshit crazy like go after the leader of a ruthless cartel.”

Muscles sagging in defeat, I look everywhere else in the room, except at him, because I’ll break into tears if I do. Tears of frustration and understanding, and more frustration. I pad back toward the bed, and once I’m in reach, he yanks me onto the mattress, caging me against him with his arms and legs. He grips my chin. “I curse you for coming into my world. For giving me purpose beyond these hateful thoughts. I curse you for being beautiful and irresistible, always tempting me. You’ve made this hell for me.”

I focus on his lips, those beautiful, kissable lips, and back to his eyes. “Good. If that keeps you alive, then I’m glad.”

His mouth slants over mine in a frantic and frustrated kiss, and the moment his hand snakes down inside my panties, I know I’ve grown weaker. Absolutely defenseless against this man and the way he makes me swallow up his pain and agony like an alcoholic fiending for the last drops out of a bottle.

34

DAMON

“The crux of Jesus being nailed to the cross was not that he was so helpless as to die for our sins, but that he refused to exercise the power given to him to prevent it.”

I look out over the decent-sized congregation who’ve come to listen to my first Sunday homily. Whatever reservations they may have about me as a person, there’s no denying their unwavering attention now, their devotion to God. I’d have probably made a much better impression, had I not stayed up to watch my half-brother’s fight the night before.

“Come down from that cross if you’re really the son of God! Because those who refused to believe and understand the Scriptures needed to witness the power of God through the spectacular deliverance of the Lord from that cross. And as Jesus suffered through humiliation, degradation and agonizing torment, it became easier for them to deny this immeasurable power. In the gospel of John, Jesus referred to his hour, and when it finally manifested itself, he didn’t fight, or flee, from it. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much grain.”

Sometimes, in the thick of a homily, a passage from the Bible can hit in the most unexpected ways, and right now, I’m thinking how stupid I’ve been. I didn’t set out to become a martyr. I’m far too selfish to offer up my life for the sake of my fellow man. I came for payment. A debt owed to me. An eye for an eye, and if that isn’t the way of Anthony Savio, then I don’t know what is. I’m the son of a once-feared man. I can’t even hide behind good intentions, because the truth is, I chose this life somewhere along the way. I’m not a savior. I never was.

“Do not pity Jesus, for he did not pity himself. He gave his life of his own free will, so that others would flourish and know the truth. So that we might better understand the love of our Father. So that we might take courage in our darkest moments. It’s not in the ease of a painless life that we find strength, but in our suffering.”

Once mass has finished, I greet the congregation in the narthex, noting a slight bit more warmth from the first time I stood here.

“Wonderful homily, Father,” an older woman says in her thick Spanish accent, as I take her hand and smile.

“Thank you.”

The pat on my back diverts my attention to Father Javier standing beside me. “I’d like to meet with you in my office afterward.” He speaks low like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

“Of course.”

Once the narthex has cleared, I divest my clergy garments and make my way to the offices in the back of the church. I find Javier sitting at his desk, and take a seat in the chair across from him.

“I trust you’re settling in to your new home.”

“Yes, albeit slowly.” Perhaps another priest would steal the opportunity to mention the tunnel, which may explain why he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked in.

“Your homily was very well-received. A number of parishioners approached me to let me know.” He tips his head, drumming his fingertips against the desk. “I feel I should make you aware of something.”

My head tells me to stay in the game. To bluff, if necessary. This is where, I’m guessing, the other priests met their demise, after all, so if he asks about the tunnel, I never saw it. “Oh?”

His shoulders sag, and he clears his throat. “When I first learned you were going to join our parish, I have to admit, it wasn’t welcomed news. We’ve had so many priests come and go, leaving our congregation feeling a bit … adrift. My initial opinion of your being here wasn’t exactly favorable.”

Strange that this would be his big confession, when a gaping hole sits in my nightstand as we speak. “I suppose that’d be understandable.”

“Please forgive my unfounded prejudice against you. I’m fairly protective of my people.”

“I forgive you.”

With a sharp nod, he smiles. “Well, I’m sure you have a busy afternoon, as do I.”

Taking his cue, I push up from the chair and notice a name I recognize on a notepad set out beside his computer keyboard. “You’re a sports enthusiast?”

“What makes you say that?”

I point toward the notepad. “Was quite a match. You happen to catch it last night?”

“Of course. I’m a huge fan.”

“Machete Mac holds the same record as Kryptonite King, though I can’t recall it off the top of my head.” I’m lying. Their records are what made this one of the most watched fights in decades. Two champions dubbed foolish by fans for wanting to risk destroying their records by fighting each other. Fortunately, Mac won.

“I, um. Seem to have forgotten myself.”

Liar. Even a minor fan of the sport would know the answer to that.

“If I wasn’t a priest, I’d have had my money on Mac, and I’d be a rich man this morning.”

Only the corner of his lips lift slightly. “I tend to root for the underdog. As for who my money would’ve been on, well, I find gambling to be a dangerous venture. Particularly when the outcome is so … uncertain.”

“I suppose you’re right. To gain at someone’s loss is against God’s will to work hard and live an honest life.” I’m careful with my words, yet curious to see how he responds. “It’s like anything, I would imagine. Drugs. Prostitution. Vices that lead one down a path of temptation and greed.”

The smile on his face widens. “When you say, prior to the priesthood, you’d have put your money on Mac. Were you a man of many vices back then?”

“Some. But I follow a much bigger calling now. One that smothers those desires.”

“Of course. Though, we’re never truly free of the urge to sin. I admit I’m sometimes curious of things I’ve chosen to deny myself.”

“Perhaps you’ve not fully committed to this path?”

“If carnal curiosities measured the breadth of one’s faith, we’d have no priests. Whether you care to admit it, or not, we’ve all been invited to sin at one point. Whether it’s greater than our will to face God’s wrath is what ultimately decides our fate.”

I can’t help but feel a small bit paranoid at his words, and I wonder if the fact that I had my face buried between Ivy’s thighs the night before is written in my expression.

“This is neither here, nor there, where you and I are concerned. It’s as you spoke in your homily this morning, the seed which does not die, will never produce. We are men willing to die for our God. It doesn’t get any more committed than that.”

With a slight tilt of my chin, I stare back at him, trying not to think about how exactly he’ll die, when and if I find out he played any direct role in my family’s murder. “No. It doesn’t.”

It’s late by the time I’m back at the rectory, and I flip the TV on, catching tomorrow’s weather report as I unbutton my shirt. I stride toward the bathroom to flip on the shower, and when I come back into the bedroom for some boxers and shorts, a special news report flashes across the screen.

Only curiosity makes me pause long enough to see my half-brother’s face on the screen. The caption beneath reads: Machete Mac Badly Wounded in Shootout.

I turn up the volume, both my mind and stomach churning at the same time.

“Authorities say the MMA fighter was at a celebration of his recent win, when an unknown gunman entered the hotel banquet room and opened fire.”

My mind rewinds to the notepad on Javier’s desk, and his comments about gambling and uncertain outcomes.

“The champion fighter was recently spotted at the funeral of his estranged father, Queens local, Anthony Savio.”

It’s the first I’m hearing of my father’s death. I suspected it’d be soon, but I didn’t even realize he passed.

“He’s currently in critical condition, and doctors say his recovery is uncertain. This incident follows the suspected death of Savio’s eldest son, Anthony Savio, Jr., who went missing following the unsolved murder of his wife and daughter eight years ago.

A picture flashes across the screen of Val and Isabella, one police must’ve secured from my house after the murder. My chest goes cold and numb at the sight of them. I intentionally avoided the news reports back when it happened, for the same reason I’m wishing I hadn’t kept watching now. The frosty sensation in my chest tightens at the sight of my beautiful little girl, taken before her chemotherapy. And Val, with her forehead pressed to Bella’s, both of them laughing. Happy.

Running a hand over my jaw, I sink onto the bed.

Fuck.

I’m certain of one thing—whoever hired the hit on my brother saw him at the funeral for my father. And if anyone happens to be privy that I’m still alive, I’ll undoubtedly be next.

To my relief, the report doesn’t offer up any pictures of me, but instead bounces back to Mac just prior to the fight, during a press conference.

His interactions with King are competitive, as expected, perhaps even a little staged. I don’t believe someone from King’s camp put the hit on him. Knowing my father, it could be any one of his enemies, but once again, my thoughts revert to Javier’s conversation earlier today.

Peering through the window brings the church parking lot into view, where Javier’s car is missing for the night. Tomorrow, I’ll make a point of learning where he lives by following him home. Perhaps watching him closely will lend more insight into what role, if any, he could have played in Mac’s attack.

After a quick shower, I head down to the first floor and open the cupboard to the tunnel. All is quiet there.

No movement. No sound. I try to imagine what purpose this elaborate tunnel might serve, to be used so infrequently, or at all, since I’ve been here.

A text from Ivy pops up on my phone, which draws my attention to a news update that Machete Mac was just pronounced dead in the hospital.

Blowing out a breath, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at his name. Even if I only just met him, he was my blood. The man who gave me some small fraction of peace with my father before his death.

Ivy’s text remains unread, and I click on it to see she’s sent me a picture of the full moon behind her glass of wine. The caption to it reads: Wish you were here.

With some reluctance, I type back, Not a good night. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.

Okay, she sends back with a sad face emoji.

Until I know for certain who was behind my brother’s murder, it’s best to remain cautious where Ivy’s concerned.

I make my way to the kitchen, where the cupboards are packed full with food, thanks to a few kind women from the congregation, but I haven’t yet stocked the place with the liquor that’s calling to me right now.

I nab my keys off the counter, head out to my car, and drive toward the liquor store just a couple blocks away.

Chuparosa liquor store lights up a quiet corner of a strip mall, and I pull the car alongside the curb in front. Once inside, I’m greeted by the scent of food and disinfectant—an unappealing combination. While perusing the various brands of potato chips, I catch movement toward the front of the store and pause, eyeing two figures, one of whom wears the same balaclava mask as that of the kid who attacked me my first night.

From across the store, I can’t make out what’s being said over the hum of the slush machine behind me, but when the cashier puts his hands in the air, my stomach sinks.

What are the odds?

I have no weapon, nothing to fight off the gun I can see pointed at the clerk, so I wait and watch.

After the clerk empties the cash register, the kid with the gun swipes up the money, stuffing it into his pocket, and nabs some jerky on his way out. The second kid snatches some candy from below the counter and races after his friend.

With careful steps, I come around the aisle, catching the clerk, whose hands tremble as he dials his phone.

“¡Ayúdame! I been robbed!”

Slinking past his panic, while he yells into his phone, I chase after the two, anchoring my eyes on them as I get in my car and hit the main street.

Keeping a few car lengths behind, I trail a silver Tacoma down back roads, getting farther away from the busy city area and into a more residential part of town.

