I could barely see his face from the backseat, but I was certain he was crying again when Sister Bernadette rested her hand on his knee. He jerked but she kept it there.
Finally, she pulled into a small, gravel driveway. There was a little cottage that looked a bit run down. The garden outside needed weeding but must have been magnificent in its prime. I followed them to the door and watched her pull out keys.
“What is this place?” I finally asked. Anything to break the haunting silence.
“This,” she said, going through each key, “is my grandma’s home.”
“Is she here?”
“No.” She paused just as the key slid into the lock. “She’s dead.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose. She swung the door in, gesturing for us to enter. Deacon Jameson pushed me in before him. Once he entered, he closed the door and turned the lock.
“So . . . what now?”
“Now,” Sister Bernadette said, “You tell us exactly what you overheard in the confessional.”
I hugged my sides. “Just what I told you before. A priest confessed that he screwed a minor. Then my uncle fucking forgave him.”
“And you assumed it was Joey because he’s gay,” Sister Bernadette said. She waited for me to deny it, but I couldn’t. Then she sighed heavily and mumbled, “God damn it.” I hadn’t thought nuns were allowed to swear. Judging by Deacon Jameson’s expression, I wondered if he was surprised too. Definitely he was hurt by my assumptions about him.
“Well, who was it?” I asked again.
They looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
I took a deep breath, trying not to explode. Normally that was easier for girl-me, but not right now. I tried a different tack. “How did Michael get killed?”
“Strangulation,” Deacon Jameson said, staring ahead at the wall.
“How do you know that?”
Deacon Jameson didn’t speak.
“Can’t they get DNA?” I asked. “From the—body?”
“The wrong DNA,” he mumbled.
“I think we need to stop the cryptic stuff, Joey,” Sister Bernadette said gently. She looked at me. “Michael stayed at Joey’s overnight.”
What the hell? “Why?”
“Because I was supposed to protect him,” Deacon Jameson said like a broken record. “You wanted it taken care of. I thought it was the safest place for him to be.”
Memories flashed through my mind: those hotel rooms a bunch of us shared during cons, no adult supervision, anything goes. Maybe I wasn’t the best judge of what was appropriate. But still— “You couldn’t let him stay home with his parents?”
“Michael’s parents trust . . . the predator.” Deacon Jameson squirmed. “They’ve given the predator access to Michael before, not knowing what was happening. And Michael wasn’t willing to tell them, he wasn’t ready yet.”
“Why didn’t you tell his parents?”
“I swore I wouldn’t tell a soul. It’s difficult to even say this now.”
I struggled to keep my temper under control again. “Okay, okay, but clearly he didn’t end up being any safer there. What happened?”
Deacon Jameson folded his arms, clearly not willing to go there. Sister Bernadette stepped in. “Well, for one thing, Joey confessed that he was going to turn the predator in to the police.”
“Are you serious?” I gawked. “You confessed that you were going to turn a criminal in . . . to the criminal?”
“Not directly,” Deacon Jameson muttered.
Anger flared up, deep in my lungs, like the first sparks of a fire. “You confessed to my uncle—”
“I never thought he would break the sanctity of the confessional,” he said, resigned. “What’s said in confession is supposed to stay in confession.”
“But why confess it at all?”
“I needed to get right with God. You don’t understand.”
“I understand someone’s dead,” I snarled. “And my uncle’s involved, and that means you were too by proxy.”
“Cool it,” Sister Bernadette said, hand closed over Deacon Jameson’s knee. It was trembling. I studied his face. Deacon Jameson’s red eyes might have been glazed, but for a split-second they looked like Michael’s: dead.
“Oh shit,” I said softly, feeling my heart shudder with each pulse. “You were a victim, too, weren’t you?”
I waited for him to deny it. He didn’t. I looked to Sister Bernadette, but she remained silent. Shit.
“Am,” he mumbled.
“Huh?”
“I should have aged out. But sometimes, still . . .” He trailed off, and I realized what he meant. Am a victim. Still.
I fought the urge to cry, to scream. I remembered Michael’s brief words with me, his fierce defense of Deacon Jameson. Kindred spirits bound together by terror.
Focus.
Don’t fall apart now, you idiot.
“Did my uncle . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the question.
Sister Bernadette grimaced. “He absolved people of sin. He’s not a criminal himself.”
“He’s covering it up. That absolutely makes him a criminal.” Although I couldn’t help but feel a little bit relieved that Uncle Bryan wasn’t molesting kids. Talk about a low bar.
I dampened my lips as I fixed my attention on Deacon Jameson. “If you can’t say who did it to Michael, can you say who did it to you?”
Deacon Jameson got to his feet. “No.” He backed up, eyes darting around the room as if seeking an escape.
“Joey—” Sister Bernadette said, rising as well.
“No. I’m not doing it.”
Sister Bernadette glanced at me then back at him. “Forgive me, Joey.”
“For—”
“You’ve got five seconds to say or I’m saying it for you.”
He became rigid. “You swore you wouldn’t.”
“Maybe if I’d told, this wouldn’t have happened. Four seconds.”
“So you’re blaming me now?”
“I’m not. Three seconds.”
“That is not your call,” he practically shrieked, that same hysteria from the church returning as he hyperventilated.
“Two.”
“I’m not saying it.”
“One.”
Deacon Jameson dropped to his knees. “Bernie, please. I’m begging you. Please.”
My heart started to shatter. I didn’t see a man before me. I didn’t see a transitional deacon, a person with authority and power. I saw the face of a young boy, one who’d never fully grown up. One who’d never felt safe, who constantly lived in fear.
Sister Bernadette’s eyes softened. “Forgive me.” She turned to me, took a deep breath, and said, “Reverend Monsignor Kline. He’s Joey’s abuser, and he’s the priest whose confession you heard.”
My head snapped toward her, eyes widening. Reverend Monsignor Kline? The big boss?
Deacon Jameson’s body deflated, almost like his soul was emptying out of it. Disconnecting. Leaving an empty husk.
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. Something had put me on edge about Reverend Monsignor Kline, but he he’d always been friendly to me. I’d assumed the bad taste in my mouth was only from his staunch views, not a sixth sense.