Page 20 of House of Sin
“You want the truth?” He says, voice suddenly hard-edged. “The men who did this, if they stood before me now, breathing and whole, I would not weep for them. Not a tear. But that does not mean what you’ve done has no cost. And it will cost you, Bernadette.”
He knew the sound of my voice. He knew it was me all along.
“But you are not beyond saving,” he goes on, the steel in his tone softening into tenderness. “Not in the eyes of God. Not in mine.”
I close my eyes. I don’t believe in salvation anymore, not the kind he’s offering, wrapped in scripture and stained glass. But I listen anyway.
“Let us say a prayer,” he says, and there’s no room for refusal in his voice. It’s gentle, yes, but firm and immovable. I take the rosary in my hands, cold at first but now warming under my touch.
Father Cyrus begins his prayer, but the words that leave his mouth are not what I expect. They are not filled with the softness of mercy or the righteousness of judgment. They are filled with fire, with a fury that matches the rage I feel inside.
“God, the Father of mercies,” he begins, “through the death and resurrection of His Son, He has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. But even so, evil continues to break free. It continues to tear at the souls of Your children, defiling and destroying them in ways that should never be possible. Father, it is evil that has touched this devoted child of Yours. But fear not, for she has been given Your angels. She has fought back, and through Your strength, she has banished the darkness.”
His words are raw and powerful. They feel almost like a sermon of revenge, as though he too is ready to stand against the forces that hurt me. There is an intensity in his voice, a sense of righteousness that I had never heard before.
As his prayer continues, I feel the tears slip down my face, one after the other. The beads of my rosary growwarm beneath my fingers as they absorb every drop of pain, every ounce of anger. The prayer no longer feels like a request for mercy, it is a cry for justice. A cry that has been buried deep within me since that night.
Father Cyrus’s voice wavers, as though the truth strains against his throat. “Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace. And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
As he finishes, I don’t rush to respond. My hand, trembling slightly, moves to my forehead, down to my chest, then to my left and right shoulder. I trace the shape of the cross slowly, feeling every movement, as the final words slip from my lips in a whisper: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
For a long moment, I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to leave this space. This is the last sanctuary I will ever know, and I will never again be the same woman as the one who entered this confessional.
“Bernadette?” Father Cyrus’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “I am so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking like the moment has broken something inhim too. I can hear the muffled sound of him choking back tears, and my heart aches. Is he sorry for me, for the things that happened to me? Or is he apologizing for the fact that, in some way, he too had witnessed the loss of innocence that couldn’t be regained?
“Me too,” I say, voice tinged withacceptance.
11
POLITE IN PUBLIC, FILTHY IN THE PLAYROOM
The Oily Cat didn’t judge. Itabsorbed. It inhaled shame, lust, grief, and longing in equal measure and exhaled something that almost tasted like redemption. Tonight, the air pressed in with a strange density, and something electric crawled beneath my skin. The oil lamps along the hallwayburned low, casting elongated shadows on the floor. Light flickered against dark-paneled wood, and for a moment, everything existed in slow motion.
The sounds from downstairs were muffled, but I could still make them out—the low roll of conversation, the distant clink of glass, and the occasional burst of laughter that rang hollow.
The scent in the air was as familiar as my own perfume. Tobacco, cheap cologne, and the unmistakable musk of arousal—of expectations soon to be bartered and bought. It clung to the curtains, to the velvet chairs, to skin, and no one left the Cat without carrying some of it with them, whether they realized it or not.
I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace of my corset. The fabric was tight, cinched in just enough to make my breath shallow, but I preferred it that way. The corset, the heels, the bloodred lipstick, they weren’t just for show, they were part of the performance. They were my armor. I ran my fingers along the hem of the corset, checking for fraying, even though I knew it was perfect. I had a ritual before every night began, and I didn’t deviate. Rituals madechaos feel manageable, and here, chaos wasn’t just expected, it was currency.
A soft creak came from the hallway beyond my door, boots on wood, a signal that the night was beginning. I made my way downstairs, the old banister cool beneath my fingers, as the murmur of voices swelled with each step.
Violet was holding court, perched like usual on the armrest of the worn velvet sofa near the entrance, spinning one of her well-polished lies. Tonight’s tale? A brief stint in the circus. Contortionist. Acrobatic marvel. The kind of fantasy that made rugged men like the miner beside her imagine her folding in ways that had nothing to do with the rings or trapeze, and she knew exactly what she was doing. Violet didn’t tell stories for amusement, she told them to disarm, to draw men in like a slow pour of honey over a knife’s edge. Her laugh cut through the fog of tobacco and whiskey and the poor bastard beside her didn’t stand a chance. He was already leaning in too close, already halfway gone.
Further into the parlor, Maeve played her own quiet game. She was draped over the back of a loveseat, herhair a red veil that shimmered with candlelight. The man in front of her, older and desperate, was whispering like he thought secrets might unlock something in her. But Maeve wasn’t listening, not really.
Her eyes were scanning the room, catching every movement, every drink poured, and every whisper shared. She looked disinterested, almost bored, but I knew better. She didn’t waste her energy on pretending to care. Maeve dealt in scarcity; her attention, her smile, her touch, nothing was given freely. And that’s what made men want her more. She had the air of someone who’d once had everything ripped away and now kept every piece of herself behind lock and key.
At the bar, Elona and Nell were locked in another one of their heated debates. I didn’t need to hear the words to know it was about something pointless, but passionately defended. Politics, probably. Morals, maybe. Or simply the illusion of choice. Elona gestured wildly, one long-fingered hand slicing the air while the other clutched a glass of dark liquid, and her cheekbones caught the light like daggers.
She had that same feral glint in her eyes that made men mistake her for a challenge, not a threat. Untilthey tried something, then they learned that Elona wasn’t built for softness, she burned too hot. Too bright. The kind of woman who made you think about your own mortality with a devious smile. And the fools kept coming anyway, drawn like insects to the inevitable fire.
Emil stood by the door, arms crossed, unmoved by the heat and noise of the room in front him. His attention moved constantly, tracking everything without ever looking impressed by it, his expression unreadable.
I stepped into the parlor, the piano put out a slow and aching tune in the corner that was just melancholy enough to make everything feel more romantic than it deserved. A couple of miners sat hunched at a table near the back, slurring through a game of cards, their laughter clumsy and rough-edged. At the bar, a lone man nursed his drink, eyes fixed on Maeve like she was a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
I felt their stares before I ever saw them. That familiar, unwelcome heat, crawling up the back of my neck. And when I finally looked, nothing had changed. That same unmistakable blend of hunger and conquest burned in their eyes, as if wanting me was enough to claim me. As if I were something to take, not something that could bite back. Maybe tonight, I’d let them believe they were the ones in control.
And maybe tonight, I’d remind them how wrong they were.