Under the cover of darkness, I let my car idle, cutting the headlights, and watch the truck pull into a driveway before disappearing around the back of the house. Even with my windows rolled up, I can hear the music blaring from inside, and through the naked front window, I can see bodies packed tightly together.

I don’t dare go inside, knowing there could very well be members of the cartel here. Instead, I wait, passing the time by watching the interactions. Girls grinding on laps, undoubtedly having sex in plain sight, other girls dancing, making out with each other. Red Solo cups are the evidence of alcohol.

An hour passes before one of the girls stumbles out of the house, a boy on her heels. Clutching her head, she wavers on her feet, and it’s not hard to see she’s drunk. I roll down my window, watching them from the shadows cast by a row of tall bushes.

“Thanksfer drivin m’home,” the girl says, wandering aimlessly toward a car. “Had t’much.”

From my angle, I can’t quite make out her face, but she’s tall and slender, and in what little light from the streetlight shines down on her, I can see she has bronze skin.

“El carro equivocado, baby. Vamos.”

She stumbles behind him toward a black Maxima parked on the front lawn of the house. A minute later, the car shakes and a muffled scream steels my muscles. The scream turns high pitched, then muffles again, and I sink back into my seat.

Christ.

I rub a hand down my face and groan at what I have to do. With a quick glance around, I fetch the gun from my glovebox and check for bullets. The plan isn’t to shoot the kid, just scare the everloving shit out of him, is all.

Climbing out of my car, I keep scanning the quiet neighborhood, as well as that front window for any sign the group inside has caught sight of me. As I approach the car, the screams are louder, with bouts of sobbing in between, and a flat palm slams against the glass.

Gun leading my charge, I throw back the car door, and the two inside startle, the kid’s lip peeling back to a snarl.

“’The fuck? You’re that priest.”

“Get out. And if you make a sound, I’ll blow your brains all over those nice leather seats.”

With the girl whimpering beside him, shaking as she scrambles to pull her panties up, he clambers out of the vehicle, face smug enough to make me want to punch him.

“You’re dead, gabacho.”

“Keep talking, and you’ll be dead first.”

The girl leans forward, into the light, and I recognize her face. Ariceli, the mayor’s daughter. Flicking my fingers, I gesture for her to get out of the car, gun set on her rapist. As I reach to help her out, a sharp stab of pain hits my side where the kid has moved in closer.

The hilt of his blade sticks out of my side, and he lunges toward me.

Flipping the gun around, instincts kick in before I can stop them, and I pistol whip his face once, twice, and on the third crack, he falls. The horrific sound of mutilation echoes inside my head when I finally snap out of my trance. Freezing mid-snap, I hold the gun drawn back, the butt of it ready to strike again. My body moved on it’s own, a natural reflex for survival, while I stood in shock, allowing it to happen.

On the ground, the kid lies bloodied and passed out, his nose swollen and purple, already showing signs of broken cartilage and bone. The kid groans and shifts, telling me he’s still alive, thankfully.

“Father?” Ariceli’s voice is distant, but effective in yanking me out of my trance.

Breaths saw in and out of my lungs, while the pain of the blade settles into my flesh. “Let’s get out of here.” My voice is a raspy mix of distress and agony, and I don’t bother to remove the blade. Not here.

Hobbling back to my car, I set my fingers at either side of the lodged knife in a poor attempt to stave off the bite of the metal. Voices erupt from behind, as one of the partygoers exits the house, tripping down one of the stairs. “Hey, Miguel! Ando bien pedo.” His hiccups tell me he’s as trashed as he looks.

Ariceli scrambles into the passenger seat, as I fall ungracefully into the driver’s. The shouts of the drunkard get louder, more intense, and it’s clear he’s made the sobering discovery of his friend lying beaten to a pulp. The shot of a gun popping off is my cue to hit the gas, while the other partygoers are alerted to their fallen friend.

Tires squeal against the pavement, and two shots ping the exterior of my car, but fail to hit either one of us. The house shrinks in my rearview, and I breathe easy once back on the main road.

“I’m sorry for what happened. With the knife.” Tears color Ariceli’s voice, her eyes directed toward the knife half stuck out of my body. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t stress about it.” I glance over to her, noticing her hands trembling in her equally trembling lap. “Where am I headed?”

“You know where Holdridge Street is?” At my nod, she continues, “I live on the corner of Sapphire and Holdridge.”

Fancy area, from what I’ve gathered. Not that I’d expect different with her being the daughter of the city’s mayor.

“Thank you for what you did back there.” The shaky fragility still lingers in her voice, like a thread waiting to snap when she’s finally alone.

“You know that kid?”

“Miguel? Barely. He went to my school for a while, but dropped out.”

“How did you end up at the party?”

“My friend hangs out with those guys. She left me there to go home with one of them.”

“I’d hardly call that a friend.”

“No. I know. I don’t know why I trusted her, at all.” A quick glance shows her lip quivering and a shine in her eyes, before she flattens her mouth in a poor effort to hold back tears. “He’s going to be so mad at me.”

“Your father?”

“Miguel.”

“You said you barely knew him, though. He’s not your boyfriend. What do you care?”

“You don’t understand. And it’s hard to explain.” Her long and slender, perfectly manicured fingers fidget as she talks. “Exilio is associated with Sinaloa. They run this town.”

“Exilio? What is that? A gang?”

“They’re foot soldiers. Kids, mostly, but they have ties to bigger cartels. And if you piss one of them off, they will come for payment.” She sniffles, looking away toward the window beside her. “He won’t let this go.”

“Hey.” I tip my head to get her attention while keeping an eye on the road. “Promise me you’ll go to the police about this, okay? Don’t let him get away with this. Your father is an important man in this city.”

“He’s a puppet.”

I’m taken aback by her words. They’re far too wise for a teenager who shouldn’t know that level of corruption yet. Then again, I never grew up with a politician for a father. Mine pulled strings like any other criminal. “He can keep him from hurting you again, though. Puppet, or not, he’s your father.”

She doesn’t appear to be convinced, but nods, anyway, and points toward the windshield. “The house on the corner there.”

Even in darkness, I can see it’s a nice three-story home, with a private fence and lights strung over a cedar pergola in the back.

A few seconds pass before she sets her hand to the car door. “Father … if you hadn’t been there … he would’ve ...” It’s starting to seep its way into her sobriety, and soon, it’ll be all she sees when she closes her eyes.

I only hope I was able to stop it before it went too far. Leaning toward her, I wrap my arms around her, giving her the opportunity to cry before she has to explain the evening to her parents. “If you need me to go with you ...”

Her head rubs across my chest as she shakes it. “It’s okay. You’ve done enough for me. Thank you again.” She finally pushes away and opens the car door.

For the next minute or so, I wait to watch her slip through the front door of her house, then put the car in drive.

My head is swimming in a number of thoughts on the drive back toward the rectory, so I flip on the radio to clear the chaos.

“In the wake of Machete Mac’s murder, witnesses have come forward with new information that may link the late MMA fighter to a cartel operating out of Southern California and Mexicali. Authorities are investigating claims that Mac’s execution was allegedly carried out by one of the members, who has been identified from the FBI’s Most Wanted List. We’ll keep you updated as more information becomes available.”

I knew it. It wasn’t coincidence that I saw Mac’s name written down on Javier’s notepad. He had it written down for a reason.

35

IVY

Glancing around the quiet neighborhood, I press the doorbell to the rectory, hoping I heard the church secretary correctly when she said only one priest lived here, during my call earlier. Damon told me he lived right behind Our Lady of Guadalupe, and I’m praying I’ve got the house right, otherwise some poor sap is going to hate me for ringing the doorbell at midnight. I wanted to surprise him, but I’m the one surprised on finding he’s not home at this hour.

Peeking to the side, I notice one of the lower windows is cracked, just a bit. There’s a folding chair set against the house, and I can easily use it to climb inside , from the looks of it.

What the hell is wrong with Damon, leaving his house open for intruders like me? Being a rectory doesn’t make him exempt from burglary, and after the recent attacks he’s mentioned, it doesn’t make sense he’d take a chance like that.

The rusty chair creaks as I unfold it just below the window. One light shake makes me a little uncertain that it’s sturdy enough to hold me, but I only need a quick boost, and I can pull myself inside. Foot set on the chair, I take one hop upwards, reaching up for the window ledge, and push the window open a bit wider. Takes a few hops to break it loose from whatever has it stuck. Once it’s widened, I climb fully onto the rickety old chair, ignoring how it wobbles beneath my weight, and with both hands on the window sill, I try to steady myself. As soon as I give a light pull on the sill, a sort of pre-lift, the chair tips to the ground beneath me, leaving me to dangle from the window.

A small shriek escapes me while my shoes scramble for purchase against the vinyl siding of the house. I manage to gain my footing and hoist myself up, climbing the side of the house, until I’m able to pull myself in through the window.

Muscles shaking, I flop like a seal, half in and out, until the balance is broken, and I fall headfirst onto what feels like the soft brush of carpet below me.

Groaning at what is surely carpet burn on my cheek, I crawl deeper into the darkness of the room, patting around the floor for furniture. My fingers hit a hard surface, and I trail my hands over the smoothness, until I feel the dangling chain of a lamp. One click, and the room comes into view.

Small and plain, it seems fitting for Damon, but none of his things appear to be in this room, which is starting to give me hives at the thought that I might have the wrong house. Once upright again, I tread carefully from the room, eyes scanning for movement, ears piqued for any noise that might not be Damon. A click from somewhere behind me skates down my spine, and I pause, turning toward the room I just left.

Voices strum a panic in my chest, and eyes wide, I search for a place to hide. The bathroom across from me serves as my cover, from where I watch strangers emerge from the bedroom.

How the hell …

Did they come through the window, like me?

I’m certain I have the wrong house now. Shit.

“¡Silencio! El padre está dormido.” A boy, perhaps fourteen, or fifteen, years old, leads a small group of about a dozen men, women and children down the hallway, each of them clutching bags and personal belongings that crinkle and make noise.

I’ve no idea what he said, but I did catch el padre, which I know means father. As in Father Damon?

Staying low, I peek around the corner and see the group come to a stop at a door, before they enter another room. Crouching, I shuffle after them, noticing they’ve left the door slightly cracked—enough for me to peek in.

The boy stands before a bookshelf, where he removes one of the books, and the wall moves to the side.

The entire wall.

Like something straight out of a James Bond movie, or something.

As he herds the group into a dark passage through the wall, I wonder if I’m dreaming this. Maybe I fell off that chair outside and cracked my head, or something.

Once they’re all shuffled inside, he once again says something in Spanish, but all I understand is mañana: tomorrow.

Something happens tomorrow.

Scrambling back to my hiding spot, I breathe quietly, watching the boy pad back toward the bedroom and disappear on the other side of the bed.

As if he fell into an alternate universe, or something.

