Page 53 of House of Sin
I stopped, just long enough to look him in the eye. “I do mind,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice level. “And I’m not interested in talking to you about that.”
He put his hands up in defense. “Of course. I only meant to better understand your story.”
I started walking again, picking up my pace, but he followed without effort.
“You know,” he said with a tone that made my stomach twist, “your name suits you. Violet. Something delicate. Something . . . rare.”
I didn’t respond, but something about the way he said my name like he was tasting it, like it had become sacred to him in some twisted way. Whatever small hope I’d had that I was overreacting evaporated in that moment.
“God sees you,” he whispered, “All of you. And He loves you still. Even in your . . . line of work.”
My boots hit the stone louder now, more deliberate.
“You’re an angel, Violet, that’s what I see. A creature of beauty—meant for more thanthis.” His voice dipped low. “The men who pay for your time don’t see it, but I do. There’s something holy in you. I felt it the first time I saw you. Like a . . . calling.”
I turned the corner, hoping he might walk past, hoping he might leave. He didn’t. His footsteps stayed close behind mine.
“I see the shame they put on you,” he went on, almost feverishly, “but you carry it with such grace. It's as if God made you to endure. To shine.”
I could feel his eyes on my neck, down to my shoulders. I hated the way his voice shaped each word, like they were precious to him, like he was savoring some secret. I took one more slow turn, easing us back toward the edge of town, past the lamp with the crooked glass, past the alley with the red door. We were coming back up the block now, the lantern light spilling out from the porch of The Oily Cat. Bernadette sat on the front porch in her usual chair, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the street.
I felt Father Frederick slow his pace beside me. “Strange,” he said with a little laugh, “didn’t realize we’d circled back.”
I didn’t say anything. My feet stayed steady on the path.
Bernadette stood the moment she saw us. Her eyes flicked to me, then to him, and something hard settled into her stance. “Well, well,” she said, stepping off the porch. “didn’t realize the good Father had taken up moonlit strolls with my girls.”
He gave a small bow, hands raised. “Bernadette. I was simply walking Miss Violet home. These streets can be unkind after dark.”
“They can.” She agreed in a slow tone that was anything but friendly. “That why you were following so close?”
His smile faltered just a hair. “I was sharing the Lord’s word.” He quickly sputtered. “A shepherd watches his flock.”
Bernadette crossed her arms. “She isn’t your flock. And she doesn’t need watching, least not by you.”
“I meant no harm,” he held up his hands in surrender, “only concern. There’s a light in her, and the Lord moves in strange ways—”
“You don’t get to talk about the Lord and look at her the way you do.” Bernadette snapped, and thesound of her voice in that moment, scared the shit out of me.
“I assure you—” he began, straightening to his full height as if he were beginning a sermon.
But Bernadette stepped closer, inches from him. “You can assure someone else. You don’t speak for God, Father Frederick, not here. Not to her. Now get the fuck off my property.”
He stood there for a moment too long. Eyes darting between us and his smile drying up at the edges. Then he turned, adjusted his cuffs, and walked back into the dark, his steps the only sound for a long while.
Bernadette watched him go. She didn’t move until his footsteps vanished, then she looked at me. “You alright?”
I nodded once. “Yeah.”
She didn’t press. Just looked me over a moment longer like she was checking for cracks. Without a word, she lifted her glass, took one last sip, and held it out to me.
The whiskey was warm from her hand, still half-full, and burned when I took a sip.
She met my eyes then. “You don’t owe anyone shit, Violet. Not a smile. Not a word. Not your patience, not your grace, not your comfort. Especially not to people who make you feel small, or scared, or like you’re less than.” Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again. “Being polite doesn’t make you a good person and it doesn’t keep you safe. Sometimes, being nice gets you hurt or gets you killed. You don’t owe them that. You owe yourself honesty. You owe yourself boundaries. You owe yourself the right to walk away, to scream, to run, to do whatever the hell keeps you alive and whole.”
She reached over and took my free hand between hers. “People will try to guilt you. People will tell you you’re being ‘difficult,’ or ‘mean,’ or ‘ungrateful.’ Screw them. Your safety, your peace, your body, your heart—they’re yours. Nobody else’s. And don’t you ever forget it.” There was no pity in her voice, just conviction. Like it was a truth she’d herself learned a long time ago, and now she was offering it to me.
36
