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There were no arrests.
The article goes on to say:
Sources, who wish not to be named, said Father Eamon had been accused of ‘hurting’ altar boys. Another source mentioned the incident where Charles Foster, the father of an altar boy, had directly confronted Father Eamon a year before the priest’s death. That confrontation had ended with Mr. Foster falling in the sacristy during a scuffle and hitting his head on a fireplace hearth. There were rumors a third person was involved in the dust-up between Father Eamon and Mr. Foster, but no one has come forward. Without an eyewitness, and considering Father Eamon had suffered significant stab wounds to one arm, and the knife found at the scene belonged to Mr. Foster, his death was deemed self-defense. The Astoria priest wasn’t charged.
I stiffen. Was Lachlan that third person?
Did he kill that priest a year later because of these allegations?
So much has come out concerning church scandals. I hadn’t heard anything about St. Agatha’s in Astoria. Maybe this Father Eamon was the only one. But he’s dead.
And Lachlan killed him—according to Stasia.
I can’t ask him. There is no reason for him and me to ever speak again. Either way, the priest’s death is not something to bring up in casual conversation.
God, how my body tingles every time I see Lachlan. It doesn’t respond like that to anyone else.
Weeks go by, and Papa barely speaks to me. I’ve never felt more alone. Another woman named Maya works in the house now. She’s friendly, but I miss Yulia.
And I miss my sister. I check my school mailbox every day. Nothing. I worry I’ll never hear from Anastasia again.
CHAPTER THREE - PRESENT DAY
Lachlan
“Blessme,Father,forI have sinned.” I sit in the darkened confession booth and make the sign of the cross.
“Good heavens, Lachlan, who did you kill now?” Father Patrick drawls to me in the Irish lilt I trust. He and I have a special relationship. He listens to my confessions and forgives me.
“Two eejits who stole from us.”
“Stealing is not a capital offense.”
“It’s in the bible. Thou shall not steal. The crime of theft was punished by losing a hand. Back then,thatwas a death sentence. No antibiotics to treat infections, or reasonable means to stop bleeding.”
Father Patrick turns his head to me. “That’s a stretch, Lachlan.”
I shrug. “Look it up.”
I know the bible cover to cover. Both books. I wanted to serve God, but it got ripped away from me in the blink of an eye.
“Anything else, Lachlan?”
I clear my throat. “No. But I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m collecting money later this afternoon, and I’m guessing someone’s gonna end up hurt.”
I don’t kill people who owe us money. Not right away.
Death is an ambiguous deterrent to others. Seeing someone beat to shit, or on crutches, head wrapped up in gauze from dozens of stitches sends more of an effective message.
“Jesus Christ,” Father Patrick mutters. “Lord, forgive me.” He crosses himself, spouts the usual blessing I need to say, and shuts the window.
Confessing what I do for my family is how I sleep at night. Not that I get much sleep. A few hours each night when exhaustion drains me is all I need.
When Father Patrick’s feet walk past below my door, I wait a minute and get out. The smell of the candles triggers me, considering what happened here years ago. What I did. What I suffered for it. I finger the scar on my left cheek and choke back the bittersweet perfume.
I may not have meant to kill Charles Foster, but murdering Father Eamon was premeditated and a long time coming. My first real cold-blooded kill. The evidence against him was damning, but church lawyers swooped in and got him off. Paid off the judges. He’d been hurting kids for years—all while I’d stood behind him on the altar, listening to his lies about decency. I worshipped him and wanted to be just like him. I felt so betrayed.
Da dragged me here to St. Agatha’s and made me confess to the pastor himself. Confessions are inadmissible. Not that anyone at St. Agatha’s would turn me in, not with how much money my family gives to the church. Or what my da would have done to anyone who hurt me.