Mentally counting back from thirty, I give the kid a few seconds to make his escape, then crawl across the room in time to see the door of the nightstand swing shut, and all is silent again. Aside from some specks of dirt on the carpet, there’s not a whole lot of evidence that a dozen people just traipsed through the room.

Another few seconds, and I crawl toward the nightstand, opening it to find a gaping hole and a ladder.

No shit. A tunnel that really does seem to be a portal into another world.

Human smuggling right here in this house.

Peering down into the hole, I try to make out what lies at the bottom, and run my hand over the smooth, cold dirt walls.

“Ivy?”

At the sound of the familiar voice, I scream and tumble backward onto my ass, and land staring up at Damon.

“What are you doing here?”

Pressing a finger to my lips, I attempt to quiet him and wave him on, to the room with the bookshelf wall. “A whole group. Families of men, women, children—they came out of that hole in the nightstand, and he took them here, into this room.”

“Who? Who’s he?”

“A boy. Maybe fifteen, max. Anyway, he removed one of the books on that shelf, and the whole damn wall moved!”

“You saw this?”

“Yes! With my own eyes! The whole. Damn. Wall!”

“Which book?”

“The red one. But don’t touch it! What if they’re not friendly!”

“This is my personal space. If someone is here, I want to know about it.”

“I thought you knew! The kid whispered something about el padre. Was all in Spanish, so I couldn’t make out anything else.”

“That’s all you gathered?”

“He said something about tomorrow.”

Before I can stop him, Damon strides across the room, while I wait by the door, like a chicken. He removes the red book, setting the wall into motion.

The passageway is dark, and when he peers in, before glancing back at me with a frown, I have to believe it’s empty. I pad across to his side and stare down at the alcove.

“There’s no one in here,” he says.

“Give me your phone.” When he does, I point the flashlight to the left, where a gap in the wall reveals the entrance to another passage, one that appears to extend well beyond the light’s reach. “This must be some kind of Underground Railroad, or something.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought that tunnel was used for smuggling drugs. I can deal with refugees.”

“Yeah, except, if this operation gets busted, it’s going to look like you run the show.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I’ve got bigger fish to fry right now. Like trying to figure out how the hell you got here.”

“Bus? There’s a stop right out in front of the church. Runs until midnight. And where have you been at this hour?”

“A party.”

I raise my brows at that, and a blossom of red snags my attention. I didn’t notice the stain before, set against his black shirt, but up close, I can see where it looks darker, wet. I reach out a hand to touch it, and a sticky redness coats my fingertips. “Damon? Is this your blood?”

“Saw a robbery and followed the thieves to a party, where I proceeded to stop a rape from happening and pistol-whipped a gang member, who happens to be associated with the Sinoloa cartel. Got stabbed somewhere along the way. You see? Bigger fish.”

“Um. Shit.” I drop down to a knee, lifting his shirt to see a good-sized wound still oozing blood. “We have to clean this up. Jesus, Damon, you might need stitches.”

“I pulled the knife myself. Wasn’t as deep as I thought.”

“Well, it’s certainly not shallow.” I take his hand and force him to press into the wound to staunch the blood. “Into the bathroom. Let’s clean this up.” Leading the way, I glance back to see he’s half-heartedly holding his wound. “Pressure, Damon.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I may not look the part, but I’m a bit more hard core than this.”

“How so?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been stabbed.”

Over the last couple of weeks, he’s revealed bits and pieces of his former life. Small little anecdotes that serve as a major contrast to the man I know now. “I know that. You don’t think I know that?”

“Let me grab something. I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”

With a nod, I keep on, and rummage through his cupboards for alcohol, swabs, and butterfly band-aids, which I can’t find. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the man is probably going to have to make a trip to the ER, because that wound needs sealing, and there’s no way in hell I can stomach it.

When he returns, I immediately get to work, cleaning up the wound, praying it won’t be as deep as I thought just moments ago. It is. I can see the deep red meat of his viscera that tickles the back of my throat, begging me to toss my last meal.

“Damon, this is pretty deep.”

“It’s not. Trust me. I’ve seen deep wounds before.” From his pocket, he pulls a white bottle, with Gorilla Glue on the label. “I’ll show you a neat trick.”

Mouth gaping, I watch as he presses the edges of his wound together and runs the glue down the seam, fingers set apart to avoid touching it.

“It’s not perfect, but it avoids stitches.”

“How many times, exactly, have you been stabbed?”

“Enough that I’m pretty confident about the glue.” When he releases his skin, the wound remains stuck together. “Voila! All good.”

Bending forward, I examine the thin shiny layer over his skin and run my finger down the seam to see it’s already dry. “Wow. Now, what if it gets infected? All the bacteria is sealed in there.”

“Then, I guess it’ll be one more time a knife penetrates my flesh.”

Swallowing back the urge to vomit, I clear my throat and step away from his wound. “That’s all you. I want nothing to do with that process.”

“Well, then, hopefully you cleaned it well, and we can move on.”

I place a square of gauze over his wound, testing to make sure the cotton doesn’t stick to it, and seal the edges with tape. “We should probably close that bookshelf, huh?”

With a nod, he exits the bathroom, running his hand over the gauze at his side, and I take a moment to admire the flex of his muscles that tighten and expand in his back with the movement. “So, what happens now? With the kid you pistol-whipped?”

“He recognized me, but I don’t think he’ll be speaking any time soon.”

“You hope.”

“Yes. I hope.” He sets the book back on the shelf, allowing the door to slide shut again. “Now, do you mind telling me why you decided to go against my direct order to stay away from here?”

“Yes. For one, you’re my Father, but you’re not my dad. And second, I missed you.”

“And I miss you, but—”

I press my finger to those lips I want to kiss right now. “We’ll leave it at that. It’s dangerous, I get it. But there isn’t a cartel in the world that can keep me from what I want most.”

His finger brushes across my forehead, and he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “And what is it you want most?”

“You need your cock stroked, is that it?”

“That’d be nice right about now.” He smiles, pressing his lips to mine in a breath-stealing kiss.

“And if there’s an audience behind this bookcase?”

“Let them bear witness to the glory of the feast. For I tell you, none of those men who were invited shall taste my banquet.”

With a smile, I wrap my arms around his neck and feel his palms grip tight to my ass. “Is that a Bible verse, or are you talking filthy jealous boyfriend right now?”

“Both. Parable of the Banquet.”

“I like it.” Pushing up on tiptoes, I kiss him, feeling the tension in his muscles ease as he holds me against the wall.

“I need you right now, Ivy. I’m glad you came.”

Toying with his hairline, I take in his words, imagining the level of stress he must be feeling to admit that. “Me too.”

36

DAMON

The worst thing about pissing off dangerous criminals isn’t so much the likelihood of death, but the wait in between. I sit in the confessional booth, waiting for the penitent on the other side to settle, my mind everywhere else but here.

“Hello, Padre.” Gordon’s familiar voice comes as a bit of a relief, the kind of distraction that might just keep me from grinding my fingernails against the walls of this stuffy hardwood box.

“Good evening. What brings you to confession?”

“There’s, uh … some things I got on my mind.”

“Proceed.”

He gives the sign of the cross and clears his throat. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.”

“Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“My grandson. He, um … he got hurt real bad.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I know I should be with him right now. In case he takes a turn for the worst. But all I can think about is hunting down the dirty rotten prick who bashed his face in.”

My blood goes cold, and for a second, I almost think he senses the drop in temperature. Throat dry, I try to swallow past the lump and shift on the bench.

“I spent all night thinking about what I would do to the son of a … if I got my hands on him. Vile, tortuous things.”

“Do you know who hurt him?”

“Not yet. Word is, the slick bastard left with Ariceli. Pummeled my boy and took off with his girl.”

“No idea who it could be, though?”

“Does it matter? Fact is, I’m drowning right now. My head isn’t right. That kid is all I got. He’s a good boy. Didn’t deserve that.”

Perhaps he doesn’t know his boy as well as he thinks he does.

“And so, it’s these violent thoughts of retribution that bring you to confession?”

“No. I came to get something off my chest. I’ve been thinking these last couple days about where I went wrong with Miguel. I was hard on his father. Raised my hand more times than I didn’t. Been the same with Miguel.”

“The beauty of parenthood is that it’s never too late to change.” The words slip from my mouth without any thought. My mind is still trying to tease out whether, or not, he knows it’s me and is merely playing me right now.

“You don’t think I ruined that boy already?”

Perhaps he’s banking I’ll slip and respond as if I have any knowledge about what his boy is like. “I don’t know if you did. All I’m saying is if you’ve made mistakes, you can always try to reconcile.”

“You’re smart, Father. That’s good advice. Glad I came to talk to you tonight. So, what’s my sentence for this one?”

“I don’t believe the trials of parenthood call for penance. If that were the case, I’d be hearing confessions until midnight.”

“Well, you have a good night.” The creaking of wood on the other side is the signal that he’s leaving.

I need air. The box has officially become too tight, too suffocating.

I open the door to find Gordon standing alongside Ariceli, and the fear coloring her face is enough to make me approach them. He grips her arm, and she wrenches it free.

Gordon gives one glance toward me, then back to her. “People see things. They talk. I’ll find out who did this.” And without another word, he walks off before I reach him.

Tears glisten across Ariceli’s face, her body trembling and frail enough to collapse at any second. With some caution, I wrap my arms around her, to comfort her. “He’s upset, is all.

“I just came to tell you … to see that you were alright, and to thank you again. And ...” She glances back toward the door, where Gordon has already exited the church. “I haven’t said anything to anyone. Not even my father. He thinks my friend drove me home that night.”

I nod. “I appreciate that you didn’t mention me, but are you okay?”

Her brows pinch together, and she wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about it. Over and over.”

“Did you tell your father it was Miguel?”

“I couldn’t tell him anything. I wasn’t supposed to be at that party. I lied and told him my friend and I got into a fight, and I came home from the sleepover. I know it’s wrong to lie, but … please don’t say anything, Father.”

“You have my word. But for your sake, I hope you’ll talk to someone about what happened. Don’t allow him the power to imprison your mind.”

Lips forming a hard line, she nods and sniffs. “I won’t allow him to intimidate me. I’ll talk to someone.”

“Good. Take care, Ariceli.” I set my hand on her shoulder and give a light squeeze, before she turns away from me, heading toward her family, who waits in the narthex.

From my desk, I stare across the room at the crucifix on the wall, and think how dangerous a prospect it is sometimes to do what we believe is right. I’m certain Jesus wouldn’t have bashed in a teenager’s face in the name of righteousness, and to that, I owe my father for instilling a bit of the devil in my soul.

My old man would’ve killed him. Finished him off and buried his body so deep, no one would ever know what happened to him. Much like I did with Calvin and the pedophile, whose name I can’t even remember now. He’s as much a part of the slush that’s begun to break down his body at this point. How horrible it must be to live a life so rife with evil that no one even knows you’re gone.

