The car turns off.
After a moment, the driver’s door opens.
Atara’s ears are pinned back as she barks.
A man steps out.
“Father Michael?” I put my hand on Atara’s head, trying to calm her, to make her realize this is no one she needs to guard me from—I don’t think. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry if I alarmed you,” he says. “She’s a beautiful dog…” I scratch Atara behind the ears, staying close beside her. “I’m here on Bea’s behalf.”
I told her to come to me, I’d said to him, as though it would have made a difference.
I was only ever going to get into this car.
It’s only when we pull away from the shoulder, from the road leading to Chapman House, that I ask him where he’s taking me. I should have asked that first. My eyes are away from the window, gaze downcast on my hands. I clutch them together. I can’t hold a thought beyond the fact that I’m going to see my sister.
I’m finally going to see my sister.
He tells me we’re headed to a rectory, and I ask him how far it is from the house. He breaks the route down; it’s about fifteen minutes away.
“I can’t be long,” I tell him. “I have to—they don’t know I left.”
“I understand.”
I study Father Michael. His jaw is tight. His grip on the steering wheel is tight—so tight the skin strains across his knuckles. I don’t know why he should be so tense. It unnerves me. I look around. The station wagon is surprisingly messy: there are some fast-food wrappers between us, crumpled napkins. There are books on the floor at my feet, some of them theological—but I spot a James Patterson thriller. Something about it catches my eye. I pick it up, feeling Father Michael’s eyes on me as I do. There’s a card stuck between the pages, acting as a bookmark, but the familiar blue of it is enough reason to investigate further. I flip the book open. A Bible Tract. A blue sky.
That verse.
But the Lord is faithful, He will lend you strength and guard you from the evil one.—2 Thessalonians 3:3. I turn it over, my hand shaking. Unity in Christ. Protection in St. Andrew’s.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
“Pardon?”
“Let me out—”
“What?”
“Let me out of this car—”
“Lo—”
“You send these to The Project.” I hold up the tract. “You hate them. That’s what Casey told me … I want—I want out of this car.” I pull at the door handle like an idiot, but the door is locked. I pound my fist against it. “Let me out of this fucking car!”
He eases the car onto the shoulder, lets it come to a rolling stop. The door unlocks. I open it—I can’t believe I was stupid enough to get into it in the first place—and I have one foot on the ground when Father Michael says, “Lev went to my church.”
It stops me cold.
I turn back. “In Indiana?”
“After Indiana. St. Andrew’s. Very early 2009.”
“You’re lying. He’d renounced the church then.”
“And he was looking to save people from it,” Father Michael replies. I swallow. “He walked into St. Andrew’s under the pretense of connecting with my congregants through the Catholic faith. He deceived me to get to them. One day, I came for mass. Half my congregation was gone, Lev among them. I had no clue what precipitated this exodus … a few months later, I ran into a former member of my church. I asked if there was anything I did or if they were going through any difficulties, if there was a way St. Andrew’s could offer any kind of assistance and support—but they had found someone new to follow.”
“He poached your congregation? That’s why you send the tracts?” This broken moment pieces itself back together in a way that makes my stomach turn. “You’re trying to poach members back? Is that what you did to Bea? Fill her head with lies and that’s why she won’t—”
“I want Project members to know that there’s something beyond Lev Warren’s idea of faith.”
“People make their own decisions,” I snap. “And if your congregation chose to go with him, you can’t hold Lev responsible for that.”
Father Michael contemplates this and then asks, carefully, “How did you get involved with The Project, Lo?”
“I was looking for her and I found something better.”
“It doesn’t concern you at all, that she chose to leave? Even in light of SVO’s op-ed?”
“That op-ed was a lie. I know her reasons and they had nothing to do with what was in it—or she wouldn’t have left Emmy with them.”
His silence fills the car.
“Wouldn’t she?” I finally ask in a small voice.
“I can’t answer that question,” Father Michael says, his voice gentle in a way that makes this all feel that much worse. “But I know who can.”
* * *
The car comes to a stop.
I look out the window. We’ve pulled up to a small brick house next to a run-down church. Father Michael nods and I step out of the car, my heart racing, still not convinced I’m not doing something colossally stupid. Why should I believe that a man with a dog collar would mean me no harm? Why should I believe Bea wouldn’t lead me into something I couldn’t walk myself out of, just because she’s my sister?
She left me, after all.
Father Michael gets out of the car, turning the keys in his hands nervously. I follow him up the concrete path to the house. The door opens as soon as we reach it, and I come to a halt.
It’s not Bea.
A man steps out. He’s tall, white, just slightly over six feet, with broad shoulders and short, sandy-blond hair. There are deep lines at the corners of his eyes. His gaze slowly comes to rest on my scar, as familiar to him as he is unfamiliar to me. After a moment, he says, in a voice that sends a chill down my spine, “Lo Denham. I never thought I’d ever actually meet you.”
I turn to Father Michael, the breath leaving my lungs and the world slowly fading at its edges. This can’t be. “You told me it would be Bea—”
“No, I didn’t.” He avoids my eyes. “I said I was here on her behalf.”
“They’ve told you about me,” the man says, and the question of who he is disappears. I turn back to him and dig in my pocket for my phone before remembering, once again, that it’s not there. But Father Michael doesn’t know that.
“Please don’t,” he says quickly. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Your sister wasn’t,” Rob tells me, and he heads back into the house.
The rectory is dated, old. It smells musty, long overdue for a cleaning. The orange carpet should have been torn up long ago and its faded yellow wallpaper, stripped. There are hints of religion here and there, but more than anything else, it reminds me of how Patty’s house might have looked if she lived for another twenty years and hadn’t kept it up. I follow Father Michael slowly down the hall, glancing over my shoulder just to make sure of the way out.
We find Rob in the kitchen, which is as out of time as the rest of the place, right down to the mint-green fridge with rusted edges and the moldy tiled floors. He’s opening and closing cupboard doors until he finds a glass and fills it at the sink, downing the water in seconds.