Page 47 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Thea and Leila share a look over the rim of their mugs. Raven presses her fingers to her temples and shudders as if she’s just walked through a spiderweb. Even the Rev’s eyes narrow, and the corners of her mouth droop.

“So,” she says, “we still don’t know who the real enemy is.”

Her verdict echoes mine.

Jasmine stands again, chair toppling. “You can’t trust them. You can’t trust any of them!” She’s gone from fever to full mania, voice pitched high, eyes rolling to me, to the Rev, to the open door. “You heard what they did in Spain. They’ll do it here. That priest is not what he seems. None of them are.”

I lock eyes with the Reverend Mother, and she returns a small, subtle nod. I agree. We won’t get anywhere else with this tonight. Jasmine needs to rest.

I lower my volume. “We’ll dig deeper, Jaz, don’t worry. But for now, no one leaves the abbey alone. Eyes on the perimeter and each other. Tomorrow, we interrogate every Saint. We find out what they know, and who they’re really working for.”

In the meantime, I’ll have a more thorough look through Cisco’s phone.

Seventeen

Mercy

Istep out of the steaming shower to a knock at the bathroom door.

“Merce?” It’s Tawny. Of course, it’s her. “You okay in there?”

“Living the dream, baby.”

“You’ve been in there a while.”

“Have I.”

A pause. “Raven’s downstairs already. She made coffee for us. It tastes like Vodka.”

“That tracks.”

“Are you ... coming out soon?”

I look at the cilices in the sink, the lacy push-up bra and thong on the floor, the Sinner uniform … the lip gloss. “Two minutes.”

“Okay.” Another pause. “Hey. You don’t have to do this part, you know. We could swap. I could be the one who⁠—”

“Tawn.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got it, babe.”

“Okay.” Quieter. “Just thought I’d say.”

I screw my eyes shut tight and take a deep breath. I’m so fucking tired, and not in the good kind of tired, the one where you’ve been fucked all night. I’m the kind of tired where you’ve been awake for half the night staring at the ceiling, reliving every stupid thing you let yourself believe the day before.

I let myself hope. What an idiot.

I stood in front of that sword like a little girl in a Sunday dress, and I thought, Maybe it’s mine. I’m thirty-six, with hands that have paved my way to Hell, and somehow I still had a soft place inside me that thought I was the one. I was always the one. But I wasn’t. The sword sat there, dull and lifeless, calling me out. And I had to make myself not cry about it in front of my sisters, because Sinners don’t cry over swords.

They get on with it.

The tremble moves into my arms, and my fingers grip the porcelain for balance.

Inhale. Smile. Give Tawny a boss to look up to.

“Love you,” I shout.