Chapter 8 Michael
MICHAEL
Iwake before the alarm, as always. The light in the hotel is cheap, thin, filtered through drapes that probably started as white but are the color of old teeth. I watch the ceiling for a while, counting the slow tick of the bedside clock and listening to Sarah breathe, even and gentle.
When I finally move, it’s in quiet increments. We needed to get out of town, to get away from the pressures of the lives we're so desperate to escape. So we took a drive into the city for some fresh perspective and also a meeting with my superiors.
Today is the meeting. Today is the reckoning.
Sarah wakes and approaches, cinching her robe tighter around her waist. For a second, we just stand, face to face, her bare feet on the carpet and mine in polished shoes. She tugs at my collar, fussing over the alignment.
“There,” she says, “now you’re ready.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Order room service if you get hungry. Charge whatever you want.”
She grins. “Are you expecting me to run up the bill? Steak, caviar, the whole nine yards?”
“Just don’t forget dessert.” I want to kiss her, but the moment feels too sacred for anything but a gentle press of my lips to her forehead. I linger there, breathing her in.
She rests her head against my chest, hand flat over my heart. “You’re nervous.”
“Terrified,” I admit.
“You don’t have to do this alone.” She says it so softly I almost miss it.
I step back, grab the briefcase from the desk, and heft it like a shield. My resignation, my proposal for transition, they both feel heavier than the bag itself.
At the door, I pause. Sarah steps forward, closes the gap, and runs her fingers over my collar one last time. Her touch is careful, deliberate.
“Good luck,” she whispers.
I don’t trust myself to answer, so I just nod and open the door. I glance back. She stands in the frame, haloed by the thin morning light, the hotel robe slipping off one shoulder. If I believed in omens, I’d call it a blessing.
Down the hallway, through the lobby, into the car. The world outside is colder than before. The engine catches on the first try.
The diocesan office sits on the second floor of a brick fortress, tacked onto the cathedral’s side like an afterthought.
Inside, the air is dense with incense and old polish, every surface too well-maintained for how little foot traffic it gets.
I check in at the front desk, where a secretary with unblinking eyes points me down a corridor lined with green-and-gold carpet.
As I walk, the sound of my own shoes is the only sign of life.
The meeting room is exactly as I remember it from every prior grilling.
There's a long, heavy table that could double as a casket lid, chairs designed to keep a man upright and alert, and a stretch of stained glass that splashes the table with a rainbow of colors.
The windows are a parade of saints, all unsmiling.
Along the wall, a lineup of former bishops gazes down, every one of them white, stern, and wreathed in the same dull brown frame.
Gregory is already there, perched on the edge of his seat, face pale but open. He wears his collar like it’s sewn to the skin. When he sees me, he rises, and for a second, his welcome and brief smile is almost friendly.
“Michael,” he says. “Thanks for coming.”
“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I say, trying for levity. It doesn’t land.
We exchange the kind of handshake meant to prove we’re both still human. Then he gestures me to a seat, the one closest to the window, as if the colored light might make me confess something. I set my briefcase on the table, the proposal within feeling like a live bomb.
A few minutes later, Bishop Donovan enters. He sits opposite me, fingers steepled, and gets right to the point.
“I read your letter.” His voice is mild, but there’s a tension under it. “I was rather hoping you’d come to your senses before today.” He pauses, swallows, and his eyes flick to and from Father Gregory. “Is it the girl?”
The room goes so quiet I can hear the heater’s slow gasp.
“It’s not what you think,” I say, even as I know it’s exactly what he thinks.
He gives a tight smile.
“That’s what they all say. You were always the parish’s golden boy. Never a hint of trouble until now.” He pauses, tapping the table. “Is she worth your soul, Michael?”
I feel the heat climb my neck. “She’s not a seductress.”
Donovan waves me off. “You’re not unique. But you are disappointing.”
Gregory intervenes, softer. “Michael’s been a servant of this diocese for fifteen years, Your Excellency. His record is spotless. Maybe we should consider his proposal; at least in the interim.”
Donovan looks at Gregory as if he’s betrayed a secret code. “You’re advocating for this?”
Gregory shrugs, but his eyes plead. “We’ve lost too many men to scandal. Michael’s proposal is… creative. If it saves a soul and keeps the papers quiet, isn’t that a mercy?”
Donovan turns back to me. “You’d be a lay counselor. You’d surrender your collar, your title, your sacramental authority.”
I meet his gaze. “If that’s what’s required.”
Gregory speaks up. “We could place Michael in a community outreach position. Two years. If he maintains conduct, we review. It keeps him under the tent. Better than losing him and his gifts completely.”
Donovan nods, but I can tell he hates the taste of it. “You’d start in the city. No direct parish contact. You’d report weekly.”
“Thank you.” Those conditions are acceptable to me.
He glances at the proposal, unopened. “I’ll review this with the council. We’ll meet again in two weeks.”
He makes a motion of dismissal, and Gregory gently squeezes my arm as if in comfort. I feel empty, like the time I first put on the collar and realized it didn’t make me better, just different.
The drive back to the hotel is all straight lines and muscle memory.
I barely see the city. The parking lot is nearly empty by late afternoon.
I kill the engine and let my hands rest on the steering wheel, breathing in the hush.
The lobby is the same as always, except the clerk doesn’t look up when I pass.
The elevator smells faintly of burnt coffee and carpet glue.
I watch the elevator numbers tick upward and try to steady my pulse.
The hallway is a still-life: nobody, nothing, except the distant whine of a vacuum from housekeeping.
Our door is cracked open, not enough to be welcoming, just enough to be wrong.
The safety latch sticks out, caught on the frame.
I stop, heart pounding. Maybe Sarah needed ice, or maybe the lock just failed.
I call her name once, low, not wanting to spook her if she’s napping. No answer.
When I open the door, the scene inside is all wrong.
Sarah’s overnight bag is on the floor, contents upended and scattered.
Drawers yawn open. The bedding is stripped halfway off the mattress, and the pillows are on the ground.
A chair by the window is overturned, the cheap leg splintered.
On the wrinkled bedspread, I find a single sheet of lined paper, torn from a spiral, folded twice.
My name is written on the outside, in block letters I don’t recognize. I unfold it.
She’s paying for your sins.
It’s not random. It’s personal.
My breathing turns shallow. I know I should call someone—police, maybe, or Gregory—but I can’t move. I just sit there, staring at the words, waiting for the room to right itself.
But it doesn’t.
She’s gone.
And it’s my fault.
I press the note to my forehead, eyes squeezed shut. I try to pray, but the words stick in my throat.
I will find her, I promise the ceiling. I will make this right.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the note clutched in my hand, and let my mind spin out every possible ending. None are good, but as long as there’s a chance, I have to believe I’ll see her again.
I stare at the collar in the mirror. It’s just polyester and plastic, but it might as well be a noose. Still, I keep it on.
I whisper, “I’ll find you, Sarah. I swear to God, I’ll find you.”
The room answers with silence.
But I know she hears me.