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I did the same and left the bathroom before she decided to grill me about her damn cupcakes. Would she still be mad if I told her Father Bridge ate one of her precious cupcakes?
On my stroll down the hallway, I caught sight of the three priests in whispers, walking quickly toward Father Mason’s room. Narrowing my gaze on them, I paused, watching them vanish into the office. Dread washed through me that they were all talking about me and last night. Before I could talk any sense into myself, I was standing in front of the shut door, pressing my ear to it.
The priests’ voices were muffled, making it difficult to piece together their conversation. Snippets of their chat filtered through the door, something about New Orleans, which I knew was their hometown. The rest was a blur, yet a few words stood out and seemed out of place… chilling even.
Lying low.
Hitman.
My pulse sped up. What in the world were they talking about?
The sound of footsteps approaching the door from inside the office had panic spiraling through me. I frantically retreated, slipping around the corner just as the door swung open. I peered out, hidden in shadows, as the priests exited the office, their expressions serious.
With their backs to me and curiosity propelling me, I rushed toward the office, managing to slip in just before the door shut completely, catching it with the tip of my shoe. I let out a quiet sigh of relief as the door clicked shut behind me once I stepped into the office.
With my heart hammering in my chest, I turned around to face the room, unsure what I expected to find. I’d been in there before and saw nothing out of the ordinary, yet the mystery of the priests’ conversation lingered in my thoughts. After last night, I was determined to find out their secrets because something just wasn’t adding up.
I started with the drawers, pulling them open one by one. Paper clips, stationery, miscellaneous office supplies—nothing out of the ordinary. The file drawers, however, were a different story. They were stacked neatly in alphabetical order, each one bearing a name, a history, a story.
In a corner, I found mine. It was thin, almost skeletal compared to the others. I pulled it out, and there it was, just one sheet. One single piece of paper detailing the incident at Emma’s house and my father... It was like a slap in the face, taking me back to that horrific night that had permanently scarred me. I felt a lump form in my throat.
Yet what struck me was not the painful memories but the fact that it was all there was in my file at this institute. There was no mention of my college studies and all the good stuff I’d done. Every other folder was overflowing with notes, reports, and evaluations, but mine was practically empty. Even more curious was the absence of any recent additions. The most recent entries were a few months old, and none were from the current Fathers.
Why were the Fathers not documenting anything? I shook my head, not having the time to delve into that.
I hastily shoved the files back into their places, my eyes roving the room for any other clues. But as I scanned the room one last time, my heart dropped. There was nothing out of place, nothing unusual, nothing that hinted at the conversation I’d overheard. I felt a pang of frustration. I was back to square one, with more questions than answers.
As I turned to leave, my foot caught on something and sent me stumbling. In my efforts to regain my balance, my hand shot out, landing against a section of the wall. To my surprise, it swung open, revealing a hidden door. My pulse quickened, curiosity igniting as I slipped through it.
“What do we have here?”
The room I entered was a stark contrast to the office, resembling a hidden bunker. Maps of New Orleans adorned the walls, dotted with various markers and notes. There was also a slew of photographs capturing distinct landmarks. It was a wave of information that spoke of a serial killer staking out a location.
My skin shivered at the thought, except I doubted the priests were planning their next kill since there were no photos of people. It was more like they were tracking someone’s movements in New Orleans.
In the corner of the room sat a worn-out leather couch and a heavy wooden cabinet filled to the brim with liquor–whiskey, vodka, gin, tequila.
I approached the maps, studying the crisscrossing red lines and handwritten notes. Street names, dates, and cryptic messages filled the margins. The French Quarter, Tremé, and the Garden District were all labeled meticulously with what looked like surveillance times and hideouts. I took in the detailed operation sprawled out on these maps. The implications of what I was seeing, of what the Fathers might be involved in, sent a chill down my back.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway.
I froze.
My breath hitched as I quickly slipped into the shadows, pulling the secret door shut, leaving it open only a smidgen.
Father Mason stepped into the room, tension radiating off him, his breaths heavy, shoulders slumping forward. He held a cell phone to his ear, his voice low and urgent.
“He’s been trailing us,” he said, pacing the room. “You were supposed to inform us of any movements.”
I held my breath, straining to listen, to understand the one-sided conversation.
He grabbed something from a top drawer, then marched right out of the office.
“I have to get out of here,” I whispered under my breath.
With Mason’s words still lingering in my head, I silently thanked my lucky stars that he hadn’t noticed me. Gingerly, I started to tiptoe toward the office door. The taste of fear sat bitter on my tongue, but I swallowed it down and kept moving.
Grasping the cool knob, a sigh of relief started to form in my throat. As I slowly opened the door, my eyes met a sight that iced me all over.
