Page 7 of House of Sin
I watch them go, letting the hush settle again. “Now to do what I came here to do,” I say under my breath. Then I square my shoulders, turn on my heel, and head toward the altar.
Toward Father Cyrus. Toward the place where confession doesn’t always mean penance, sometimes it meansredemption.
4
FORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I’VE KILLED AGAIN
Light stutters against the old confessional walls, as if it too is hesitating to hear what I have to say. I can hear the faint thrum of the church's old pipes, a haunting melody that coils around my words before they’re even spoken. Father Cyrus, asteadfast presence, is my anchor to this storm of secrets, sins, and the tangled web of my life.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” I begin, my heart racing with the gravity of my words. “It has been three months since my last confession.” I share.
“Jesus, Bernadette!” Father Cyrus sighs loudly, the sound harsh in the hush of the confessional.
Through the dim mesh of the privacy screen, I can just make out the blurred silhouette of his head bowing in exasperation. I don’t have to see him clearly to know he’s shaking it—his silvery hair catching what little light filters through, gleaming faintly like a halo. Fitting, really, for a true man of the cloth.
“How long do you think you can keep this going?” His tone held genuine concern. “This is Butte, not Babylon, Birdie.”
Birdie. He’s called me that since I was a girl, running down the aisle for Communion wafers and hiding in the sacristy like it was my own fortress.
“This one had it coming,” I say, the bite in my voice sharper than intended. “I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not after what he didto Maeve.”
Silence follows, then the familiar sound of Father Cyrus shifting in his seat. “Did he, now?” He asks gently. “Did he really?”
The question came more as a challenge than judgement.
I lean closer, the scent of old wood and candle wax swirling around me. “He did,” I begin, voice low. “He had her cornered, bent by the bed. Her clothes ripped, bite marks covering her chest, already swelling and inflamed. Blood streaked down the front of her body, and I couldn’t tell whether it came from her nose or the gashes across her face.”
Father Cyrus lets out a slow, ragged breath, that seems to carry a hint of a quiver in it. Whether from sorrow or the fact that this isn’t the first time I’ve confessed something like this, I can’t tell. “You do have a knack for finding trouble,” he mutters.
“What can I say?” I shrug, exhausted. “Trouble has excellent taste.”
“Let me guess ... you didn’t let him walk away.”
“Obviously not.”
I can almost hear the smile in his voice, despite the seriousness of my confession. “Of course not. What was I expecting? An ordinary confession?”
I chuckle. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He sighs. “You’ve made yourself protectorandproprietor now, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t ask for the job,” I say, softer now. “But no one else was stepping up.”
A pause settles between us, the gravity of our conversation still hanging in the air, until Father Cyrus finally breaks it. “You know, I admire your fire, Birdie, but just once I’d like to hear about younotmurdering someone to solve a problem.”
“It was onlymostlymurder. There was other stuff mixed in there.” I grin. “Besides, you love the drama.”
A low, rich laugh rumbles from his chest. “You keep the Holy Spirit on its toes, that’s for sure. But even you, Bernadette, are not above penance.”
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically. “Let’s do the thing.”
I close my eyes and gather the words from memory: “God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell; but most of all because theyoffend You, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love ...”
As I finish, I unclasp my hands, blood rushing back into my fingertips while pins and needles crawl across my skin.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,” Father Cyrus adds.
“And His mercy endures forever,” I respond, the words rising from my lips like muscle memory, automatic, practiced, and far more comforting than I’d care to admit.
