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“You don’t know what they’re capable of.” My lips trembled as I spoke the words.
“We’ve seen all sorts here. We know what evil lives within men.”
“No,” I whispered. “You don’t.”
The room went quiet. Sister Marina did not look insulted. If anything, she looked unmoved.
I remembered father grabbing my hand days before and whispering that if anything happened to him, I had to run. Not to the police, because they couldn’t be trusted. Run somewhere far, he had said. At the time, I thought his fear was getting the better of him. Now he was dead.
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Father Demitri was watching me intently.
“Do you believe God put you in my path?” I asked him.
I don’t know why I asked that question. It must have surprised him too, though he didn’t show it. Sister Joanne paused beside the table. Sister Marina’s gaze moved from me to him.
Father Demitri was silent for a moment, weighing his words.
“You came through my door. It was nothing more than that.”
A laugh scraped out of me. It hurt my mouth.
“You are supposed to believe in divine intervention, are you not?”
I stared at him. A real priest would have given me something prettier. Something about providence and mercy, and God’s mysterious design.
Sister Marina pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat.
“Adriana, we need to discuss what happens next.”
Next. There was a next. What a cruel twist of fate. There was no next after death.
“I can’t stay here,” I said.
“No,” she replied.
Father Demitri looked at her sharply, but he said nothing.
“You cannot stay at Santa Caterina long. We can hide women from violent husbands. We can move migrants quietly. We can keep names out of certain records. But the men chasing you are not ordinary men. They came into a church for you. They will track you here; it’s only a matter of time.”
My breath shortened. The room around me seemed to shrink and tighten, like a noose around my neck.
“I know. They won’t just kill me. They’ll kill anyone who helps me.”
Sister Marina’s expression did not change.
“That is why we must be careful.”
Careful. Father had been careful. He had changed phones. Deleted messages. He’d been too afraid to even speak out loud in our kitchen. And yet, he had still bled out on our marble floor.
Father Demitri spoke then. “I can arrange help through legal channels.”
My whole body went cold.
“No.”
“You have no—”
“No.”