A knock at the door breaks my thoughts, and I straighten in my chair, shuffling some papers around so it doesn’t look like I’ve done nothing but sit here in silence the last two hours.

Javier peeks his head into my office “Damon?” He steps just inside, in spite of my gesture for him to take a seat. “I’ll make this quick. I have a meeting this afternoon for a quinceañera this weekend. I just wanted to let you know that Gordon asked that you stop by the hospital to pray with him and his family.”

“Me?”

“He specifically asked for you. He said you told him some helpful things earlier, and he apparently feels comforted by your presence. Are you able to do this for him?”

“Yes, sure. I’m happy to pray.” For the boy whose face I smashed in with the butt of my own gun.

Of all the awkward invitations.

“Good. I’ll let him know.”

It’s just after eight in the evening when I arrive at the hospital. I received the room number from Javier just before I left, and the phone number in case I got lost en route.

Three young men with tawny skin and black hair stand outside of the room, while a small crowd gathers inside.

Beside the bed, Gordon stares down at his grandson with tears in his eyes, but the moment he sees me, his leathery cheeks wrinkle with a smile. “Father Damon, glad you made it.”

What I presume are family and friends step aside, allowing me to make my way toward the bed, and the moment I see Miguel laid out, his face bruised and puffy, with a tube sticking out of his nose, I know this is going to be the most excruciating thirty minutes of my life.

An older woman with graying hair and wrinkled skin reaches across the boy and sobs something in Spanish. When I approach, she takes my hand, kissing my knuckles, as though I’m the pope himself. She rambles on through tears in Spanish, from which I can only make out mi hijo and padre.

Gordon leans in, setting his hand on my back. “Miguel’s abuela on his momma’s side. One of those super religious types. Thinks holy water keeps the demons out, and all that.”

“I’d like to get started, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that.”

I keep the prayer quick and very formal, just as I’ve performed hundreds of times before, and try not to look at the boy too much. I do my best to keep in mind the reason he’s laid out on a hospital bed right now. In fact, I wish I could explain that to his family, who fawn over him like he’s some fallen saint.

That would surely get me killed, though.

“Thank you for coming out, Padre. Means a lot to our family and friends.”

“Of course. Hang in there.” A lame finale to this crap show, but I’m grateful that it’s over. Washing my hands at the sink just inside the room, I glance back toward Gordon where he’s chatting with a younger woman, and out of nowhere, voices emerge from the men outside the room.

“Tonight. We grab the girl. Couple hours, and she’ll talk. Then we show the bitch who roughed him up how we look out for our own.”

Shit. They’re going after Ariceli. And me, apparently, but I’m more concerned about the girl.

“Tell Gordo we’re out. We can have this pinche maricón bagged and tagged before midnight.”

One of the men slips behind me, and I take extra time to rinse, watching him out of the corner of my eye. When he turns back in my direction, I dry my hands off and let the trio get a headstart. Once they’re down the hall, I trail after them, my head chiding me for the plan I don’t currently have in place.

Through the hospital and out to the parking lot, I don’t take my eyes off them, and when they finally pull out on to the main street, I maintain a few car lengths behind.

Hopefully, I won’t end up having to pray over three more bodies, but if it comes to that, or letting Ariceli suffer whatever vengeance these stooges have in mind, I’m willing to say some not-so-heartfelt words on God’s behalf.

The route we drive is familiar, all the way to Holdridge Street, and my mind spins with the effort to devise a quick plan. I can’t imagine they’d barge in with Ariceli’s parents there, but they’re gang members, not hitmen. By nature, they’re less stealth.

I prepare to turn down Sapphire, surprised when they continue past. Instincts tell me to park my car outside her house and watch, but maybe they’re privy to where she might be. Perhaps at a friend’s.

The road comes to a stop at a deadend, and the first tingle hits the back of my neck when the car ahead of me turns around, facing me headon. Headlights in my rearview shine bright, drawing my attention to two more cars parked on each side of the street, blocking my ability to reverse. When more headlights flick on ahead, I realize I’m now surrounded by cars.

Ambushed.

For what it’s worth, I lean carefully to the side to the glovebox, and slide my gun into my lap. Keeping my shoulders straight, I work hastily below the steering wheel to check for bullets. Nowhere near enough for the slaughter that’s about to take place.

The lights in my rearview flicker with the silhouette of someone approaching my vehicle. He bears the slow and easy stride of a man who’s won the game.

“Hands on the steering wheel, where I can see them, Padre.” Keeping his distance, gun trained on me, he wears a smile to match the smug tone of his voice. When I don’t immediately comply, too busy calculating my odds, he shakes his head. “C’mon now. You’re not that dumb. I mean, sure, you’d probably get a nice square shot to my skull, but you’re surrounded by at least a half dozen cars, all of which hold three to four guns a piece. The odds of you surviving that are about as good as a turd cake at a fly convention.”

I’m still calculating, even as he speaks, but one thing is now certain. “You’re El Cabro Blanco. The White Goat.”

“I know you were probably expecting a little more fanfare.”

Even if they open fire on me, filling me with lead, I could kill the man who murdered my family. The same man who murdered my half-brother.

“I gotta admit. You were not my first suspect. I actually genuinely liked you, Padre. Breaks my heart a little to know what weasley scumbag piece of shit you turned out to be.”

My fingers curl around the trigger of the gun in my lap. One quick shot to the head, like he said. It’d be over. I think of Val and Isabella. The justice I could give them by killing this bastard. I think of Ivy, and how I could end him before he decides to hunt her down next.

“What do you say you put your hands on the steering wheel, like I asked, and we’ll talk. Sound fair?”

A few more seconds, during which I’m contemplating odds that are far too complex for me to calculate in my head.

I finally release the gun in my lap and set my hands on the steering wheel. “Sure. Let’s talk.”

37

IVY

“Where were you last night?” Sergio sits on the street curb below my balcony, stuffing a cigarette between his lips. Just after ten-thirty, it’s a bit late for him to have just ended his shift, which makes me wonder if he’s been waiting on me.

This routine of ours, these nightly chats, have become a means of keeping me sane while locked away in my little tower, but asking my whereabouts is where I draw the line.

“None of your business.”

“Sorry. I just looked forward to talking to you, is all.”

“I look forward to our talks too, but I’m going to be straight with you. Not only am I about twice your age, which is a major no-no for me, I also happen to have a boyfriend.”

Snorting, he rests his elbows on his knees and stares down toward the pavement. “You’re lying. How come I haven’t seen this boyfriend?”

“He likes his privacy. As do I.”

“Understood. So … what have you been up to the last couple of days?”

“That’s basically the same question.”

“But more clever, right?” His cheeks dimple with the grin that stretches his face.

“Definitely.” Rolling my eyes, I take a drag of my smoke, followed by a sip of the wine I picked up on my way back from Damon’s. “If you must know, I watched a herd of refugees move through a house like they were walking through some ride at Disneyland.”

A frown creases his brow. “Where’d you see that?”

“None of your business, remember?” I raise my brows, trying to cap a smile. “But out of curiosity, how exactly does this whole human smuggling thing work down here? And why was a young kid acting as their tour guide?”

“They’re actually polleritos. They take groups of people from different countries across the border.”

“Why kids, though?”

He shrugs and takes another drag. “Border patrol catches them, they just get sent back, so they can cross again and again, without more than a slap on the hand. Cartels let them use their drug trafficking routes for a big cut.”

“Those poor kids. Working with cartels?”

“Those poor kids make about two grand a day. I was gonna be one of them. Help my grandma. Go to college. I’d be set.”

And dead.

“Your brother smuggled people across the border.”

His expression is introspective for a moment before he nods. “Mi hermano … he was making bank doing it. Then one day, cartels decided they didn’t want to pay him. So they killed him, instead. Gunned him down. Like he was nothing. No one.” Brows pinched, he huffs and flicks his ashes onto the street. “You’re dating that new priest in Calexico, yeah?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Same route my brother worked. Out of the church, right?”

I avoid answering any unnecessary questions and focus on the asking. “Who runs that operation?”

“I told you … we don’t talk about him around here. That’s how people die.”

Pieces are starting to come together, painting a picture that churns my stomach, the more I begin to see the bigger image. “So my … friend … he went to pray for a boy who’d been badly beaten. Named Miguel.”

He scoffs at that and shakes his head, blowing smoke into the air above him. “I only know one Miguel in Calexico, and I can’t imagine anyone praying over him.”

“Why?”

“His grandfather killed my brother.”

“Who is his grandfather?”

“You’ve asked before, many times, and I’ve told you the same answer. His name brings trouble.”

“El Cabro Blanco.”

His lips press to a hard line, and when he nods, my stomach sinks.

Oh, God. Damon. “Where can I find him?”

“Your priest friend should know. They’re all in it together.”

“No, Damon is here to track him down. He’s not here to work for him. He wants to kill him, which is fucking crazy, from the sounds of it.”

“Real fucking crazy. In fact, it sounds like your friend already lost his mind. Oh, well, too bad.”

“This is serious, Sergio. I need you to tell me where to find this El Cabro Blanco.”

“I don’t know where he lives. But last I checked, there were still two priests at that church, right?”

“Right.” I glance at my watch, noting that it’s almost eleven. “I still have time to catch the bus.” If I’m lucky, I’ll catch the priest, though if he’s anything like Ruiz, he’s already snoozing away at this hour.

“Catch the bus? Nah. I’ll drive you.”

Hands on the arms of my chair, ready to dart inside, I frown. “You drive?”

“What do you think I am? Yes, I drive. I know how to read the signs, too.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t drive much. Guess I assume everyone’s as weird as I am.” Scrambling up from my chair, I accidentally knock it backward, making a clamor that skates down my nerves. “I’ll grab my things and meet you downstairs.”

“Yeah, don’t make so much noise, huh? You gonna wake up the neighborhood.”

Killing the lights, Sergio pulls alongside the curb in the back of Our Lady of Guadalupe. To keep from being too hasty about this, Sergio and I start with the rectory, climbing in through the same, damn, cracked window I broke into before, and we search every room for any sign of Damon. A single clue as to where he might be.

There’s nothing. The house is meticulous and eerily silent.

We head back down the sidewalk, toward the church, and through the glass door of the offices at the rear of the building, I can see one light still on.

I’m hoping it’s the other priest.

“Hang on a second.”Sergio stops at his car on the way, swinging the passenger door open, and rifles beneath the seat, from where he pulls a gun.

Eyes wide, I shake my head and set my hand on his arm. “Are you crazy? What are you going to do, shoot a priest?”

“He could be one of them, you don’t know. They could all be in there, too.”

A quick glimpse of the office shows it’s mostly empty. “I think we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking chances. You don’t know these guys, Ivy. They’re tricky.”

“Okay, well, do you have something a little less … killy, and maybe just intimidating?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment and huffs, before stuffing the gun back beneath the seat. Out of the vehicle, he rounds to the back and opens the trunk. With reluctance, I follow him, thinking he’s going to pull a crowbar, or something.

