Page 80 of Heathens
“As I was saying, Salem,” Father Castilian says, his Italian accent thick, “we’re hoping to break ground later this year. The site is central, and we’re planning on utilizing social media to draw a younger crowd to the church. Gone are the days of tradition, and with the religion dying as it is, we need to find a way to connect with younger generations.”
I murmur my agreement, sipping the water someone must’ve placed in front of me, flicking my eyes between them, Lily, and Auguste.
“I think the layout is fantastic,” Father Marquesa interjects, pointing to the blueprints they’ve brought with them.
Missionaries at heart, just like their predecessors.
The problem is, if these were the Godly aspirations to bring others into His fold, their words are perfect. But if they’re not ...
I’m suddenly flooded with disgust. Suddenly hot and cold all at once with the realization at what I’ve agreed to be a part of. My breathing turns ragged, uneven, and I attempt to tamp it all down—the distracting thoughts flying through my mind, one after the other, and the conversation before me.
Benedict found Evelyn.
Auguste knows she’s gone.
These men before me might know what goes on behind closed doors.
The church—something that is supposed to be sacred—acts as a cover, a trap.
And I’ve been dedicating my life to this for almost four years.
“Excuse me,” I say quickly, feeling sick and outraged and unsteady all at once. “I’ll be right back.”
Father Marquesa and Father Castilian don’t even bother with an answer—they’re too absorbed in floor plans and outlines.
Do they know?
Auguste didn’t speak one word about—anything, any of it—on the train, or when we checked into our separate rooms. I don’t know if he’s waiting until we have complete privacy, or if it’s always like this: mentioned only in passing, in hushed, ashamed whispers. Is it taught to every seminary student? It can’t be—they can’t all be bad. It’s just Auguste. A select few rotten souls who ruin it forever. I make a silent vow to myself, then and there.
I will never disgrace the church by participating in anything this deplorable. And I will fight for those who do not have a voice—those that have been silenced by the most-well-connected group of men on the planet.
Not anymore.
I won’t let it happen anymore.
Auguste looks up at me as I walk to the bar, gesturing to his phone and then the door, quickly walking out of the bar in a panic.
That’s right, you bastard. You’ve already lost.
I walk over to the spot next to Lily, being sure to keep my body far away enough from hers so we don't arouse suspicion from anyone. She doesn't even look at me as she wipes a tear from her cheek and sets her phone down.
“Can I get a coke, please?” I ask the bartender, glancing at her briefly like any polite man might do when he sees a crying woman sitting at the bar next to him. She doesn’t say anything. She’s in shock.
“Lily,” I say, my voice low, so low I don’t know if she hears me. Her watery eyes find mine, and in them I see both elation and despair.
“She’s fine,” she whispers, barely audible. Her voice breaks.
The bartender passes me a coke in a can, and I slip him some money—enough to send him away for a moment as he counts change, distracted.
I see Lily begin to type something into her phone, and I pretend to open my can slowly, pretend to wait for change as I take a few gulps. She sets her phone down, still lit up, the notes app open, and slides it closer to me. I quickly glance around. Father Marquesa and Father Castilian are still in a heated discussion, and Auguste is nowhere to be seen. I look down at her phone casually.
Benedict has Evelyn. He figured out where the house was—where Auguste was keeping them. He used a friend who works in technology, and they set off the fire alarm, sending everyone out in the middle of the day. Benedict pulled her away in the chaos, and they all know she's gone. They're trying to find a place to lay low for a few days.
I nod once. That explains Auguste’s anger. Clever. A fire alarm—I never would’ve thought about that. I guess hackers can be good sometimes. I pull my phone out, typing quickly into the notes. I place it face up between the two of us on the bar. I see her crane her neck to read it.
Give them my father’s address. I’ll text it in a minute. They can both stay there for the time being, and we’ll go straight there tomorrow evening when we’re back in Paris.
I only hear a small intake of breath, a little, shaking gasp. “Really? Are you sure?“ she whispers, her voice cracking.
