Page 90 of Heathens
Two days later, Evelyn meekly introduces herself to the family at Lily’s encouragement. Benedict swells with pride, but Evelyn doesn’t even acknowledge him—even though he’s here every day, asking if she needs anything, trying to help in whatever way he can. Not one glance in his direction. Not one word uttered to him.
Perhaps the similarities are too obvious for her—perhaps she sees his father in him.
A week passes.
Two.
Evelyn slowly but surely comes out of her shell. She moves in with Lily and contacts her parents, the authorities. I have no idea what Lily said to her, but she tells everyone that she escaped alone during the fire alarm. Benedict swallows his hurt—but I can see it in his downcast eyes.
He stays around, though.
He persists.
I continue to break Auguste's mind. Lily and I form a plan for this coming Sunday. With the help of Benedict's friend in tech—yet again—we gather our evidence and make sure all of our ducks are in a row. Auguste walks around in a stupor most days, hardly getting through mass without stumbling through his Eucharists and prayers. He's losing weight, forgetting to shave. I should feel guilty—it should feelwrong. But as he wanders around aimlessly, muttering to himself and checking his light bulbs for the hundredth time, I feel only glee—wicked, delightful glee.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he is flailing. It is written in Proverbs 16 after all. ‘Pride precedes destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. Better it is to be of a humble spirit with the lowly, than to divide the spoil with the proud.’ The loss of one girl started his collapse. No doubt when the other girls were rescued two weeks later, his defeat became clear. The man considered himself impenetrable.
Untouchable.
Impervious to repercussions of his sins.
He is breaking, and I will make sure the crack is complete before the week is over.
* * *
Sunday evening mass is our busiest day—especially now that it’s August and tourist season is in full bloom. The cathedral is packed with sweaty bodies, the smell of burning incense permeating every crevice, every room.
“Everything ready, Father?“ I ask, adjusting my cassock. I expected to be nervous, but instead, I am calm. Collected. Relaxed.
Auguste stands from his chair—glancing down and grimacing at it, since I’ve been lowering it about half an inch every day—and looks at me with a cunning expression.
“Salem, I’m only going to ask you once—why have you been inside my office?”
My heart stops. “Ex-excuse me, Father?”
He looks around his office. “Have you—have you been lowering my chair? Mixing up my files?”
I shake my head vehemently as sweat begins to roll down my back. “Of course not.”
“Then why do the security camera show you entering my office every evening?”
Fuck.
The fucking cameras.
Thank God the cameras don’t penetrate his office, or else I’d be screwed.
“Forgive me, Father,” I say smoothly.Play this right, Tempest, or die trying.“I hope you don’t find this presumptuous, but...” I look away and smile, shaking my head.Play play play.“I go into your office at night to study. I—I want to see what it’s like. As head priest of Notre Dame. I am over eager, I suppose. One day,” I joke, grinning.I wouldn’t want to ever sit in your chair. It will be burned the minute you are incarcerated.
He nods, but he’s still skeptical. “And the young woman I’ve seen on the tapes? Is she the woman you’ve been seeing?”
I clutch the edge of his desk tightly with my fist. How? Which time is he talking about?
Why didn’t I think of this?
“Father, I can assure you, she and I have parted ways.”
“Since three weeks ago, when I saw her wandering around the cathedral? According to the tapes, the two of you have been taking quite of tour of Notre Dame. The bells, the tower... she’s a beautiful woman. Familiar, even.”
