Page 57 of House of Sin
The next few days passed in a haze. The town was in an uproar, the whispers spreading like wildfire. I could hear them in the streets, in the markets, in the back pews of the church. The accusations grew louder, and it wasn’t just the father’s word anymore—the entire town knew what had happened. The judgment was swift, and the church couldn’t ignore it. I had failed.
I was called to the rectory, where the bishop and a handful of elders waited. The doors closed behind me with a soft click that still lingers in my ears. Ahandful of elders sat in rigid silence, their faces hard and grim, carved by years of authority. The bishop sat at the head of the long table, his eyes cold and piercing. “You’ve disgraced yourself,” he declared, each word striking blow, “and you’ve brought shame to this church. To this town.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to beg for mercy, but the words caught in my throat. My knees weakened beneath me, threatening to give way, and I could hear the faint, relentless pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, a deafening drum that left no room for thought. How could they do this to me? How could they turn their backs on me when I had served them for all these years, sacrificed for them, carried their sins as my own?
Another man, one of the elders, spoke up, his voice accusing. “You’ve hurt her, Father. Hurt her in ways that cannot be forgiven.”
The bishop was quiet, voice almost a whisper, as he pronounced my sentence. “You have no place here anymore, the town won’t accept you. So, the choice is yours: Leave quietly, or we will expose you to the courts. Your sins will be laid bare for all to see.” My mind spun. I knew I had failed, and that the townwould never accept me again. But what of my vows? What of my calling? The words of the bishop replayed in my mind:Leave quietly or be exposed.I chose to leave, as if the other option was really a choice.
I ran, as far as my legs could carry me, and I never looked back. But the memories never stopped. They stayed with me, gnawing at me, demanding more, pushing me into darker corners of my own soul.
Now, here in Butte, those memories were creeping back, insidious and uninvited, whispering in the quiet moments, returning in flashes. And there was one woman in particular, one woman who seemed to see through my carefully constructed mask. Bernadette. Her eyes, her knowing gaze . . . she had seen too much. Every time our paths crossed, I could feel it. She knew what I was.
I clenched my fists, resolve hardening in time with the motion. The women in this town, especially those girls at The Oily Cat, they knew. They knew too much, and I could not, would not, allow them to expose me. Not again. Not ever.
40
I’M NOT ASKING
Ifolded my hands in my lap; my fingers feeling colder than they should have for this time of the year. I sat on the creaking bench, same as I had a hundred times before. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession.” My voice sounded steady, but I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I wasn’t here to confess, I washere to warn . . . toexpose. I leaned forward, pressing my hands together. “Father, I need to talk to you about something, something that I’ve recently been made aware of.” There was a soft shift on the other side of the screen from Father Cyrus. I could hear the rustle of his sleeve, the quiet inhale. “It’s about Father Frederick.”
That got his attention. He didn’t speak, but I knew he was listening closely now. “There have been rumors,” I continued, swallowing the lump in my throat, “and I’ve seen the way he watches the girls, the way he watches Violet. It doesn’t feel right, Father. It’s not just talk, there’s something about him, something unsettling.”
“Birdie, I didn’t think you were one to fall prey to rumors.” He chided me gently. “You’ve always been more discerning than that.” His words were soft, but I could feel the caution behind them.
“I’m not!” I snapped. “You know I’m not.”
Silence again. I could almost hear the slow turn of his thoughts, the soft shift of cloth as he adjusted on the other side of the screen. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the folded article, its edges worn softfrom the amount of times I’d read and reread it, and I pressed it flat against the wood. “I found this.”
I heard him shift forward, and I held the page in place while his eyes moved over the words.
“And now he’s here,” I continued, “watching girls like Violet. Hoping to get one of them alone.” I didn’t know if my words were registering. Was he really hearing me? Was heunderstandingwhat I was saying? The booth felt smaller suddenly. Hotter. My palms were clammy as I held up the article, the paper going soft at the edges where my fingers pressed. I didn’t dare lower it. I needed him to see it. Toreallysee it.
He leaned closer, breath moving through the screen. “My God,” he whispered. “I knew he was troubled. I—,” his voice was careful, as if he was choosing his words. “I’ve suspected, Birdie, I have. But suspicion alone . . . it’s not enough in this place, not in this town. Father Frederick hasn’t acted on anything.”
I looked at the cross carved into the panel in front of me. It was small, just a shape etched into the wood, but tonight it looked like a wound. “This isn’t just suspicion anymore,” I insisted. “It’s a pattern. Hetried to follow Violet home the other night. And if we wait for more proof, for him toact on it, someone’s going to get hurt.”
“Birdie,” he reasoned, voice low, “you understand what this would mean. If you’re right, if we bring this forward without something ironclad . . . the backlash won’t just hit him, it’ll divide the town. You’ve seen what happens when the wrong person gets blamed.”
“I’m not wrong.” I warned.
“I know.” He said. There was weariness in his tone, a knowledge of exactly how deep the rot could go. “But if you’re going to bring this to light, you’ll need more than a gut feeling and a yellowed article. You’ll need something that can’t be ignored. And if he’s as careful as you say—” He trailed off as if his mind had changed paths. “This is serious, Bernadette,” he added quietly, “as a priest, I am bound by the trust of the church.” His words a mix of caution and growing certainty.
“I know what I’m looking at.” I exclaimed, my voice sounding harsh, even to me. “I can see it in the way he moves, the way he speaks. There’s something insidious in his charm. He knows people are looking, and he’s good at hiding.”
Father Cyrus’s voice softened. “I hear you, Birdie. But we need to be careful. If we expose him without cause, it will bring a storm to this town, and we’re not ready for that. We’ll be fighting a battle on all fronts.”
“I know,” I whispered, rubbing my temples as the frustration built. “But I can’t let him get away with it.”
Father Cyrus didn’t respond immediately, but I could hear the shift in his breath, as though he was steeling himself to carry another incredible burden. As if he was giving me permission to take on the responsibility of what we both now knew was coming. “I know you can’t, Birdie.” He exhaledsoftly.
41
DARLING, SIT DOWN. I’M ABOUT TO RUIN YOUR DAY.
By the time I pushed open the door to The Oily Cat, the strain in my shoulders had begun to ease. The clatter of dishes and the sound of familiar voices grounded me. Unlike the confessional, this place made no promises of redemption. It dealt in truth, and right now, that’s all I wanted.They were all here: Violet, Maeve, Elona, Emil, and Nell. Gathered around our usual table beneath the rusted wall sconce. Just seeing them steadied me.
I slid into the seat at the head of the table, my hand curling around the glass of bourbon waiting for me, the ice already beginning to melt. The burn as I swallowed was searing, and exactly what I needed. We were here to talk about Father Frederick, and there was no room left for hesitation. Before I addressed the table, I leaned toward Maeve. “We’re skipping Mass tomorrow.” I whispered.
