Page 43 of Heathens
My breathing hitches. “Of course.”
His lips tremble as he continues. “I’ve—I’ve done some awful things, Salem. Things that God could never forgive me for.”
He’s confessing to me.
“Father,” I murmur, leaning forward. “Jesus died for our sins. God will have mercy on your soul.”
“He won’t forgive me for these sins, Salem.”
I shake my head and laugh. “What are you saying?”
Father Monsignor leans forward also. “The Catholic church carries many sins. This very church—including me—” He stops. “If you’re going to be a priest here, or anywhere, really, there are certain things you must overlook. In Monaco, it’s especially prominent. But I trust you. I trust that you’ll be able to run everything smoothly there. To look the other way.”
I grind my jaw. “What kinds of things, Father?” My voice sounds light, innocent. And it’s then that I realize he’s playing with me. He’s testing me—feeling me out. “It can’t be worse than all of the pedophilia,” I joke, smiling.
And I’m going to play with him, too.
“It’s worse.”
My smile drips off of my face. “How long have you known me, Father? You can trust me.” I spread my legs a bit and open myself up.
I have to know.
I have to bait him.
“Have you heard of human trafficking, Salem?”
Jackpot.
I nod. “Of course I have. It’s a huge problem.” I feign realization. “Are you saying...” I look around, sitting up suddenly. “Is that what you’re talking about? The church is involved in human trafficking?”
Father Monsignor just looks at me miserably, his face dour. It’s all the confirmation I need.
I jump out of my chair, grateful for the theater classes I took in college. “What are you asking of me?” I hiss, leaning forward.
“To go to Monaco, and to look the other way.”
Why me? Why does he want to send me?
I study him, willing my face to express the hatred burning me from the inside out.
Motherfucker.
“And what will I get in return for my silence?” What I really want to ask is,And why would you expect me to be able to look the other way?
How much of a monster does he think I am if he thinks I am willing to do this?
As if Father Monsignor was expecting this, he reaches into his pocket and hands me a white envelope. I take it, peeking in briefly.
Cash.
Thousands—tens of thousands—of euros.
I look back at Father Monsignor. Money? Really? He’s watching me, as if I should be happy, relieved. He never knew me at all. If he did, he would’ve known that all of this—every single thing about this—sickens me. No amount of cash would change that. Not even all the money in the world.
“You’ll receive monthly payments in the same amount,” he states, clasping his hands. “Fifty-thousand euros.”
I don’t break eye contact as I pretend to contemplate his offer. It feels surreal—that this man, my friend, is the same man I’ve seen every day for the last four years. That such wickedness lives inside of him—that it paralleled his pious life unnoticed by me. By anyone. I’ve always known humans are capable of great evil. I just never thought my mentor would be one of them.
