Page 56 of House of Sin
Maeve gave a slow nod. “I’ll speak to the others, tell them just enough to keep ’em sharp. Quiet, though, no sense lightin’ fires if we don’t need to.”
“Good,” I said, “but if he even breathes wrong near one of them, we don’t wait. We end it.” I turned to leave but paused with my hand on the doorknob, my fingers lingering as I looked back at Maeve. She stood still, the storm behind her eyes gathering again. I knew that look, and I knew it never passed easily once it settled. The door clicked shut behind me, and the brothel swallowed the sound. I moved down the narrow, lamp-lit halls, and past empty rooms that still held the faint, clinging scent of perfume and powder. Each step felt heavier, as if the building itself bore witness to the reckoning we were about to bring.
My office sat tucked away at the back, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain that covered a door no one else bothered with. I slipped inside and closed it quietly behind me, locking it out of habit. The room was dim, lit only by the lamp on my desk, its amber glow casting long shadows along the walls. I didn’t bother turning on the rest of the lamps.
I sank into the worn leather chair and pulled open the bottom drawer, retrieving the things I kept tucked away for nights like this—old papers, names scribbled in margins, faded receipts, and stories whispered to me over the years by drunk men and sobbing girls. Information was power, and I never let it slip through my fingers. I thumbed through brittle newspapers, their edges cracking under the weight of time, moving with a familiar speed that made it seem as though my hands remembered every page even if my mind did not. I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for, but instinct told me I would recognize it the moment I found it.
And then I found him. Halfway down the stack, his face leapt up at me: Father Frederick. Younger, but not by much, his eyes already hollow and cold, as if someone had scooped out whatever made him human and left only a shell behind. The headline made my hands shake, and I had to press my palm to the desk to stop myself from knocking everything to the floor:
SHOCKING: PRIEST OUSTED FOR SCANDALOUS BEHAVIOR IN ILLINOIS PARISH
It was the paper I wasn’t able to get to all those weeks ago. The ones I asked Nell to tuck away for me for a later date, the ones I had forgotten all about. I read every word. Every sickening word. The article was short, with precious little information, and buried in the back pages, the way the church liked to bury their sins. It mentionedaccusations,inappropriate contact, rumors of coercion, and misconduct.Never fully investigated, never proven, but enough to get him quietly reassigned. Swept away and shoved into the shadows. And now those shadows had brought him here.
My hand slammed onto the desk, sending a jolt through the lamp and making its light flicker across the walls. A stack of papers toppled to the floor, but I didn’t care; nothing else mattered. He had a history of slipping through cracks wide enough for men like him to walk free. But not this time. I stared down at the article, my heart hammering, while rage consumed me. He had chosen the wrong town, the wrong brothel, the wrong girls. He had chosen Violet.And if Father Frederick was watching us, he best know we were watching him back.
39
THE MASK FALLS
HIM
The collar feels tighter tonight, constricting, as if it is alive and aware of every sin I’ve ever tried to bury, cutting the air away from my neck until each breath feels like confession. I tug at it, my fingers trembling with desperation. The cracked mirror above the dresser stares back at me, itsfractured glass dividing my reflection into pieces I no longer know how to fit together, and my face looks older than I remember, aged by years and the quiet decay of guilt.
Butte wasn’t supposed to have been like this. It was supposed to be a place to vanish, a place to blend in, another sleepy town with too many ghosts to care about mine. But my ghosts always manage to find me, no matter how far I run, reminding me that escape was never part of the deal.
The clock ticks from the far wall. The sound fills the silence until it feels alive, pulsing against the walls, reminding me how much I hate the quiet. It invites memory, and memory gnaws at me when the darkness presses in. I thought I could bury it all deep enough. I thought time would smoother what I couldn’t face, but time, it seems, is no gravekeeper.
It started in Illinois in a town like this one. All denim and dust and sweet-tea secrets. The church was an old one, cold in the winter, and thick with mildew in the summer. But the people came anyway, like they always do. I was younger then, still clinging to the idea that this collar meant something holy. That I was chosen, that the ache in my chest was purpose, notcorruption. But even then I’m certain I knew. Deep down, Iknew. And then there was her: Annabelle.
