Page 46 of Beneath His Robes

I reached for the doorknob, hesitated, then pushed the door open. As I stepped inside, the faint scent of stale air, mildew, and a foul smell hit me. The dim light filtered through closed blinds, casting everything in a sickly hue. It was colder than expected, and the silence was so heavy it felt suffocating.

“Missis Saint Clare?” I called, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

No answer.

I moved further into the room, my steps slow and deliberate, my eyes scanning the small space. The living room was sparse—just a battered couch, a table with a few scattered magazines, beer cans, and a TV that looked like it hadn’t worked in years. There was no sign of Missis Saint Clare. My heart began to race. I stepped toward the hallway, the floor creaking beneath me, my palms growing clammy.

I called her name again, but it came out more urgent now, desperate.

“Missis Saint Clare?”

And then, I heard it: a faint sound, a low groan coming from the bedroom.

My stomach twisted, a chill running down my spine. I moved faster now, my breath quickening as I pushed the door open. The room was dark, the broken blinds tilted sideways, but a faint light came through the triangular section of the opening.

And then I saw her.

Missis Saint Clare was lying on the bed, her face turned toward the wall, her body curled into itself as if trying to protect itself from the world. Her clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. Her skin was ashen, almost gray. There were bruises, deep and dark, covering her arms, her face, and her neck.

It was worse than I’d ever imagined, and a needle hung from her arm in a tight tourniquet.

“Oh, Miranda,” I said with a sad sigh as I rushed to her side.

My hands trembled as I placed them on her shoulders, gently turning her toward me. Her eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, her breathing shallow and uneven. The damage wasn’t just from illness. The bruises on her face told a much darker story and were from in the shape of Jack Saint Clare’s hands.

“Missis Saint Clare…what happened?” my voice was tight, strained, as I leaned closer.

Her skin was cold to the touch, and her lips were cracked and bleeding. I could feel the weight of her pain in the air between us, a suffocating silence that screamed of fear.

She blinked slowly, her lips parting as though she was trying to speak through the high, but all she managed was a broken, guttural whisper.

“Elias…”

I held her gaze, trying to focus, trying to understand.

“What happened? Who did this to you? I am getting you help, Miranda.”

Her eyes shifted away toward the corner of the room where boots lay. There was a smell in the room, a lingering stench of whiskey, urine, and cigarettes. I knew instantly who it belonged to…

“Jack…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, cracking.

My blood ran cold.

Jack Saint Clare—Ronan’s stepfather.

He was a man who had a reputation in this town for violence, for anger that boiled just beneath the surface. I’d heard the rumors and whispers of how he treated her, but I never thought it would come to this. I never dreamed it was this bad.

Why didn’t Ronan tell me things were this bad?

I squeezed her hand, panic rising in my chest. “Where is he? Is he here?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out weakly, grasping my rosary with trembling fingers. The necklace snapped beneath her fingers, and the beads tinkled to the ground as they scattered in different directions.

“Ronan…” she gasped, her breath ragged. “He…left…me. I need my…Ronan. I…”

Me too.

The words died in her throat, but I could feel the desperation in her grasp, the need for me to understand. I nodded, a sad smile displayed on my face as I dialed the emergency line.

---