Instead, he points to a box and holds up an object that looks like a small stick of dynamite.

“What is this?”

“M-eighty. He gives us trouble? We light it and stuff it down his pants.”

“A firework?”

“Yeah. What do you think? He’s just gonna come out and tell you where to find El Cabro Blanco? You’ll need to coax him a little. You can blow a man’s junk clean off with one of these things.”

Waving a hand in the air, I shake my head. “Whatever. Hopefully, it won’t come to that, and I can just erase the visuals.”

Sergio follows behind, stuffing two M-eighties into his pocket.

“Do you even have a lighter?” I whisper over my shoulder, still repulsed at the image of a man’s exploded crotch.

With a smug grin, he holds up his Zippo, and I roll my eyes, remembering the kid smokes.

“Let me do the talking, okay?”

“Whatever you say, baby.”

“Don’t call me baby, either.”

“Whatever you say, mamacita.”

Stopping mid-stride, I spin around, hands on my hips. “I have a lighter, too. Keep it up, and I’ll set your damn pants on fire.”

Tongue sweeping over his lips, he wears the kind of expression that tells me he found something sexual in that remark.

“Don’t test me.” Spinning back around, I head toward the entry door of the church’s back offices and knock. There’s no movement at first, so I knock again, while reaching inside my pocket to power down my cellphone.

A man peeks his head out of the office, wearing the frown of a person who shouldn’t commit his life to serving the people, if he doesn’t like to bothered so much.

Plastering on the sweetest smile I can, I wave like an airhead and gesture a telephone at my ear. I can damn near hear the groan in his throat, as he steps out of his office and strides toward the main entrance, before unlocking it.

“Can I help you?” His eyes bounce from me to Sergio, and back to me.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but my phone died?” I hold it up for him to see the black screen. “And my brother’s car broke down about two blocks away. Can we use your phone?”

Brows pinched together, he regards me like a man who’s been duped before. “You couldn’t stop by one of the many houses between here and two blocks away?”

So much for charity, asshole. “I guess I just thought a church would be the safest bet. We won’t take up too much time.”

Another suspicious sweep of his eyes, and he gives a nod, stepping aside. “You can use my secretary’s phone. Make it quick. I was just packing up to leave.”

“Of course!” I squeeze past him, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I loved Father Damon’s homily last Sunday. So refreshing to hear his perspective on the Bible.” I’m bullshitting, obviously. I have no idea what Damon’s homily was about. I just know the few times I’ve heard it over the years, he’s made sense.

“You know of Father Damon?”

“Well, yeah. Doesn’t everyone in this town?”

His eyes rove me again, lingering a little too long on my breasts. Perfect. “I don’t recall seeing you in church, Miss …?”

I hold out my hand, which he takes in a delicate grip. “I’m sorry, I’m Vatehfair Footrah.”

The groove in his forehead wrinkles even more. “Thats … an interesting name.”

“It’s French. This is my brother, Connard.” The smile on my face is all I can do to keep from laughing at the fact that I just called a priest a shithead and told him to fuck off. “So, where is Father Damon?”

“One of our parishioners was badly injured. He left a while ago to pray with his family at the hospital.”

“Is that where he is now?”

“I have no idea where he is now.”

I open my mouth to respond, but don’t get so much as a peep out before Sergio brushes past me, pushing the priest backward onto the desk behind him.

Father’s expression is about as surprised and shocked as my own. “What in God’s name?”

Holding up one of his M-80’s, Sergio looms over the man, looking far more intimidating than the grocery store boy I’ve chatted with the last few weeks. “You know what this is? An explosive, like dynamite. If you value your nutsack, I suggest you tell us where the hell to find this priest.”

Mouth gaping, I stare at this kid who sounds like Scarface right now. “What are you doing?”

“Getting him to talk, and if he doesn’t, I’m kinda looking forward to seeing what this does to a man’s junk.”

“You’re a sick boy, you know that?” I ask, and the panic-riddled glance of the priest suggests he’s thinking the same thing.

Sergio tugs the Zippo out of his pocket and cranks the igniter wheel. “Don’t fuck with me, Holy Man.”

“Tunnels. Th-th-they’re in the tunnels.”

“Where?” I ask, my heartrate increasing with this new information. “The rectory?”

“Yes. There are a couple rooms that were constructed to house refugees and drugs. One of them is used for … interrogations.”

Oh, God. “How many are down there? How many men does he have with him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a half dozen?”

A sigh of defeat beats through my chest. “We’ll have to call the police.”

“You call the police, and they will trip the failsafe before anyone finds them,” the priest offers, his eyes never wavering from the firework hovering over his crotch.

“What failsafe? What are you talking about?”

“In the event of a police raid, they flip a switch in one of the rooms that’s connected to dynamite wired in the walls. It closes off one end of the tunnel, so the only way in, or out, is through Mexicali. They flee, and you’ll never see Father Damon again.”

“Only a portion of the tunnel is lined with the explosives?”

“Yes. It’s marked in the walls how far the explosives are buried.”

“So, if we were on the other side of that threshold, in one of the rooms, we’d be on the same side as the non-exploding half of the tunnel.”

“Yes. The same side as a half dozen members of Exilio. You’d have a better chance of being trapped with lions in a cage.”

“Unless we separate them from Damon, somehow.”

The priest’s gaze flicks from me, to Sergio, and down to the M-eighty, before circuiting back to me. “They’re not stupid, like lemurs falling into a trap.”

My mind spins with a plan that’s probably dumb as hell, but the only chance I have to get Damon out of there alive. Assuming he’s still alive. “Unless they think they’re under attack by more than just one person.”

“Good luck finding anyone to face off with Exilio in this town.”

“We don’t need to find anyone.” A smile stretches my face, and when I look over at Sergio, who wears an equally devious smile, I know he’s thinking the same thing. I think he is, anyway.

Weird if he is, to be honest.

“Well, like I said, buena suerte.”

“Oh. Didn’t we tell you, Father?” Sergio tugs the gun from his pocket—the same gun I specifically told him to leave in the car. “You’re coming with us. Just in case we need a miracle down there.”

“Young man, it is a grievous sin to threaten a man of the cloth.”

“I’ll be sure to repent later.” With a flick of his wrist, he urges him up off the desk and onto his feet. “It’s time to go blow shit up.”

Dim lights hum overhead, as I stand leaning against the walls, half heartedly holding the gun on the priest. Eyes trailing over the concrete and dirt, I wonder what it would take to set off the explosives inside, without pulling the switch.

Crouched to the ground, Sergio sets up a variety pack of fireworks he gathered from his trunk.

“You just … drive around with fireworks in your car?” I ask, over the thrum of anxiety racing through my veins.

Smiling, he lays down an object that looks like a rocket, propping it beside the others stretched across the width of the tunnel. “You’d be surprised how often they come in handy. Pranks. Diversions. Or just messing around, sometimes.”

The plan, as it has haphazardly rolled out, is that the priest and I will venture farther down the tunnel and hide in one of the rooms, until the gang members, lured by the clamor of fireworks, pass through to investigate, then we’ll keep on toward the room that houses the failsafe and flip the magic switch. Assuming Damon isn’t blown up in the process, or any one of us, for that matter, we keep on into Mexicali, where Sergio will pick us up at the restaurant in which the tunnel apparently exits.

I jerk my head toward a small alcove carved into the wall, where a shrine of Mary has been set up. “What’s that for?”

“The workers who built the tunnels. To keep them safe,” the priest says. “Protected, while they worked down here. Aside from the tunnels caving in, I suppose they had the added stress of the explosvies going off.”

“Go off? Like, on their own?” Prompted by the thought of such a thing, I push off from the wall, rubbing the goosebumps along my arms. “How far is the failsafe from the explosion?”

With a shrug, he crosses his arms over his chest. “Few hundred feet, I’m guessing.”

“How did you get involved in all of this?”

Brows raised, he huffs. “Not entirely by choice, if you must know. I agreed to the rectory being used as a means to house refugees, many of whom have endured violence and threats of death. It is the sanctity of this church, of those who follow God, to welcome all.” He tells me this as if he’s compelled to defend himself, but it’s not the refugees I’m inquiring about. “Gordon donated the funds to construct both the house and tunnels. Unfortunately, they happened to be an effective route to transport … other items.”

“Drugs.”

“There is no good without the bad, I suppose. I chose to look away from the bad, in order to focus on the good.”

“The other priests chose not to look away. That’s why they never lasted very long here.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “We may believe in the same God, but you’d be surprised to know how vastly different our opinons can be.”

Sergio jumps to his feet, wiping the dust from his jeans. “Okay. Get ready.” His lips slide into a devious grin. “Showtime.”

38

DAMON

Rope bites into my wrists, the muscles in my shoulders feeling as if they could peel right from the bone. It’s a wonder they don’t snap, the way they’re stretched over my head, with the tips of my shoes scraping across the concrete below me. My eye throbs with the punches that’ve been thrown in amusement. Air saws in and out of my lungs, brushing over each fractured rib, and one of the torturers took some joy in tearing apart my stab wound, paying homage to Miguel for me fighting back.

Through the blur of my torment, the haze of an oncoming blackout, I stare down at the drops of blood falling from my face.

I’ve passed out twice already. Once, when they jabbed an ice pick beneath my fingernail. The other time, all I saw was a wrench coming at me. No idea what they ultimately did with it. Only that I woke up with half my face going numb.

Now, I just wait for death.

The crux of Jesus being nailed to the cross was not that he was so helpless as to die for our sins, but that he refused to exercise the power given to him to prevent it.

I could’ve avoided all of this shit. Kept my head low, my nose out of it, and I’d probably be in bed with Ivy right now, or sipping a glass of whiskey. I wonder if any father, upon finding out that the man who paid to have his family murdered, could possibly avoid the temptation of vengeance.

I personally wouldn’t have blamed God for raining down hell for the murder of his only Son.

“Revenge is the worst kind of torture, isn’t it? There’s no purpose behind it, other than the joy of watching someone suffer.” Hands behind his back, Gordon paces in front of me, somehow looking smaller than before. This whole time, I made the criminal in my head out to be this massive, untouchable mystical creature, and he’s turned out to be nothing more than an aging man, who probably eats prunes to stay regular. “I didn’t know it was you, to be honest. Feel kinda stupid about it now. But, in all fairness, the whole damn state of California thought you were dead.”

“You killed my wife and daughter.”

“I paid for the murder of you and your wife. Your little one was just a … casualty.”

“She was more than a fucking casualty, you piece of shit!”

“You’re right. It’s a damn shame when a child has to die for the stupidity of the parent.”

Grinding my teeth, I try to ignore the sharp stabs of pain that strike my skull. I have no argument for Val. I only understand her motivations, but not even I would’ve been so foolish as to go up against dangerous criminals. Perhaps a consequence of having been raised by one: I was never so ambitious as to save the world from them.

