“I don’t hate you.”
“Yeah, you do. I’m just like Dima. You just won’t admit it because that makes you the bad guy.”
I didn’t wait for her to answer before I stalked outside. I half-thought she might follow, but she didn’t.
Well, that charming exchange definitely ruled out confiding in her about anything. I was on my own.
My first stop was the church since I was right here.
Everything was quiet. A few people prayed. My uncle walked into the confessional.
No trace of Dima. No laughter, no looming guy with a smug smirk on his face, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, gold crucifix glinting in the sun.
Next, I swung by the school. The RELIGIOUS FREEDOM sign stared at me, but I ignored it and walked into the building.
It looked like an ordinary school: fluorescent overhead lights, bulletin boards on the walls. I walked quickly past the front office and started roaming the halls, trying not to think about how creepy I was being. I glanced through the windows in the classroom doors. The kids were working on projects in one room. In another, Deacon Jameson wrote notes on a whiteboard.
“Alexis, welcome!”
I whirled around, ready to yell, “It’s Aleks!” when I came face-to-face with Reverend Monsignor Kline. “Oh!” Good thing I didn’t raise my voice. I was supposed to be on the downlow anyway, even though I was breaking all of my rules. Some people had a better grasp of their emotions. Not me. I never had. Not as Aleks. When I was Alexis, I had more restraint. “Uh. Sorry. I should have asked before I came in.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“I was looking for Dima.”
Reverend Monsignor Kline smiled. “Ah. Are you his girlfriend?”
“Me? Oh. No. Definitely no.”
“Good-looking guy like him with a good-looking girl like you? Come on.”
Great. This dude was trying to act like the “cool priest” even though he was way too old and the way he spoke made the hair on the back of my neck rise. I was pretty sure that this conversation was the equivalent of being stuck in Purgatory.
“He’s my friend,” I said. Then, to get Reverend Monsignor Kline off my back, I added, “I’m not really over my last relationship.” It wasn’t a lie. I’d never called him my boyfriend, but to deny that I had a relationship with Lee . . . The way he held my hand, the way he looked at me, the way he touched my hip . . . You’re so beautiful, you’re so beautiful.
The way we kissed . . .
Denial’s a good motivator, I guess. Easier in hindsight to pretend I didn’t like Lee that way, ever. Because at one point, I did like him. A lot. And then, one day, I hated him.
“Ah.” Reverend Monsignor Kline gave a broad gesture with his arm. “I’m afraid you just missed him, but please feel free to continue touring the school.”
My chest tightened. What if Dima was just like me, running from something horrific? “Do you know where he went?” I asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
That was weird. It made his absence almost . . . suspicious.
“Um. Okay. Do, uh, do you know when he’ll be back?”
“That depends on Dmitry.” He squeezed my shoulder and walked past me. “He’s on a retreat.”
“Retreat? Like a vacation? Or—”
“Don’t worry about him. Maybe by the time he’s back, you’ll be ready for another relationship.”
Reverend Monsignor Kline walked a few steps down the hall. With his back to me, he said, “Eavesdropping doesn’t suit you, Deacon Jameson.”
I turned around. The transitional deacon stood just outside his classroom, still gripping the doorknob. He dampened his lips with his tongue before he released the door, allowing it to swing shut slowly as he stepped into the hall. Without so much as a word, he slipped past me and walked down the hall with Kline. I stared at Deacon Jameson’s back like my eyes would burn holes through the fabric.
After hearing his confession about liking men, witnessing him and Dima make out in the woods, and factoring in Dima’s sudden disappearing act the day after I heard the latest confession, I didn’t see how the predator couldn’t be Deacon Jameson. He had guilt written all over his body. Even showing up in the hallway, spying on me. I just needed proof and I’d get that piece of shit behind bars.
As I left the building, I cast a glance to the side. Near the field of crosses was a boy. The blonde altar boy—Michael, wasn’t it? He knelt before one of the crosses, face mostly hidden by the thick curls. Although it made my stomach churn to go near them, I did. I needed to see his face. I needed answers. I needed to channel Raziel.
I stopped beside him. “You’re Michael, right?”
He lifted his head. I barely kept from gasping. His eyes were practically lifeless, begging me to put him out of his misery.
I knelt on the grass. “I’m Aleks,” I said. “I’m going to help you.”
“I’m fine.”
My stomach clenched like I was about to dry heave. This boy was dead. His eyes, his expression, his posture. Even his voice sounded dead.
“No. You’re not.” I touched his back. He flinched. I pulled back my hand and cleared my throat. “I—I know what’s going on with you. I know what’s happening.”
He met my eyes warily. There was no denial.
“I can’t imagine how awful it is, or how terrifying. But it’ll be okay. I’m going to help you, Michael. Okay? I’m going to make it better.”
He turned his face away from me. “Leave me alone. You can’t make it stop.”
“Yes, I can.”
Once again, I had his attention. “How?”
“We’re going to contact the police and tell them what Deacon Jameson did.”
He gripped my shirt by the collar, looking almost wild. “You know what he tried to do?”
I blinked a little. Was that the confirmation I needed? Why didn’t I have the recording app turned on my phone? “You mean what he did?”
“I mean you know what we talked about?”
Talked? What . . .
My confusion must have made my expression blank, because Michael released my collar and abruptly stood, face scrunched in disgust. “You’re a liar.”
“Bad guys deserve to be punished,” I said gently.
“He’s gay. Not a bad guy.”
Deacon Jameson told him that? Despite sounding so ashamed in confession? Or was that Michael’s logic, his coping mechanism to make it all safe?
“I—I know that makes him—look, it’s normal to protect your abuser at first. To be in denial.”
His eyes burned. “Normal?”
“I—I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Have you been hurt?”
I stalled. Yes. Yes, I had, but I couldn’t say it out loud. Not to this boy I was trying to help. I’d make things worse. He’d compare himself to me and . . .
“I thought so,” he said gruffly, breaking my train of thought. “I hate you,” he added. “I don’t know you but I hate you. And I’ll never forgive you if you get Deacon Jameson in trouble.”
“Why are you so hell-bent on protecting him?” I burst out before I could soften it.