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I lifted my eyes to see a priest. Just great.
He clasped his hands in front of his black robe, his eyes journeying over my body. “You okay?”
I straightened and nudged the bag his way, but he didn’t take it. The lighting over the steps was spotty, but he more than likely noticed that in addition to donning a kilt, I was also wearing the blood of the men I’d killed earlier. “Here.”
He had to be eighty, and should’ve been scared of me, already scurrying back behind the safety of his church doors. Instead, he reached out and rested his hand on top of mine and met my cold, dark eyes. “I think you should come inside.”
“I think not.”
“Confession,” he said, a near whisper. “You need it.”
“I definitely don’t.” I hated the whip of chills flying down my body and up the skirt. It was fucking drafty.
“What you say to me will only be heard by myself and God,” he said, his Scottish brogue thick. He patted the top of my hand, then turned for the door and waited for me, not taking no for an answer.
“I doubt you or God will want to hear anything I have to say.” I steadily stared at him, waiting for him to realize he was inviting evil inside a sacred place. He didn’t blink or back away. Against my better judgment, I carried the money inside the holy place and followed him to a confessional.
I dropped the bag and stepped inside the small space.
“When was the last time you confessed?” he asked once he was in the other room, a cutout wall, or window-like thing, between us.
“I don’t know. Maybe never?” My parents were Catholic, but only took us to church on holidays. Rebecca had grown up the same way.
“Now is a good time to start, then.” He went on, explaining a few details about confession, none of his words registering in my brain. I was too worried I’d burn alive inside that room, losing my chance at revenge, to worry about the procedures and legalities of confessing my crimes to him.
I bowed my head, my heartbeat flying. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” I mumbled the only words that came to me, closing my eyes in the dark, quiet space.
And then I told him everything.
About my wife’s murder and my last hateful words to her. That I believed it was my fault and not a home invasion. And how I’d transferred the money Rebecca had left in my name into offshore and untraceable accounts, going off-the-grid on a quest to find her killer.
I shared with him the time I’d spent studying surveillance footage from the night of her death. I’d learned every enemy and friend my wife had made over the years, turning over every rock, stone, and pebble to find possible connections to her murder.
Then I explained that I’d retraced all of her last steps the year before she’d died, finding too many holes and missing pieces to make sense of anything, including the fact she’d been keeping even more secrets from me.
Hell, I even gave him a body count of the lives I’d taken in my hunt for her killer.
“But at least they were bad guys,” I casually added.
Once I was done recapping the prior six months of my life in blood-soaked bullet points, I was sweating. And he was still quiet. More than likely shocked and terrified. But he was still there. He hadn’t bolted and phoned the police.
I needed to bail, though. I left the confessional before he had a chance to tell me how fucked up I was, or what to do in order to get that “forgiveness” I already knew I didn’t deserve.
I picked up the bag of money, took a knee, and unzipped it. When the priest stepped out of the confessional, I slid it over to him. “For your discretion,” was all I said before taking off.
Hurrying down the steps out front, I quickly took the first side street I saw, but after I rounded the corner, I tripped over something in my path. My heart went into my throat when I saw a small puppy curled up inside a box.
FREE DOGS was written on the outside of the cardboard. Was he the last one left? Why’d he stay inside that box like it was a cage?
The little guy lifted his head, and I was just glad I hadn’t stepped on him.
“What about we get a dog? I love dogs.” Rebecca’s words from years ago haunted me as I knelt and lifted him into my arms.
An Alaskan Malamute or Siberian Husky from the looks of him. White and black fur with two different colored eyes. He couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. Maybe not even that.
“You’re all alone,” I said to him, drawing him closer to my face, and he licked my cheek. Hopefully he wasn’t licking blood, too. I couldn’t believe I was going to do this, but . . . “You want to come with me?” He licked my cheek again. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I resumed walking, on a mission to find him food. Well, maybe a change of clothes for me first, and then I’d get the both of us a bite to eat. What do I call you? Then it quickly came to me. “Dallas.” It was the name Dad would’ve given a pet if Mom had let us have one.
