Page 61 of House of Sin
I sighed, my shoulders slumping in defeat as their arguments outweighed my concern. I’d walked through enough fire, known enough pain, to be wary of the path we were about to take. Still, I understood the power this moment held. If we could draw Father Frederick out, if we could expose him for what he truly was . . . maybe, just maybe, we could turn the tide.
I looked at Violet once more, my expression softening. “I’ve protected you girls for so long,” I said, almost to myself, “and I will continue to protect you, even if I have to burn every bridge in this town to do it.” I placed a hand on Violet’s, a silent vow in my touch.
Violet gave a small, appreciative smile, squeezing my hand in return. “I know you have, Bernadette, and I don’t want to let you down. But this . . . this is something I have to do for myself. For that little girl in Illinois.”
I nodded, then turned my attention to the letter on the table. “Alright then, we do this carefully, we do this right. No mistakes. We use his pride and his arrogance against him, and when he walks through that door,he’ll be stepping straight into a hell of his own making.” I stood and took a couple of steps away from the table. “Emil,” I called over my shoulder, “I need you to make sure the house is ready. Everything has to be perfect. No mistakes.”
Emil nodded with a sharp jerk, his eyes steely with determination. “You got it, Bernadette.”
As he left to prepare, I turned back to Violet. “When you give him that letter, there’s no going back. Are you ready for that?”
Violet’s voice was ironclad. “I’m ready. He won’t know what hit him.” She turned back to the table and folded the letter, her hands were steady as she reached for the small stick of sealing wax I used when I had letters to send out, a deep blood-red. I watched her hold the wax to the flame of the nearby oil lamp, melting it until it dripped thick onto the envelope. Without a word, she pressed the brass stamp into it. Sealing it with a single kiss impression.
She lifted the stamp and held the envelope up to me. “It’s done.” She offered.
For something made of nothing but paper and ink, it felt impossibly heavy in my hands. Ilooked down at the seal, feeling the power of everything it represented before slipping it into the pocket of my coat. I didn’t waste any time. The sun had barely cleared the hills when I slipped out the back door, coat drawn tight, boots silent on the stone. I stayed close to the buildings, away from the main streets, cutting through alleys and empty yards until I reached the center of town where St. Ann’s quietly sat.
Father Cyrus had told me about a side entrance once, back when we were still learning to trust each other. Said if the day ever came when I needed to reach him without being seen, I was to come to this door and knock twice.
I found the narrow wooden door half-hidden behind the overgrown hedge, exactly where Father Cyrus had promised it would be. Pushing aside a low-hanging branch, I stepped closer, the leaves skimming my sleeve. The wood was old and warped, its years carved into every line of the grain as I rapped twice against it, the sound cracking through the silence like a snapped twig.
I stood still, listening to the wind tug at the leaves behind me, to the ghost of distant footstepssomewhere on another street, and after a long breath, I heard it—a faint scrape, metal against wood, then a soft click as the door opened an inch, just enough to reveal a familiar eye through the crack.
Father Cyrus stood in the doorway; his exhausted face wore an expression like he had aged several years overnight. His eyes met mine briefly, before dropping to my hand, to the envelope that I held pressed flat against my chest. The red wax glinted faintly in the gray morning light. He didn’t speak, just opened the door wider. I stepped into the space between us and placed the letter in his outstretched hand. His fingers closed around it with unsettling care, as though he expected it to sear straight through his skin.
We stood there a second longer, watching each other. No words were exchanged, but we communicated the intention. The letter was in his hands now, just like we’d planned. He didn’t need instructions; he already knew what it meant, where it needed to go, and what would come of it.
45
FUNNY HOW QUICK LUST TURNS INTO LAST RIGHTS
HIM
Isat alone in the small rectory, my body slumping with bone-deep exhaustion. I had spent hours in prayer, searching the scripture for something to hold on to, some word or phrase that might steady thechaos in my head. The Bible lay open in my hands, but the lines on the page felt distant, stripped of meaning.
My fingers moved over the delicate pages, but the words blurred before my eyes until they meant nothing at all. All I could see was her, Violet. She lingered in my mind as vividly as if she stood before me, her smile hovering at the edge of my vision and pulling me in with an insistence I didn’t try to resist. I told myself to set it aside, to return to my calling, to guide my parishioners toward righteousness and finish the sermon waiting beneath my hand, but the pull only tightened. Every prayer rang hollow, every line of scripture felt false the moment it left my mouth.
The memory of that first sermon at St. Ann's came rushing back to me. I had stood before the congregation, trying to focus on the words I was supposed to deliver, but my attention kept drifting toher. She was in the back row, seated by Elona, Maeve, and Bernadette, butshewas the one I couldn’t stop looking at. I tried, I really did, to keep my eyes on the congregation, to concentrate on the message I was delivering. But there was something about her, something that made it impossible for me to look away. And thenthe thoughts came, unwelcome and unclean, flooding my mind without warning. They hit hard, dragging me toward a place I’d fought for years to leave behind. Memories of past failures surfaced one after another and I couldn’t outrun them.
Her smile was all it took to unravel what I’d worked so hard to contain. Desires I’d buried, sins I thought I’d left behind rose to the surface with sudden clarity, as if she’d held the key all along. My hands tightened around the Bible in my lap, the paper crinkling in my grip as if it could somehow steady me, drown out the noise of my yearning. But the more I tried to resist, the more vivid the memory of her became.
It was then that I noticed the letter.
It rested on the desk, stark white against the dark wood. I hadn’t noticed it before, and I found myself wondering how long it had been there, and who had left it. My hand hesitated as I reached for it, fingers grazing the smooth envelope, when a faint trace of lavender drifted up, stopping me cold.
The wax seal caught my eye, crimson, and stamped with the imprint of lips. I knew who it was from before I even opened it. My hands trembled as I brokethe seal, a thrill of anticipation shooting through me despite my best effort to remain impassive. Inside, the letter was elegantly penned, the script flowing smoothly across the page, each word carefully crafted.
Reading it was a slow poison, tempting me further into the abyss.
Dear Father Frederick,
I hope this letter finds you well, though I do suspect you’ve been fighting a battle of your own, one that no one else has noticed. But I’ve noticed you, Father. I see the way you linger in the shadows of the town, trying to keep your distance from what pulls at you. You might believe that your gaze goes unnoticed, but it doesn’t. I see your struggle, and I can’t help but wonder . . . why keep fighting it?
The words haunted my head, each syllable digging deeper into my mind.You might believe that your gaze goes unnoticed . . .
She had been watching me. She had known all along. A dark thrill slid through me and I was torn between my duty as a man of God and the overwhelming urge that Violet’s letter had awakened.Why keep fighting it?The question hovered like a taunt, teasingme, pulling at the walls I had spent so many years constructing around myself. The dam I had built to hold back the flood of temptation was beginning to crack. My fingers shook as I read on.
You’ve been preaching about sin, haven’t you? About temptation and the dangers of the flesh. But I have to ask you, Father, do you truly understand sin? Or have you merely constructed your own prison, locking away the very desires that make you human?
