Page 131 of Crossed
Another notch in my already scarred heart. So many more now than there were a few short months ago. Only now, I’m stronger. I’ve been through more, and I have someone by my side and in my corner.
I look up at him, my teeth clenching so hard it makes my jaw ache. “Did you make it hurt?”
His hand runs down the length of my hair, something dark flashing through his gaze. “Yes.”
Closing my eyes again, I try to control my breathing, the heaviness of this new reality pressing down on the center of my chest.
“Good.”
Chapter52
Cade
“IHAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE,” I SAY, STARING down at the hole I’ve spent the last three hours digging deep in the forest. Sister Genevieve’s body is lying next to the suitcase I stuffed Parker stuffed into, and I’m taking these final moments with them both to have a heart-to- heart. “I have a sickness inside me.” I rest my hand on top of the shovel. “To which there is no cure. But Amaya…she feeds both the monster and the man. My perfect match in every way. I’m sorry it took both of you to die for us to be together, but He is merciful, and He will forgive.”
Pausing, I think about what I’ve said. While I still have my faith and I still believe in God, things have changed.Ihave changed. I’ve seen corruption run rife through the church and the “good” men end up being bad. I’ve seen years of my life that I’ve struggled to atone for my sickness be wiped clean by simple kisses on my scars.
When I’m with Amaya, the memory of Sister Agnes doesn’t scream so loud.
I find my peace in her. She is my sanctuary. My home. My soul. “But even if He doesn’t,” I continue, “I’ll survive.”
It takes me two hours to bury them beneath the trees, and then I drive back to Festivalé to tie up the last of our loose ends. Amaya is grief- stricken from losing her friend, and whether she admits it or not, there’s some level of guilt that will follow her like a second skin, as it does with every person who plays God and holds someone’s life in their hands.
I head to my cottage to clean up first and then straight to the hospital. It’s evening now, past visiting hours, but they won’t turn down a priest who’s there to comfort a victim.
This will be the last thing I do as a priest.
Fitting, I think.
Walking into the room, I close the door behind me, holding my rosary and Bible as I spin around and stare at the woman resting on the bed in the middle of the room.
Florence Gammond.
Alive and well.
She’s hooked up to an IV bag and a heart monitor, and she turns her swollen face toward me as I drag over a chair and sit down next to her.
Her face is mangled, almost unrecognizable, and they had to shave her head to place several stitches along the side of her scalp.
But she’ll be fine.
And if she wants to stay that way, she’ll do exactly as I say.
“Bonjour, Florence.”
“Father,” she rasps, her voice scratchy and dry. “Did my husband send you?”
“Parker,” I state.
Her heart rate monitor beeps faster, and my eyes flick to it before landing back on her. I took a random guess, based on the way she singled out Amaya and always sought him out in every crowd.
I pick a piece of lint off my arm. “Do you remember anything at all about what happened?”
She blinks, as much as shecanblink with swollen, purple eyelids, and she parts her mouth as if she’s thinking. “Am— ”
“Non,” I cut her off, leaning forward until my face hovers above hers. “I think you’re about to beconfused. Let me help you.” She tries to speak again.
“Shh.” I press a finger against her mouth, and she winces when I press down. “Don’t speak, my child. Just listen. Did you know Parker liked to make tapes?”