She was barely fifteen, too young, too innocent, but to me that was part of the allure. She was a faithful soul, always sitting in the front pew, her hands folded tightly in prayer, her head tilted slightly as she listened to me speak. Her eyes shone with that purity, that untainted worship, and as I watched her, it ignited something deep within me. I told myself it was nothing; nothing but a fleeting admiration for her devotion, but I knew it wasn’t. It was hunger.
The hunger grew slowly. At first, I noticed it only when I caught myself staring at her a little too long, taking in every delicate feature, every hint of her innocent smile. A harmless connection, nothing more.
But soon, I sought her out. A desire to guide her as she navigated her young faith, but when I found myself asking her to stay behind after services, or to help me with small tasks around the church, I couldn’t deny that the time spent alone with her was becoming too precious to me. It was the way she looked at me, so trusting, so eager to please, that kept me coming back.
It happened on a Thursday, when rain tapped against the stained glass and turned the world beyond it into shifting watercolor. The candles had long since burned themselves down to soft, wavering stubs, leaving just the two of us in the dim sanctuary. She stood at the altar, carefully wiping the chalices clean as I lingered in the darker edge of the room, where the light couldn’t quite reach me. She didn’t know I was watching her, not at first. But she smiled when she caught my eye, like sheunderstood,like she was giving me permission.
I told myself that lie more than once.
I said her name, and she came to me without hesitation, without fear. She stood before me with her hands folded, as she always did, devoted and open.
“You’re special, Annabelle,” I had told her, my voice low, as if I were saying a prayer. “You feel that, don’t you? That pull between us?”
She didn’t answer. Only looked up at me, lips parted slightly, her breath coming a little quicker than before. Didn’t flinch when I touched her face, only blinked up at me, her eyes wide. She let me tuckher hair behind her ear, let me trace her jaw with my thumb.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” I whispered. “This . . . this is God’s will. You were brought to me for a reason.”
And shestilldidn’t pull away. That was the moment, that perfect stillness, the point of no return, that I stepped closer and felt the warmth of her breath. Heard the tiny catch in her throat, saw the way her fingers twitched against her dress. She stood there and took it. And I told myself that was permission.
I took my time. My hands trembling as they traced the length of her arm, closing around her wrist a fraction too tightly. When it was over, she remained seated on the pew, knees drawn up beneath her as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, like she was waiting for some sort of instruction, some explanation for what had just happened . . . for what I had done.
But then the creak of the church doors opening and the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor filled the room. My head snapped toward the entrance, heart hammering so hard it drowned out the rain.A shadow wavered against the candlelight, stretching long across the aisle before the figure behind it emerged. Annabelle’s father stood in the doorway, framed by the stormlight, his face carved into something I couldn’t read at first—until the fury came into focus. His eyes burned wild with it. “What are you doing with my daughter?”
His words, full of rage and disbelief, echoed through the sanctuary until they seemed to come from every wall at once. My mind raced, and for a moment, I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. My mouth went dry, my throat tight. I had been caught, caught in the act of betrayal, caught in my darkest desire. Every secret I’d buried clawed its way to the surface in that instant, and I understood, with terrible clarity, that there would be no forgiveness waiting for me here.
Annabelle’s father wasted no time. The distance between us vanished in a single, furious stride, and before I could even raise a hand or form a word, his fist was in my collar, the fabric biting into my throat with a vicelike grip. The force of it pulled me off balance and sent the air rushing from my lungs as he slammed me back against the pew. His breath was hot, raggedwith rage, and his eyes burned with something primal—something beyond words. Then the first blow came. My head snapped to the side, a burst of light behind my eyes, the taste of iron blooming on my tongue.
He didn’t stop. His fists kept finding me, again and again, each strike breaking the silence into splintering sounds that seemed to ricochet through the empty church. The world narrowed to impact and breath, the thud of knuckles against skin, the stone floor cold beneath my knees. I didn’t try to resist; there was no point. “Stay away from her, you sick son of a bitch,” he growled, his fists still trembling.