“It’s unfortunate that it was your wife who dealt with your father’s books. In some ways, I blame him for her death. If it hadn’t been me, someone else would’ve come after her, because there ain’t a man on his payroll that’d have wanted the FBI banging on the door. What I did wasn’t personal.”

Through a painful exhale of defeat, I sag against the ropes. “Kill me, if you’re going to kill me.”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to kill you. I just gotta work through all these emotions, first. The betrayal hit me pretty hard.” He twists around toward the three brawny gang members standing behind him, ones who carried out my punishment on his behalf, and jerks his head. “Give me some alone time, boys.” The minute the men step outside of the room, he turns his attention back on me. “Thought we’d have a heart to heart, you and me.”

“You killed Mac, too.”

“You see, in my line of work, it’s important to eliminate all traces of a family name. It’s like an infection. If you don’t treat it entirely, it comes back stronger. More resistant. Hellbent on taking out everything in it’s path. If cancer wasn’t already killing your old man, I’d have taken him out, too. Lord knows he tried coming after me a few times over the years. Every hitman he sent ended up in a shallow grave.” This is news to me, as I’d have never guessed my father would’ve bothered after the way I left New York. “Calvin wasn’t stupid. Didn’t take much convincing to come work for me instead.”

“How did you know it was me?”

Waving his finger in front of me, he shakes his head and chuckles. “Now, that’s the tricky part. I have what are called pajaritos in a number of places where I do business. And in New York? One of my little birds described a man who sounded a lot like you entering your father’s home. The one in LA told me of a woman, whom I look forward to meeting after our … little session here.”

“She has nothing to do with this.”

“She has information. Information is power in my world.”

“Let her go. She’ll leave the country, and you’ll never have to think about her again.”

“Oh, she’ll definitely be leaving the country.” He strokes his beard, and the smile on his face sends a zap of tension through my muscles, begging me to break these ropes and smash it in, just like I did his grandson. “I have friends in Russia who love buying pretty little things like your girlfriend, like real estate. Buy and sell. Buy and sell. And Ariceli, too.”

“What did you do with her?”

“Sold her. What do you think? I was gonna keep her in my house? Send her off to college? No, no. She’s off to be some mail order bride to a business partner of mine.”

Eyes clamped shut, I pray he’s bluffing. That this is merely just another facet of his torture.

“Your son raped her. Raped her. Another man’s daughter. You had a daughter once.”

Out of nowhere, pain explodes across my face, when his fist slams into my jaw. More blood falls to the ground below me. The ache is unbearable, and for a minute, I see two of him.

“I did have a daughter. Watched a half dozen men have their way with her. They killed her afterward. Right in front of me. All in a matter of twenty-six minutes. Ariceli is off to live like a princess, with a man who will give her everything she wants. Don’t try to appeal to my merciful nature. That died alongside my wife and daughter.”

“As did mine,” I grit through clenched teeth.

“Which is why you came all the way down from LA, isn’t it? If the tables were turned right now, wouldn’t I be strung up where you are?”

“You’d already be dead.”

“Well, you’re more to the point than I am. Good for you.” He scratches his jawline and shakes his head. “Tradition dictates that I let all those boys beat you to death. It’s a rite of passage, you might say. When one of their own is hurt, it’s a chance to take revenge, to prove love and loyalty. But shit, they’d have mauled you in a matter of minutes. Like piranhas on tuna. I like to savor it a little bit.”

“What is this place?”

Turning my head to the side offers some relief to the strain in my neck, and I catch him glancing around the room. “This is a special room I had designed underground. Connects to those tunnels. You never said a word about them, did you?” At the slight shake of my head, he groans. “That’s what I mean! Man, I thought you were gonna make it. I liked you! We had rapport, you and me. I don’t get that so much with Javier, but you know what keeps him alive?” He doesn’t give me the opportunity to answer. “He looks away. Been doing it for years. Every other priest gets nosey. Starts asking questions. Starts reporting shit.”

“And they end up down here.”

“Cocky ones do. The others just pack and up and leave quietly. You had that option, too, but you blew it when you messed up my grandson’s face.” Huffing, he strides over to where the chain connected to my arms feeds from the wall by a crank. With the push of a lever, I drop to the floor, landing hard on my shoulder.

Writhing with the pain, I curl into myself and clench my teeth, until it wanes just enough to let go of the tears welling up in my eyes. Still, by some miracle, my shoulder doesn’t pop from the socket.

“I know, you didn’t know it was my grandson. I’m sure, if you had, you’d have probably left it alone.”

“Grandson, or not, the outcome would’ve been the same.”

“Can you stop with the hero shit? I’m already wallowing in disappointment over here.”

The muffled sounds of guns popping off bleeds through the thick walls.

It must come as a surprise to Gordon, as well, as he lifts his chin into the air, brows furrowed, eyes aimed toward the commotion outside. His gaze falls on me again, the dark brown of them carrying what I surmise as both confusion and cunning. “You set me up, son?”

The door to the room flies open, and one of his men stumbles in. Just a kid, maybe eighteen, or nineteen years old, holding a gun like it’s a toy. “Sounds like the whole fucking place is under attack! Should we trip the failsafe?”

Groaning in frustration, Gordon rubs his brow and shakes his head. “No, we shouldn’t trip the failsafe until I say we trip the failsafe. Half the fucking tunnel will blow, you idiot. I hired you and your boys to watch my back. Now watch my back and take care of whoever the fuck decided to crash this party!”

The kid runs back out, shutting us in again, and in spite of having no clue what’s going on out there, I play along, hoping it tears away at his confidence. “It’s over, Gordon. Your little operation is over.”

“My little operation isn’t over until the Fat Lady Si—”

Before he can finish, a thunderous explosion shakes the room and bits of dirt fall from the ceiling.

Ringing blares in my ear, and I tip my head to make it stop.

Lights cut out, turning the room to pitch darkness.

A second explosion rattles the room.

Eyes wide open , I see nothing through the blackness. I hear nothing.

When the lights flicker back on, I catch sight of Gordon on his hands and knees, patting around the floor.

His gun lies within reach, and I scoot myself to the side, struggling to grab hold of it with my hands still tied. My finger loops the trigger.

The lights flicker off again, and when they come back on, Gordon is on his feet, his eyes wide, directed at the gun in my hands. He lurches toward me, and that’s the last thing I see before the lights go out again.

I pull the trigger blindly.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

My whole body is tense and shaking, wondering where he is in the room. I yawn and work my jaw, knocking the muffling from my ears, and though I can hear sounds again, I don’t hear Gordon at first.

For a good minute and a half, I’m trapped in darkness, waiting for pain to strike out of nowhere.

A buzz comes with another flicker of light, dimmer than before, and I find Gordon slumped against the wall, his hand pressed to his stomach, which bleeds out onto the concrete floor beneath him.

“Ah, shit. This sucks,” he says, his strained voice colored in a small bit of amusement.

Pounding at the door draws my attention, and I keep the gun on hand, just in case Gordon’s men come bounding through it.

“Damon? Damon, are you in there?” At the sound of Ivy’s voice, my muscles sag with relief.

“Yeah! I’m in here! I’m all right? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Looks like the generators kicked on. Okay, there’s some debris in front of the door! I have to clear it away to open it. Just sit tight, okay?”

“Sitting as tight as ever.” As much as I don’t think Gordon is a threat at the moment, I keep the gun trained on him, anyway. The man didn’t build his ruthless reputation by laying down and dying, after all.

“Man, she sounds like a firecracker. If you weren’t a priest, I’d call you a lucky man.” Even with a mortal wound, he manages a wily grin and a wink. “Then again, you never let that priest shit stop you, right?”

With a groan, I shake my head. “Piss off.”

On another cough, he shifts, wincing, and blows out a hard breath. “Could’ve been great friends, you and me. Had barbecues together. Gone out for beers and swapped stories about our wives.”

“Fuck you.” Even I have to admit, there’s an unsettling feeling to finding out he was the bad guy all along. His charm and likability is probably the most dangerous thing about the man. “Why? Why you?”

“It breaks your heart, doesn’t it? When you find out the monster isn’t such a bad guy.” With a shrug of his shoulders, he shakes his head and coughs. “He just does bad things. We’re taught in life and in the church that evil is obvious. The devil is this beastly thing with horns and a tail and a forked tongue.” He raises an excessively bloody hand, gesturing at his head and mouth to emphasize his point. “And yet, we forget that he was an angel before all of that.” He blows out a breath and lights up a cigar that he pulls from the front pocket of his shirt. “We all have our demons inside of us. You and I? Are we that different?”

“I never murdered innocent children.”

“And yet, if my son were here right now, wouldn’t you murder him in front of me? To force me to feel your pain? I killed your wife and daughter. Surely, you’d be forgiven by God for wanting me to suffer alongside you.”

My jaw shifts with the grinding of my teeth, because he’s probably right. Maybe I would murder his son in front of him. Or maybe the last few months have been nothing but a waste of time. Perhaps I’m just a man who needed the distraction of coming down here, believing that I was capable of taking out a criminal like him. “I still have the gun, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It isn’t about killing an innocent child. It’s making another human being understand the magnitude of what was stolen from you.” A casual puff of his cigar, and he goes on, as though his wound isn’t robbing him the last bits of life. “Summer of seventy-two. I had an internship down in Mexico with the company I planned to work for someday. I wanted to build cities. Watch them grow and thrive. But I laid eyes on a pretty thing sitting alone at a restaurant. Suddenly, I was staring at everything I wanted more.” His eyes seem spacier than before, and I wonder if death has begun to creep over him. The white pallor of his skin confesses he’s lost too much blood. “Like the idiot I was, I’d gone and fallen dick in the dirt over a dangerous man’s woman.” With a chuckle, he shakes his head and puffs his cigar. “I had dreams of this woman and what we could be, though. And she wanted it as much as I did.” In the pause that follows, his eyes are lost to unseen thoughts. “Twenty-six minutes was all it took for that dream to become my nightmare. For the man to sell his soul. In twenty-six minutes, two men raped and murdered the love of my life in front of me, then my daughter, and scarred my son.”

His brows come together, and when he sniffles, I realize this man is pouring his heart out, just like the blood oozing from his wounds. It’s an agony that’s all too familiar for me, and I have to push thoughts of my own wife and child out of my mind.

“I’ve been in pain every day since. And no matter how many people I’ve killed, it just grows bigger, and bigger, and bigger. You almost took my grandson from me. Not because you hated me. But because your pain was bigger than your will.”

“Your son raped an innocent girl. One who might be dead, for all I know.”

“And the wheel, it spins and spins and spins. Her family carries pain, I carry more pain. Pain fuels the engine, and we don’t bother to stop it. We can’t.” He tips back his hand, seeming to examine his wound, and flinches. “You wouldn’t think that a three-year-old boy would remember watching his mother die. But my son watched it every day in his head. Just like I did. I couldn’t forget. Neither could he. Took his own life at the age of forty-five.”

