Page 140 of Hold Me Before You Go

They came to me with their secrets, the dirt they would never show anyone—the sins everyone was guilty of committing. I came here to understand humans—normal humans, at least. I’d hoped that, by now, I would’ve found someone like me.

Someone incapable of feeling.

Someone who craved things darker than the average churchgoer did.

Someone trying to avoid the blood lust that compelled their soul—or wondered if they even had one.

That was the ultimate question, after all.

Did I have a soul?

I wasn’t capable of empathy—of compassion.

I’d never felt the love the Holy Bible speaks of over and over.

With a sigh to drown out the small-town chatter echoing in the hall outside my office, I reached for the remote, turning on the TV.

Hopefully, that would drown out the noise for the next few minutes.

The national news flickered on, some blonde going on and on about inflation and the upcoming election while I opened the desk drawer, grabbing my cigarettes.

The chair groaned underneath my weight as I leaned back, lighting the end of my cigarette, holding it between my lips. I took a healthy, delicious drag as I propped my feet up on the desk, crumbs of dirt landing on the open bible at my feet.

I’d been working on sermon notes for the last hour, trying to come up with something that would make me feel. Every time I preached to the small mass of people who filled my pews every Sunday and Wednesday night, I witnessed many emotions.

Awe.

Sadness.

Love.

Happiness.

Guilt.

Anger.

None of which affected me.

“We have an important update from St. Louis, Missouri, where a serial killer has been identified,” the newscaster said.

My eyes snapped up to the screen mounted on the wall, my ears perking for the first time in over three months. The smoke from my cigarette drifted in front of my face as the screen switched to a live feed of a press conference. On the front of the podium was the FBI logo, and as a man with hair almost as dark as mine stepped up to the mic, my head tilted to the side.

I took another drag.

“Good morning, I’m Special Agent James Garner, and I’m here to announce that the St. Louis River Killer has been identified as Robert Hale.”

A picture of the man popped up beside the agent’s head, and my brows furrowed.

He looked…normal.

Like me.

“Robert Hale was murdered a few years ago, and though he isn’t here to pay for his crimes, we can give closure to the countless families he affected,” the agent said, his eyes cold, his jaw tight. “My team and I have uncovered his dump site where Mr. Hale buried his victims in shallow graves. Thus far, we have uncovered human remains indication over fifty individuals, and we are working around the clock to identify the victims and notify their families.”

Shallow graves?

A single dumping site?

---