Page 100 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Joan of Arc wrote that in her journal. I remember the details clearly because we both had Joan as a name, and then seeing the word mercy—my Sinner name—felt like a double whammy of relevance. I was sure the relic was meant for me—Mercy, the person.

But what if the mercy she warned about was actually mercy in the literal sense?

What if that line is the sword’s instructions for use?

What if “perfect mercy” isn’t me, the person, literally having to be the perfect Sinner or team leader to activate the sword . . . but me practicing perfect mercy.

Mary’s Gospel, the other half of that same verse on the wall behind me, spoke about forgiveness.

Tears prick my eyes as I look at the sword. “Is that what you’re waiting for?”

For me to forgive myself for not being the kind of woman a mother could love? Or the kind a father would stick around for? Or even the kind of team leader who never missed a clue or got anything wrong?

For not being perfect?

Because I do, I realize. I do forgive myself.

I have to.

I must.

If not me, then who will take this burden from my soul?

I’m not perfect, and that’s okay. My family at the Sisterhood, the Sinners, the nuns, the Rev . . . they love me anyway. And even though he hasn’t said it in so many words, I know Cisco loves me too. I feel it in my bones.

So it’s time I loved myself too.

A weight lifts from my shoulders, and I want to laugh. These men look over to me like I’m insane.

These are the men Hannah thinks will hold me? Disbelief courses through me. I know she’s not that delusional. She spent years running circles around politicians, and she knew this prophecy would bring her brother and me together, and that when it did, she’d finally get the chance to take back her half of the curse.

Would she really set me up to be eliminated by amateurs like these two?

Unless . . . unless this is all Beelzebub’s work. His influence.

Unless . . . a part of her is still fighting to be loved, to belong.

My heart aches with the truth of it. I might have parents who didn’t love me enough to care, but I’m fortunate to have learned what love means from others in my life. Hannah was never around the Sisterhood enough for anyone to get close to her.

But her brother loved her. She knew this. He loved her so much, he somehow ended up taking half the curse. I’ll bet that’s what happened. He must have wanted to protect her somehow, but she thinks he stole it.

And Beelzebub . . . he fed her lies to suit his purpose. He won’t care who wins, who ends up with the entire curse. He used Hannah like a puppet from the beginning, manipulating her as a child. He sent her to an organization entirely devoted to women who’ve been hurt and oppressed by a patriarchal society. He wants her blinded by her sense of injustice.

“She’s going to fail,” I murmur. “Hannah’s plan to manipulate Cisco is going to fail, and she doesn’t even realize it.”

He’ll kill her.

The stocky guy must understand a little English, because he laughs at me and says in Italian, “Lady, we don’t give a shit about her plans failing.”

He puts his gun on the table and then joins his friend beside me. He puts his hands over my duct-taped wrists, leans down, and smirks in my face.

“We only⁠—”

“Oh, buddy.” I cut him off, shaking my head. “You should care.”

Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “And why’s that?”

“Because if she’s failed at something as big as a twenty-year revenge plan, then she’s failed at something small . . . like strapping me into the chair properly.”