“Tell me where Ariceli is, and I won’t blow your brains out right here.”

A cough sends him forward, the pressure pushing more blood through his wound, and he grimaces. “Planning for college, I’m guessing. Shit, you think I could hurt Ariceli? She’s like a daughter. Like the one I didn’t get to raise.”

The door swings open, and Ivy storms into the room, her eyes on Gordon as she rounds his body on her way over to me. “Oh, my God! Damon! What did they do to you?” She plants careful kisses to my cheek, before falling to my side, going to work on my binds.

“I’m okay. The question is, what the hell did you do?”

Despite the weary look of worry in her eyes, she smiles. “Ah, you know, kidnapped a priest at gunpoint. Tricked a ruthless gang into thinking they were under attack with fireworks. Blew up half a drug smuggling tunnel. Typical weeknight. How bout you?”

“Got my ass beat.”

Behind her, Father Javier stands in the doorway, scanning the room, and when he finds Gordon, his eyes are wide, brimming with incredulity, like it’s the first time he’s actually had to look at the man’s destruction. The first time he can’t just look away.

Takes a few minutes for Ivy to work the knots of my binds, and when she does, the ache in my shoulders is flooded with the warmth of relief. I circle my elbow in the air and the joint pops and crackles, the blood flowing back into my fingers again. Reaching out for her, I pull her to my face, and in spite of Father Javier standing there, watching us, I kiss the shit out of this woman. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Divine intervention.” She glances back at Javier for a beat. “Threatened to blow off his testicles with an M-eighty. He’s cooperating now. He’ll be escorting us to Mexicali.”

Brows winged up, I clear my throat. “How creative. I trust you’ve gotten rid of them.”

“The testicles or the M-eighty’s?”

“The M-eighty’s.”

“Of course.” She gives me one more kiss, then pushes to her feet and reaches down to help me to mine. “But should you piss me off, just know, I’ve got a supplier.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I swipe up the gun from the ground, and together, we hobble toward the door, but I come to a stop beside Gordon. “Give me a second, okay?”

She looks to Gordon and nods. “A quick second. It’s a long walk to Mexicali from here.”

At my frown, she nods. “Yeah. We blew up the tunnel, so the only way out is through Mexico.”

“Fantastic. I’ll make it quick.” As she exits the room, I stare down at the wound oozing blood from Gordon’s stomach. Fatal wound, by my estimates. I lower my gun, tossing it behind me.

“Ain’t ya gonna finish me off?” He snorts, and a wet barky cough throws him forward. A rivulet of blood trickles from his blue lips, and the stain in his shirt is almost black with saturation.

“I’m stopping the wheel.”

Head rolling against the wall, he gives a weak smile. “If I live, you’ll be the first man I come after.”

“You won’t live. I doubt you’ll survive the night.”

He sniffs and shakes his head, his eyes weary with the weight of death. “It doesn’t end for me. Not like this. It takes more than a bullet to kill this El Cabro Blanco.”

“It’s not the bullet that’ll kill you, Gordon. It’s the fact that no one gives a damn enough to save you. Vaya con Dios, my friend.” I turn away from him and begin my trek back across the border.

“Damon!” he calls out from behind, his voice echoing through the empty tunnel, but I ignore him. “Damon! Finish me!”

My father would’ve killed him. He would’ve ensured every bit of his legacy perished. After tonight, though, one of the most widely known criminals in the country will die alone in an empty tunnel, miles from his home. No one will find him.

And no one will believe he ever actually lived.

39

IVY

Two months later ...

“Excuse me, Ivy Mercier?”

Wiping my hands on the towel tucked into my jeans, I look around the small diner, where I’ve picked up afternoon shifts until I can find a job. So much for California being The Golden State. There’s nothing golden about having to serve greasy cheeseburgers and smelling like onions everyday. My gaze lands on the guy standing behind me. “Who’s asking?”

A pudgy man with graying hair and the red cheeks of a bonafide alcoholic stretches out a hand toward me. “Thomas Granger. I work for Granger and Fox Law Firm in Los Angeles. You’re not an easy woman to track down, Ms. Mercier.”

With a frown, I reluctantly return the handshake, before stuffing my hands into the pockets of my food-stained apron. “And why are you trying to track me down?”

“I have an important matter to discuss with you. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Here we are. The moment I’ve dreaded since the day Calvin walked into my life, offering to eliminate all my problems. The same day my luck went to shit. “Look, if this is about my grandmother’s fees, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about any fees.”

Shrugging, I fold my arms over my chest, well into defensive territory. “Then, what …? What are you looking to discuss?”

“Again, if we could talk privately, that would be best.”

“Privately about what?”

“Your inheritance.”

A cough sputters past my lips, and for a second I can’t catch my breath. I hold up a finger, watching the man’s face pinch to concern. “I’m sorry. I choked …” I swallow again. “On my spit.” Another cough sends spittle onto the floor and across the man’s shiny, patent, black leather shoes. “I’m sorry. My what? Did you say inheritance? What inheritance?”

He glances around the diner. “Perhaps there’s an office, or somewhere we can talk?”

“Sure. Yeah. Sure.” I lead him to one of the back offices, my body cold with shock, as I mechanically pull a chair out from the break room table, across from him. “What inheritance? Last I checked Mamie had nothing but debt.”

“Your grandmother was executor to her uncle Renaud Mercier’s estate and trust. He passed away of natural causes at the ripe age of ninety-two, about four months ago. With your grandmother’s passing, that makes you the only living heir to his fortune.”

“Fortune?” I clear my throat and shift in the chair, pinching my skin beneath the table. Did I doze off during my shift? “What about my father?”

He rolls his shoulders back and entwines his fingers. “Were you not aware that he died of a drug overdose two years ago?”

Lips pressed to a hard line, I shake my head. “I haven’t seen my father since I was a small child.”

“I’m sorry.”

With a dismissive shrug, I wave my hand. “Anyway, continue.”

“Your great-uncle was a magnate in France. A highly respected businessman. He established his estate and trust through our sister firm in Paris.”

Mamie never spoke of him, aside from a few anecdotes about how her uncle never came around much, and when he did, he often argued with her father. Never sounded to me like the charitable type.

“When you say fortune. What exactly … I mean, how much is that exactly?”

His brows and shoulders wing up, as though I’ve asked him to calculate some unsolvable math equation. “Between his business and personal assets, the estate and trust is valued at approximately five hundred million.”

Another cough sends me forward, and I beat on my chest to loosen the saliva I’m drowning in right now. “Um. I’m sorry. I, um … it sounded like you said five hundred million.” An involuntary snort escapes me, and I clap a hand over my mouth. “Like … dollars?”

“Euros. It’d be a bit more than that in US dollars.”

“And I’m the sole heir to this fortune? There isn’t, like … a cousin, or something, to split this with?”

Frowning again, he tips his head. “Not that we’ve determined, no. Your grandmother did have an older brother, who passed away, but no children, it seems.”

While he reaches into his briefcase, and pulls out a folder, I’m digging my nails into my skin, desperate to figure out if I’m dreaming, or awake, right now. I scan the walls of the room, taking in details like the brown water stain on the ceiling, the crack in the drywall that’s been painted over blue, and the unsavory scent of burnt coffee on the air. Surely, I wouldn’t pick up on that level of detail in a dream.

Meanwhile, Thomas prattles on about the process of disbursement through foreign trusts, and I’m only listening to about half of it. All I want to do is buy a few gallons of chocolate syrup and take a sundae bath with Damon. A thought that makes me chuckle smack in the middle of Thomas’s explanation.

He looks up, brows furrowed in concern, and it’s then that my tears magnify his face.

“I’m sorry, this is …. This is just a little overwhelming. Like … I feel like I’m going to pass out?”

“I understand.” He sets his hands out, like one would if they were trying to gauge whether, or not, the nutty chick across from him is about to lose her shit, or throw up. “Perhaps you’d like to meet at another time?”

“No! God, no. I’m just … shocked. Fucking happy as all get out. More shocked.”

“Completely normal. Deep breaths and laughter are the best ways to handle the shock. Maybe some liquor later.”

“So, um … I should probably tell you I’m about a month behind on rent. My boyfriend, he’s a priest.” I flinch, quickly shaking my head. “Was a priest. He’s looking for work, too.”

“I’m happy to loan you an advance, until everything is settled.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean you had to give me an advance. I didn’t realize ...”

“It’s okay, Miss Mercier. There isn’t a financial entity in this world that would deny you a loan at this point.”

I’m trying to let that sink in, but it won’t. It can’t. How can I have struggled for so many years of my life, to one day turn around, and all of a sudden, every one of my worries just disappears? It’s not possible.

“You may want to pursue dual citizenship in the upcoming months.”

“Sure, okay. Um. Is that required to claim the inheritance?”

“No … but … you own quite a few homes in France, and there is the mansion there, as well.”

“Mansion?”

“Yes, all the property details will be discussed in a more formal setting. I’m just happy we can finally get the ball rolling.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He reaches across the table for another handshake. “Welcome to the world of wealth, Miss Mercier. I look forward to acting as your trusted advisor in the upcoming months.”

I snort again, and I can only imagine the goofy smile plastered to my face right now.

40

DAMON

I stare out the window of the plane, watching Los Angeles shrink into nothing but specks and lines on a multicolored canvas. A cold, clammy hand clutches mine, and I turn to see Ivy, sitting stiff as a board, eyes clamped shut. Harsh breaths rush out of her nose while her fingers dig into my skin.

“Almost over,” I whisper, trying to hide my smile.

“I can do plane rides, just not take off.”

The pressure seems to lighten, and the seatbelt sign finally dings off.

She blows an easy breath and opens her eyes. “That’s better.”

“I told you. Piece of cake.”

She lifts our clutched hands into the air, examining them. “Sorry.” Her nails loosen their lodged hold, and she kisses the back of my hand where deep crescent grooves mark my skin. “All good now.”

“Good.”

I’ve flown firstclass before, but this is something else entirely. A private jet with plush, leather seats that fold out into beds. Flat screen TV, a bar, and a couch, too. Only seven passengers total, including the stewardess, pilots, two lawyers, and Ivy and me. I glance around and catch one of the lawyers, Thomas, staring down at papers over his spectacles. He looks up briefly to offer a smile, before going back to his work.

In spite of Ivy’s trepidation, it’s the first time in months I’ve had the opportunity to relax and breathe easy. Literally. Thanks to Gordon, I ended up with two fractured ribs that had me laid up the first couple of days. As I recovered, a part of me wished I had gone back to finish him off, though I’m fairly certain he perished within hours of being left behind. Reports from neighbors resulted in a search of the rectory and an investigation into Father Javier. As far as I know, he’s agreed to work with authorities in exchange for immunity. After finding out my real name during our walk back to Mexicali, he’s made a point not to mention my short time working for the parish, either. Fortunately, Gordon was telling the truth, and Ariceli remained unharmed, in her parents’ home, as he said.

