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Adriana’s face drained of its remaining color.

I moved closer to the desk.

The records were meticulous. Each entry showed arrival dates, the number of women housed, the priest or administrator who had authorized access and the account through which payment had been made.

The donations were not donations. They were fees.

A parish outside Naples had received eighty thousand euros over fourteen months.

A convent near Rome had provided beds for women who vanished before they could be entered into official records.

A Catholic charity had paid a transport company for what it described as emergency relocation services. The transport company belonged to a Coccico affiliate.

My hands went cold. All these years, I had opened church doors to people who had nowhere else to go. I had given them food, blankets and a place to sleep where they believed no one could reach them.

I had trusted the collar around my throat to mean the same thing to every man who wore it.

All that time, other priests had been using the same promise of sanctuary to deliver women into hell.

“Did the priests know what they were doing?” Tone asked.

“Some of them appear to,” Artemus explained. “Others may have believed they were participating in legitimate relief efforts.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Archie asked.

“Payments, private messages and instructions that bypass normal safeguarding procedures.”

Artemus opened an email.

It contained three sentences.

Seven pilgrims arriving Thursday. Use the rear entrance. No registration. Payment will follow through the restoration fund.

The message had been sent from a diocesan account.

Every muscle in my body locked before the sender’s name appeared.

Artemus looked at me. He already knew what the name would mean to me, yet he expanded the page to reveal the sender details anyway.

Bishop Giulio Ferretti.

The room receded.

Ferretti had placed his hands on my head during my ordination. He had heard my final confession before I took my vows and spoken to me about obedience, sacrifice and service to those without power.

He had assigned me to the parish where Adriana later stumbled through my doors covered in blood.

He had approved funding for my food programme.

I remembered sitting across from him in his church and asking permission to convert unused parish rooms into temporary accommodation for women fleeing violent homes. He had listened with his hands folded over his stomach and agreed the work was necessary.

I had mistaken his interest for compassion.

Perhaps he had only wanted to know how many beds I could provide.

“Demi?”

Tone’s voice reached me through the roar in my ears.