Chapter 4 Michael
MICHAEL
Once we're back inside my cabin, I gesture at the coffee pot, at the battered dining table, and the fireplace where last night’s embers are just ash.
“Sit,” I say. “Let me get you something warm.”
She sinks into the chair, and her backpack crumples to the floor beside her.
“I’m okay,” she says, but the shiver in her hands gives her away. "I'm happy that you didn't leave."
I work in silence for a minute, pouring coffee and stirring in a heap of sugar before setting it in front of her. She grips the mug with both hands, holding it close to her lips but not drinking. It steams into her face, masking her expression.
"Sarah, I couldn't just drive away until I knew you were safe.”
She gives a brittle laugh. “Safe. Is that what this is?”
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching for judgment.
Instead, I offer her the most honest answer I can manage. “For now, yes. Here, you are.”
“I’m sorry if I made things awkward last night,” she says after a while. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Neither was I.” It comes out before I can help it.
There’s a beat of silence. She studies me over the rim of the mug, her expression unreadable. “Do you ever think about not being a priest anymore?”
The question stuns me. “Sometimes. More than I should admit.”
“Why don’t you?”
I don’t have a simple answer. The truth is, I don’t know who I’d be without this life. I've been a man of the cloth so long, I have no idea who I am underneath.
“I suppose,” I say, “I’m afraid the world wouldn’t have any use for me.”
Sarah looks at me like she understands. Maybe she does. I want to say something else, something pastoral and healing, but I am distracted by a presence.
I see a shadow flicker past the window, so fast I could doubt myself if I wanted.
I stand, nerves alert. I peer through the curtain, see nothing.
But the itch along the back of my neck doesn’t go away.
I double-check the lock, draw the deadbolt, then return to Sarah, my movements purposeful but careful not to frighten her.
“Sometimes,” I begin, “the best thing you can do is survive the day. Let tomorrow figure itself out.”
Sarah’s phone vibrates, buzzing a frantic staccato as her phone dances across the table. She doesn’t move to answer it.
“Ma?” I guess.
She nods, lets the phone ring itself out. Then she finally says, “If I go back, I’m dead. I don’t know where else to go. You’re the only person I trust.”
My heart gives a painful, hopeful squeeze. “If you want, I can help you find a safehouse or a friend.”
I get up and fetch a blanket, wrap it around her shoulders. She doesn’t resist. Her fingers tighten on the mug.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask. “Or just sit?”
“Sit,” she says. “For now.”
We sit, and I try not to think about the way her head would fit perfectly on my shoulder, or how much I want to run my fingers through her hair, just to see her relax. I remind myself that my job is to keep her safe, not to fall in love with her.
We don’t hear the first knock. Maybe it’s because we’re too deep in our own silence, or maybe the wind disguises it. The second is louder, more insistent, and it’s not a knock at all. It’s the blunt thud of a fist against wood.
Sarah freezes.
My own heartbeat speeds up, but I stand, move to the door.
She nods, shrinking into the blanket. The peephole shows nothing. I crack the door just a hair, keeping the chain in place.
It’s Dade.
His face is blotched and furious, an angry bandage crusted above his eyebrow. He looks bigger in daylight, his fists like slabs of meat, his chest swelling beneath a sweat-stained shirt. For a moment, he just glares at me, eyes small and bright.
“Where is she?” he growls.
I force my voice to stay calm, flat. “There’s no one here for you, Mr. Andrews.”
He grins, a flash of bad teeth. “Don’t play dumb, Father. You know she’s in there. I saw her get into your car after she left the house. The same car that’s parked right over there. He points a finger randomly over his shoulder in the general direction of the car park.”
I keep the chain tight, blocking the gap with my shoulder. “You need to leave, now.”
He laughs a sound that’s half-sputter, half-threat. “You fucking her? He shuffles his feet and looks like he wants to spit, “S’that what they payin’ you for?”
He tries to wedge his face closer into the gap, eyes darting past me. “You tell her to get her skinny ass out here right now, or I’ll come in and drag her out.”
Over my dead body.
I hear the scrape of a chair from the kitchen, but I don’t look back. I raise my voice just enough to be heard. “Sarah, stay where you are.”
Dade leans his weight on the door, testing the chain, which holds. “This is between me and my family, priest. Step aside.”
“I’m not going to do that.” My hand is shaking, but I keep my voice level.