“Meet me in the restroom,” Ivy whispers beside me.

“What? Now?”

“Yes, right now. I’ll go first, then you follow. Try not to be obvious, though.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I just …. It’s something I’ve always wanted to try.”

“What?”

“Meet me, and you’ll find out. You brought your collar?”

Eyes narrowed on her, it becomes blatantly clear what she plans to do in there, but before I can protest, she bites her lip and pushes up from the chair. Clearing my throat again, I look around to find one lawyer sleeping, Thomas still working, and the stewardess nowhere in sight. I button up my shirt and rifle through the small bag I brought aboard for the clerical collar that Ivy insisted I keep, and I head toward the back of the plane without anyone seeming to notice.

Without knocking, I enter a bathroom that looks nothing like a typical airplane bathroom. Dark wood and marble make up a sink that reminds me of something in a hotel. Dim lighting and neatly folded towels are added touches, along with the variety of toiletries set out in a basket. But none of these things really hold my attention long. My eyes dart directly to the woman who stands across from me, blocking the porthole window and balancing against the counter with her legs spread and ready for me. I slide on my collar, adjusting it into place, and approach slowly, cautiously, avoiding the urge slam her into the wall and fuck her brains out. At my approach, she falls to her knees and gives the sign of the cross.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I wish I could say it’s the last time, but I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“What kind of predicament?” I stroke my hand over her hair, resisting the need to clench my hand to a tight fist.

“My boyfriend … he has this amazing cock.” She licks her lips and stares up at me, while she works the belt on my slacks. “It’s big. And thick. And his cum tastes delicious.” In one vicious yank, she springs my dick free, and there’s no denying how much this woman turns me on. “I seem to have developed an addiction to it.”

“Perhaps you just haven’t tasted enough variety in your life.” The moment her lips dance around my tip, I squeeze her hair, biting back the tension that pulses through me, coaxing tiny thrusts toward her mouth.

“I don’t want to taste anyone else’s dick, Father. I only want his.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works. To cast out these demons, you must first ensure the source.” My body is desperate for those ruby red lips that slide over the tip, leaving behind smears of lipstick over slick precum. “Take me in your mouth and see if you still only crave his cock.”

“Yes, Father.” Those are the last words she says, before her lips stretch over my shaft and down toward the base. I tip my head back and set my hand against the wall to keep from buckling.

“Fuck,” I groan, and not even the jarring rattle of turbulence stops her from kicking up the pace. My body is burning with the desire to be buried balls deep inside of her, but I can’t move. This woman has me in a state of sexual paralysis.

She glides back up to the tip and strokes the trailing spit, as she stares up at me again. “I still crave his cock and only his cock.”

Grinding my teeth, I desperately try to hold back the violence inside of me that wants to split this woman in half. “Well, then, perhaps we should try something else.” I grip her throat and draw her to her feet, pressing her against the wall, where she stumbles back onto the counter. Mouth gaping, she lets out a breath, and I squeeze just enough to draw those messy lips into a smile. “Spread your legs, pécheresse. You know you want this as much as I do.”

She does as she’s told, and I guide her hand between her legs, pushing two of her fingers up inside of her. Eyes closed, she curls her lip between her teeth and lets out a soft moan. “Look at the way you indulge in sin.” Lifting her fingers between us, I open my mouth and allow her to insert them. The sweet flavor of her pussy coats my tongue as I suck them clean. Hand still gripping her throat, I line my tip at her entrance and pause. “Tell me, Ivy. Tell me how good his cock feels inside of you.”

She shudders and lets out a shaky breath. Her throat bobs against my palm, and she regards me with a sliver of defiance. “He fucks me hard and so good, I don’t want him to stop.”

Damn her. I think there isn’t a thing this woman says that could possibly make me harder than I already am, but then she adds, “No one fucks me as good as he does.”

In one harsh thrust, I’m inside her, the wet walls of her tight little hole grabbing my cock, as I push deeper. “Surely, he must bore you by now.”

She tongues the corner of her mouth, eyes heavy with lust. “Never.”

“Your boyfriend is a lucky man,” I say, my voice raspy and husky with the desire to come all over her. To mark her with my scent, so any man who comes near her will know she belongs to me.

She lets out a breathy chuckle and tips her head back. “I’d say I’m the lucky one right now, Father.” Her brows come together in a cross between pain and ecstasy. “Oh, fuck!”

A little loud for an airplane bathroom, and I’m certain anyone outside the door has gotten wind of what we’re up to.

At the knock on the door, we don’t stop. My hips pummel into her like a man drilling for oil, even when the stewardess asks, “Miss Mercier, is everything okay in there?”

“Yeah–” Ivy chokes out. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, my fucking God!”

Two more pumps, and her back stiffens, the pinch of her eyebrows softens with her smile, and the beautiful glow plastered on her face is more than I can stand. Hot jets of cum spring from my dick as I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her sweet floral scent.

“Ah, pécheresse, you are a bad girl.” Pulse after mind-blowing pulse feeds into her, as if we’re two cables, spliced together in one constant flow of electricity. “Holy fuck.”

“Holy, indeed.” She steals deep breaths and grabs either side of my face, pulling me toward her lips. “Bore me. As if.”

I kiss her again, savoring the flavor of her skin against my tongue. “I swear you taste sweeter every time you come.”

“It’s the purity of your holy cock.”

Snorting a laugh, I push away from her, letting her feet hit the floor once more. “My holy cock? You make it sound like an object of worship.”

“It kind of is. I mean, I pretty much worship it.”

The plane jerks, knocking both of us to the side, and I catch her in my arms, before she tumbles to the floor.

“Jesus, the turbulence is horrible.” A hint of fear carries on her voice as she sets her hand against the wall, steadying her balance.

“Even luxury jets aren’t immune from the laws of physics.”

Smiling, she bends forward and pulls up her panties while I refasten my belt. “Next time, we’ll use the belt.”

“Next time?”

“Oh, yes. This is a ten-hour flight, baby, and I need distraction from the impending landing.”

I brush the hair out of her eyes and tuck it behind her ear. “Are you nervous?”

“To land? Or to visit the city I’ve been dying to see since I was a little girl? Or the mansion that apparently belongs to me?”

“All of the above.”

“Yeah, I’m crawling out of my skin a little here.”

I pull her into me and plant a kiss on her forehead. “It’s going to be a different life for you, Ivy. One I hope makes you happy. You’ll never want for anything again.”

Her head shakes against my chest, and she pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. “I’ll always want for something, Damon.” Pushing up on tiptoes, she grips the back of my neck and tugs me to a kiss. “I’ll always want you.”

“You have me.”

“I do, but I want to spin you up in my little spider web and keep you forever.”

I frown down at her, trying to push the visual of her face on a big spider out of my mind. “That’s incredibly disturbing.”

Chuckling, she rests her cheek against my chest. “Seriously, though. You’ve always felt a little … off limits. Even after the whole priest gig. I still don’t feel like you’re entirely mine. Like there isn’t enough money in the world.”

“Ivy … I’m guessing there will be men, wealthy men, who’ll want to combine fortunes, expand their empires. You’ll be one of the most sought after women in all of Europe.”

“I don’t care about combining fortunes, or other wealthy men. I want you. I’d give up the money for you.”

I run my thumb along her jaw, contemplating the thought of the two of us, turning back to months before, when she was working some shitty waitress job, while I spent all day scouring Help Wanted ads. “What could I possibly give you that you don’t already have?”

The shine in her eyes magnifies their bright spring green. “Love. A family, maybe? And no one quotes dirty Bible verses better than you.”

We both chuckle at that, and I grip a handful of hair, tipping her head back for another kiss. “Shit. I’m going to have to start saving up for a ring.” I’m not entirely destitute, I just haven’t had the ambition to sort through my father’s crooked affairs to know where he’s hidden his accounts. And I’m not certain I want to be the heir to his blood money, if I do.

“Doesn’t have to be fancy. Any ring will do.”

I glance around the bathroom, and my eyes zero in on the white satin satchels that hold fancy soaps, tied with white ribbons. Reaching to the side, I untie the ribbon, and smile, dropping down to one knee.

“Ivy Mercier, over the last couple months, I’ve come to realize that sometimes life gives us a second chance. What begins in tragedy can somehow blossom into something beautiful. When I met you, I had already rejected the possibility of new love. But you … you wouldn’t relent so easily.” I smile at the memory of her persistence, the flirtations that effectively wore me down over a matter of weeks. “You blackmailed me. Roped me into your dysfunctional little world.”

With a light punch to my arm, she chuckles.

“You chased me damn near to Mexico. And blew up a drug lord’s tunnel to find me.” With a sigh, I rub my thumb over her soft skin. “Eventually, I couldn’t help but fall madly, deeply, insanely in love with you. So, with that said, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Tears fall down her cheeks, and she wipes them away as she nods. “Yes. I would.”

At that, I wrap the ribbon around her finger twice and awkwardly tie it in a small bow. With her hand in mine, I push to my feet, and she wraps her arms around me.

“Proposal in an airplane bathroom. This has to be the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Rubbing my jawline, I frown. “Damn … I’m gonna have to up my game a little.”

She toys with my hairline at the back of my head and giggles. “We have time.”

Leaning forward, I set my lips to her neck and kiss her collarbone. “Would you have really given it all away, though?”

“For you? Every penny. Well, except what I plan to spend on Miss Garcia’s new house. And the check I plan to send Sergio for college. But everything else, yes.”

“You are something special, Pécheresse.”

“The jet, too. I think I’d want to keep that. And the mansion? I mean, it’s in Paris, so, why not, you know?”

“Okay, I get it.” I smile against her skin.

“Maybe the house in Fiji, too, because, hello. Everyone needs a vacation, even poor people.”

Rolling my eyes, I groan. “You can stop now.”

“The miniature horses. The vineyard. But that’s it. Everything else, I’d give up.”

“I’d give up everything for you, too.”

She pulls away, staring up at me. “Except the collar, right?”

“I already gave up the collar.”

“No, I mean, the actual collar. We’re keeping that.”

With a huff, I shake my head. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“Oh! I forgot about the boat! I’d keep that, for sure. I mean, how else would we get to Fiji, right?”

“You’re impossible, woman.”

“I’m your impossible woman, now. So, with that in mind, we should probably set aside the cash you’re going to need for therapy, too. And drugs.”

“You are my impossible woman.” Hooking a finger beneath her chin, I tip her head back. “Don’t you forget that.”

Her lips stretch with the smile of a woman who has everything in the world and she knows it. “I promise I won’t.”

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Epigraph

Playlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

PART II

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Authors Note

Other Books By Keri Lake

About the Author