Page 45 of House of Sin
“Here, you can take these.” I said, handing over a small bundle of well-worn dresses and coats, the ones Maeve, Elona, and Violet had offered up without hesitation, to a frazzled volunteer. In exchange, they passed me a neat stack of blankets and asked if I would take them to be sorted with the other linens.
As I carried the blankets across the room, I couldn’t help but think of the girls, how easily they had parted with their finest things. Their generosity was both touching and bittersweet. In this place, among the worn pews and restless candlelight, I saw a glimmer of something rare: hope. Despite Father Frederick’s sermons and the whispers that followed me, these small acts of kindness were a quiet rebellion. They were a reminder that even in the margins of this town, life and compassion still found a way to bloom.
Father Frederick lingered in the corner of the room, casting furtive glances in my direction. I noticed how he flinched whenever our eyes met. He was a man of hidden contradictions, a holy figure in public and a darker presence in private. I had seen enough of his sermons to know he was playing a dangerous game.There was something dark there and while he could fool the town, he couldn’t fool me.
“Is something bothering you, Father?” I had asked weeks ago, when we’d shared an uncomfortable interaction in the back pew after Mass. Just days before, I had seen Father Frederick walking through town with Father Cyrus. Their conversation had been low but tense, and I’d noticed how Father Frederick’s jaw tightened every time Father Cyrus spoke.
He simply smiled that strange, hollow smile of his, and made some vague excuse about the rigors of his work. But I knew better. His reason for loathing me was that I wasn’t like him, that I didn’t hide behind a mask of purity. He hated that I could do what I pleased, that I lived without shame, without the fear of being caught or condemned for indulging in my desires. His hypocrisy was glaring, and I had no patience for men like him.
I pushed the thought aside as I turned my attention back to the task at hand. A few women arrived with their children in tow, and the room became busier. I moved among them, offering comfort to those who needed it and assistance to those who didn’t knowwhere to start. As I worked, my attention settled on a woman and her young boy.
The woman wore a light shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric thin, but enough to shield against the lingering chill of early spring. There was a sadness in her eyes, a weariness that showed in the way she held her son close, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go for even a moment. The child, no older than five, looked confused, his cheeks still flushed from the crisp air, and his small hands tucked inside the folds of her shawl. My heart tightened at the sight, the look on her face so achingly familiar, reminding me of myself years ago, when Ray was still young, still alive.
I didn’t approach them immediately; I moved carefully, calculating my steps. I knew the delicate balance of helping and giving without crossing a line. Finally, I made my way over to the woman, bending down to the little boy’s level, offering him a soft smile. “Hello there, sweetheart. I think this might be close to your size,” I said, picking up a bundle of clothes that were meant for children. They were slightly oversized, butthey were in far better shape than the rags the boy was currently wearing.
The boy blinked at me, his blue eyes wide and uncertain. After a long moment, he gave a shy nod. His mother looked at me with grateful but hesitant eyes. “Thank you,” she said quietly, clutching the bundle of clothes tightly. “It’s been a hard few months. I—” She paused, looking down at her son, her voice catching. “I don’t know what we’d do without this. It’s been so hard since ... since he passed.”
My chest tightened at the mention of their loss. I hadn’t expected the words to land so heavily on my heart, but they did. My own grief came rushing back in a wave that left me breathless. I could see the same pain I carried reflected in the eyes of the boy and his mother. The kind of ache that never fully went away, the type of loss that carved out parts of your soul.
“I understand,” I said softly, my voice cracking. The words tasted like ashes in my mouth. I wanted to tell the woman I was sorry for her grief, but I also wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to carry it alone. That her son reminded me of my boy, my ray of sunshine, sofull of promise and energy, before he was taken from me.
“My son ... his name was Ray. He was a little older than your boy when he passed,” I said, my voice was barely a whisper. I hated that I had to say it, but it felt like a confession, a piece of myself I had to offer in exchange for a moment of connection. The woman looked up at me then, her features softening, and for a moment, we were both just mothers, both just people in mourning, lost in the shared silence of our sorrow.
I offered her a small, tired smile. “There’s plenty of food here today. If you want, take a basket and make the rounds. We’ve got bread, vegetables, and blankets to keep warm. You don’t have to go without.” The woman nodded, hope briefly brightening the contours of her face. I gave her hand a firm squeeze and gently sent them on their way, watching as the mother gathered her son close and disappeared slowly into the crowd.
