I can’t bear going all the way to the back.
You’re taking too long!
Fuck. I crawl out again, jump to my feet, and spin to face the door on the other side of the apartment.
Then I remember to breathe, and let out a massive sigh of stale air.
I tug my dress straight as I hurry back to the fireplace, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the bedroom is in the same condition I found it.
I hiss in pain when my ass hits the chair. Despite the cushioning, I felt that impact all through my body. I shudder as I try to ignore the pain, and gently shift into a more comfortable position.
What were you doing while I was gone, Trinity? Who, me? Just been sitting here the whole time. Sitting here, watching the fire.
God, my heart’s pounding. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, and then use both hands to swipe the sweat from my hairline.
Crackle, pop, grumble.
Caught between a hungry fire and an angry thunderstorm.
Shit, it’s hot in here.
I get up again, scanning the bedroom again as I pass. Dear Lord, I hope I didn’t fuck this up. I open the window and stick my head into the wet, chilly air.
Better.
Lightning fractures the sky, and a few seconds later a muted crack rumbles around Saint Amos.
I check the clock.
Twenty minutes past eight.
Damn it! I could still have been going through his emails. It only took me a minute to find the one my mom sent. Father Gabriel—Gabe?—is super organized. His emails were all sorted into folders. Accounts, Personal, Redmond, Bishop, To-Do, Unsorted, Spam, Sent, Deleted.
Mom’s letter had been the tenth one in the personal folder. I guess it says a lot that the entire folder only contained a little over thirty emails. But although Gabriel likes to pretend he doesn’t have a personal life, judging from my mom’s email, he’s had his nose stuck in our family’s affairs for a long time.
His guidance?
If she only knew the shit the Brotherhood was accusing Gabriel of.
Oh, wait. She’ll never know. She’s dead.
There’s no warning. One minute I’m glaring out at the black thunderstorm—the next everything blurs with angry tears.
I push away from the window sill and stalk back to the fire. Trinity the Wimp is yelling at me to stop, but I shove her in a mental closet and lock the fucking door.
Wine sloshes over the rim of the glass when I rip it off the side table. I tip my head back and swallow it all down in one go. Then I pour myself another from the decanter.
I even stare at Gabriel’s pack of cigarettes for a moment, wondering if they’d help suppress the sudden swell of immutable fury roaring through me, but I dismiss the thought.
Weed. That’s what I need.
I drain my glass, and press my hand to the back of my mouth as I pause, waiting for everything to come right back up again. It’s red wine—what a fucking mess that will make of this pretty carpet.
A bitter laugh bursts out of me instead. I consider drinking straight from the decanter but then I remember I’m not a fucking animal so I pour myself another glass.
“That’s enough, child.”
I gasp in shock, spilling wine over my hand and—yup!—ruining the pretty fucking carpet. Spinning around, I stare at Gabriel with a slack mouth as he comes closer.
He takes the glass from my hand and urges me into the chair before perching on the arm. His head dips as he massages the back of his eyelids and lets out a long sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I blink up at him, my hand reaching for him before I can snatch it away again.
That doesn’t go unnoticed. Gabriel’s eyes latch onto my hand where I keep it pressed into a fist in my lap. The shadows on his face seem to deepen.
“I’ll have to reschedule tonight’s dinner.”
For a second, I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.
“Oh, this?” I nod, licking my lips. “Yes, of course.” My tongue feels like it’s growing thicker inside my mouth. Starting to regret the wine now, even if it did put out the fire raging inside me.
You can soak shit in alcohol, but ultimately that just sets the stage for a world-class explosion.
“I know I allowed it, child, but you shouldn’t drink in excess. Or at your age.”
Irritation flickers inside me, threatening to ignite my earlier anger.
Yeah, and a celibate priest shouldn’t have condoms in his fucking drawer, but here we are.
I think I’m going to puke.
I stand, making contact with Gabriel on my way up. In an effort to veer away from him, I stumble over my own feet. If he hadn’t caught onto me, I’d probably have fallen into the hearth.
His hand is on my hip. Strong fingers dig into my flesh.
Into the drive hidden behind my underwear. He frowns, and moves his thumb over the device. I twist away from him, blinking furiously as I try to sober the fuck up.
“I have to go,” I state, holding up a finger. “But can—may?—I use your bathroom first?”
He frowns hard, and reaches for my hip again as he gets to his feet. “What is that?” he asks.
“Bathroom!” I yelp out, and then hurry away from him. I saw another door leading off his bedroom—it’s either a walk-in closet for the hundred-plus clerical robes he needs, or it’s the bathroom.
It turns out to be a bathroom.
I slam the door shut behind me, and because of that I don’t make it to the toilet. Instead, I puke into the basin.
This is a new record for me. The most I ever puked was that time Mrs. Brady undercooked the hot dogs at the church fete for handicapped people back when I was sixteen.
I half-expect Gabriel to come inside and hold back my hair like Reuben did.
But he doesn’t.
I spend a few minutes making sure there’s nothing left to come out, and then a minute more splashing cold water on my face.
Unfortunately, the purge did nothing to sober me up. I stumble out of the bathroom and have to hold onto the wall as I study the back of Gabriel’s head.
He’s at the window, staring into the darkness.
He turns his head a little, but then straightens again. “Do you need me to help you back to your room?”
My spine stiffens.
We need your help.
“No,” I say icily, crossing my arms over my chest despite how that makes me sway. “I’m p’fectly fine.”
Besides the slurring, of course.
“I like to think I’m blameless, child.”
It takes me a second to focus on him. “Wha’?”
He sighs, closes the window and turns to face me. There’s a cigarette in his hand, and he drags at it till the coal glows red as Satan’s horns.
“You asked if your parents were good people. And they are, Trinity. Truly…they are.”
He walks up to me, a sad smile on his face. “But they’re not blameless, and neither am I.”
His hand is on my shoulder. I don’t like it there, but I don’t want him to stop talking. “What are you sayin’?”
He takes another long drag at his cigarette. Although he ducks his head to blow out the smoke, it piles up between us and still hits my nose. “Why did you go through my things?”
My eyes widen. “I didn’t. I promise.”
He looks to the side, drawing my gaze with his.
The bag I’d shoved under the bed is on top of the mattress, contents spilled out. The laptop is open. Even from here, I can see the email program is open.