Page 145 of Sinful Lies

In my frantic rush, I stood up, forgetting about the low ceiling of the confessional. The top of my head smacked into the wooden frame with a loud thud.

Father Harrison cleared his throat. “Miss Whitenhouse,” he began slowly, like he was trying to talk down a wild animal, “I’m not sure… confession works that way.”

I slumped back against the wooden bench, my hands covering my face. “IknewI should’ve never come here! What was I thinking? ‘Oh, let me just unburden my sinful, borderline-psychotic love life on apriest.That’ll totally solve my problems.’”

“Miss Whitenhouse?—”

“No, no, it’s fine. You’ve made it clear. I’m beyond help. I’ll just… I don’t know, find an exorcist or something.” I waved my hands around like I was banishing a swarm of invisible demons. “Because clearly, there’s a little devil in me throwing a rave, and you’re just not equipped for that kind of insanity.”

I heard him cough—no, choke? Was he laughing?Father Harrison?

“You know what? I think we’re done here,” I said, standing up a little too quickly and—whack!—smacking my head against the confessional roof,again. “Ouch! Great. Add a concussion to my list of sins.”

On the other side of the screen, there was no mistaking it this time—a definite snicker.

“Seriously?” I hissed, glaring through the wooden divider. “You’re laughing? Real professional, Father. Very holy of you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight, but I could tell he wasn’t sorry at all. “Go in peace, Miss Whitenhouse. Maybe… consider therapy.”

I scoffed, “Next time, I’m googling ‘sin forgiveness for dummies.’”

I stormed out of the confessional, my heels clicking against the church floor like divine retribution had landed in stiletto form.

The whispers had started before I’d even passed the first bench, and by the time I was halfway down the aisle, someone had the audacity toshushme.

“Oh,spare me!” I snapped, spinning on my heel to face them. “You think God can’t hear you gossiping about me from the pews? Newsflash, Brenda, he knows about that box of Chardonnay under your sink too!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, and I swear I saw one nun clutch her chest like I’d struck her with lightning.

“And you,” I pointed at a man polishing his glasses, “don’t think I didn’t see you giving me side-eye. You spent thirty years skimming off church donations, didn’t you, Harold? Go pray foryourself!”

More gasps.

Someone actually dropped their rosary, beads scattering across the stone floor like they were fleeing the scene.

I didn’t realize I’d interrupted the weekly game of Who’s the Biggest Hypocrite.

Reaching the massive church doors, I shoved one open with more force than necessary, the sunlight streaming through as I stepped outside like I’d just made my Broadway debut.

But I wasn’t done.

I turned back, propping the door open with one foot, and gave the crowd my best condescending smirk.

“By the way—Father Harrison? If God wanted me tostaypure,maybe he shouldn’t have made my boss so damnhot.Just saying!”

The door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the collective gasp from inside, and I strutted into the sunlight like I was walking a runway straight to hell.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

“I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

?Sarah Williams

Angelo

“How was Christmas, Greg?”

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