He slams his fist into the door frame, making the chain rattle. “You think you scare me? I’ve been to church, Father. I know your kind.” He spits in the snow at his feet, a red streak against white. “Just give me my girl.”
His girl?
Sarah belongs to me.
Dade tries another tactic, lowering his voice. “Sarah, baby, I just want to talk. Your ma’s worried sick. You don’t need to do this.”
Sarah speaks loudly from the kitchen. "Ma probably threatened to kick him out or starve him to death if he didn't come bring me back.
I can't stand this back-and-forth with her or him.
It's like she can't decide if she wants to be my mother or his wife.
And he probably just wants me to be his new punching bag. I'm younger and can take his blows."
The distinct sound of breaking glass from the kitchen distracts our attention. I didn't even notice him move away from the door.
“Stay here,” I say, but the words are pointless. She’s already scrambling up behind me, blanket trailing like a cape.
The sound of glass crashing.
By the time I reach the kitchen, Dade is half in the window, blood streaming from a cut on his forearm, his eyes wild. I grab the nearest heavy object, the cast-iron skillet from the stove, and raise it, keeping myself between him and Sarah.
He roars, lunges forward, feet skidding in the mess of broken glass and fallen pans.
“Get back!” I shout, but he’s too far gone for words.
He swings at me, a wild, looping punch. I manage to dodge, but his fist catches my shoulder and sends me staggering. He’s stronger than I expected. I taste copper, feel a throb already starting in my arm.
Dade turns to Sarah, his lip curls.
“There you are,” he spits.
I don’t think, just act. I swing the skillet, connecting with a sick crack against his side. He howls, doubles over, but recovers fast.
The next few seconds are chaos. A tangle of limbs, the metallic tang of blood and fear.
Dade lands a punch to my ribs that knocks the air out of me.
I hear Sarah scream, high and sharp. I clamp down on Dade’s wrist as he tries to grab her, wrenching it backward as hard as I can until something pops.
He screams, and I shove him hard into the kitchen table. He hits, bounces off, and collapses to the floor, moaning. Sarah is still in the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth.
Tears stream down her face, but she’s not making a sound.
“It’s okay,” I manage, voice ragged. “You’re okay.”
She nods, then wraps her arms around me, burying her face in my chest. She’s shaking so badly it takes everything I have to hold her steady.
Behind us, Dade is groaning, but not moving. I half-drag Sarah out of the cabin and into the sanctuary, where the light from the stained glass paints everything in bruised colors. I shut the door and lock it. Only then do I let myself slide down to the floor. Sarah clings to my shirt.
We stay there a long time, until the only sound is our breathing and a far-off wail of sirens.
It’s over, I think. At least for today.
"I can't stay here, Father," Sarah says. "All I bring is destruction. I might as well keep the chaos at home. I can't leave Ma with him acting like this. Just … just take me back. The cops will hold Dade for a few days. I'll try to convince Ma to leave before he gets out."
"I don't want you anywhere near that," I stop myself from cursing. "That barbarian. I won't let him hurt you. Not if I can help it."
She caresses my face the same way she did last night, urging me to lean into her touch. "It's okay, Father Michael, I'm not yours to protect. Besides, you have an entire church of parishioners who need you. I imagine I've caused enough trouble, and the rumors would be running like wildfire."
"I don't care about the rumors, Sarah. I care about you."
Sarah means more to me than just protecting her from Dade and the chaos of her mother's abusive relationship.
As important as that is, somehow I feel a greater need to make her safe.
A pull I cannot explain. Still, I can't stop Sarah from going to the home she was just asked to leave. If that is what she really wants.
Against my better judgment, I bring her home, promising to follow up with her the next day.
She is adamant that Dade won't be coming back after the police take him, but I can't relax. How can she be certain he won’t return?
I barely get through my duties, and forget about going to bed.
An uncomfortable presence settles over me.
I am certain Sarah is in danger. My eyes can't close without seeing Dade, eyes wide like an animal, seething at the chance to get his hands on Sarah.
My Sarah.
The next morning, I feel tired and worried, and force myself through morning service. As soon as the duties of the collar are over, I rush to my phone. When Sarah doesn't answer her cell, I dial the house, and Eileen answers after a dozen rings. Her voice is a husk, barely more than breath.
“Hello?”
“It’s Father Michael. May I speak to Sarah?”
A hesitation, then: “She’s not… she’s not here.” The way she says it sends up a flare of dread.
“Do you know where I might find her?”
A long silence.