Turning back, I caught sight of Father Frederick, who was hovering near the back of the church. His eyes were narrow, lips pursed, and at the look on his face, a chill swept through me. He had been watchingme for too long, watching me with that thinly veiled contempt, and I knew that the mask he wore, the mask of a man of God, was crumbling. I could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t stand the fact that someone like me, someone who defied all the rules, was here offering help and charity, as if I were some saint, while he stood on his pulpit preaching against sin.
I smiled to myself, watching the way Father Frederick shifted uncomfortably in his seat as I walked back toward the tables. He was trying to ignore me, trying to pretend like I didn’t exist. But I knew the truth: He couldn’t escape me. I turned away from him, toward the table where the clothes were being sorted, my gaze lingering on the mother and child as they made their way from table to table. I didn’t have the power to erase their pain, but I had the power to give them what little I could. That was something.
As for Father Frederick, he could continue trying to hide in plain sight, but I was going to keep my eye on him.
29
YOU KISS YOUR MAMA WITH THAT MOUTH?
Istood by the bar, spine straight, the quiet authority I’d forged over years at The Oily Cat settling over my shoulders. One hand rested on a glass of deep amber whiskey. Around me, the room pulsed with movement and music, conversations layering over one another, whileI watched it all with a focus that came from experience . . . and the knowledge that everything in a room eventually revealed its truth.
Maeve was already draped across some poor bastard’s lap, laughing just a little too loud at something he thought was clever. Violet prowled near the back booth, lifting something shiny from a drunk’s pocket without breaking her smile. Elona held her post by the stairs, eyes sweeping the room. At the end of the bar, Nell poured a drink with one hand and scooped ice into another glass with the other, moving fast but never rushed. Emil stood by the door in his usual spot, arms crossed over his chest, tracking every shift in the room.
The door creaked open, letting in the chill of early night, as well as a familiar face: Victor. He cut through the crowd with a charming grin on his face, and as he reached the bar, his hand briefly brushed mine before he ordered a drink.
“Evening, Birdie,” Victor said, giving me a once-over that was more appreciative than lustful, his smile as easy as ever. There was a steadiness in him, something solid in the way he carried himself. He never pushed too far. He didn’t need thereminder that everything here had its boundary. And I appreciated him for that.
“Evening, Victor,” I replied, voice smooth but edged in playful challenge. My fingers tapped a quiet rhythm against the bar. “What’s your poison tonight?”
“Whiskey,” he said easily, leaning in just enough to lower his voice, to make the space between us feel intentional. “And maybe some company if the night permits.”
Before I could answer, the door swung open again and a new group of men spilled in, their laughter slicing through the calm. Loud and unruly, they dragged in a kind of invasive energy with them. It crawled under my skin, and for a split second, I felt something close to violent. I didn’t need to see their faces to know the type. The arrogance they wore was unmistakable, the way they’d look around, sizing up the girls without a hint of respect. They didn’t come here to be entertained, they came to take, to demand, and to disrupt. I let out a slow breath, setting my glass down on the bar with a deliberate clink. I could already feel the shiftin the room, the way the energy had changed. These men were trouble.
The group made their way to the bar, clearly enjoying the attention they were getting from the few patrons who were too intimidated to ignore them. One of the men in the group, tall, with dark hair and a scar that ran along his cheek like a permanent reminder of a past mistake, stopped just short of me. His eyes gleamed with predatory curiosity, a look that immediately set me on edge. His lips curled into a grin that didn't belong on any decent face, a wicked slice of satisfaction that would send a proper, uncorrupted soul reaching for holy water. . . or at the very least, a stiff drink. He moved in just a bit. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing in a place like this?”
“I’m exactly where I’m meant to be,” I said, my voice cold as steel, “which is more than I can say for you.”
He laughed. “Feisty. You always talk to your customers like that?”
“I talk that way to dogs who piss on my doorstep,” I replied smoothly, “especially when they mistake themselves for guests.” That wiped the smirk off hisface. Then someone else from the group joined him, a broad slab of a man with a mess of greasy hair and the kind of pungent, stinky breath that made me want to take a step back. But I held my ground.
“Now, that’s no way to speak to a gentleman.” He spat, slurring his words.
