Chapter 21 Elijah
ELIJAH
The morning light filters through St. Michael’s stained glass windows, painting the congregation in jewel tones as I take my position near the piano.
Sunday Mass should feel sacred, peaceful, but today the air crackles with something darker.
Paranoia has infected us all since the camera installations and surveillance photos, and I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being hunted.
My fingers rest on the piano keys, ready to begin the opening hymn, when I notice Mrs. Delacroix in her usual pew.
She’s always been severe, her steel-gray hair pulled into that unforgiving bun, but today something’s different.
A small leather notebook sits open on her lap, and her pen moves across the page with deliberate precision.
I watch her eyes track Adrian as he moves through the liturgy. Every time he speaks, her pen scratches.
When Charlie rises to bring the collection basket forward, Mrs. Delacroix’s writing becomes more frantic.
The elderly woman’s gaze follows Charlie’s movements with an intensity that makes my stomach clench.
Marcus notices too. I catch his eye from across the sanctuary, see his jaw tighten as he watches Mrs. Delacroix document something else.
His tattooed arms are crossed over his chest, dress shirt sleeves rolled up and the saints and sinners inked into his olive skin seeming to writhe in the colored light.
The muscle jumping in his jaw tells me he’s fighting the urge to cross the sanctuary and snatch that notebook from her wrinkled hands.
Charlie moves past me to return to her seat, and the scent of vanilla and cinnamon makes my body respond despite the wrongness of the moment.
Her dress clings to her curves, the fabric swaying around her thighs with each step.
I force my gaze back to the hymnal, but not before Mrs. Delacroix’s pen moves again, recording something I can only imagine.
We’re being documented like specimens under glass.
Mass drags on, each moment weighted with the knowledge that someone is watching, recording, building a case against us.
Adrian’s voice remains steady as he delivers the homily, but I see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on his rosary beads.
His gray eyes find Charlie in the third pew, just for a moment, and Mrs. Delacroix’s pen scratches again.
When the service finally ends, I remain at the piano, playing soft postlude music while parishioners file out.
Charlie approaches the choir loft stairs, and I meet her there, ostensibly to discuss next week’s music selections.
She’s close enough that I can see the pulse hammering in her throat, can smell the stress-baking that kept her up until three this morning.
“The Advent hymns,” I say, keeping my voice professional despite wanting to pull her close. “I thought we could add the French carol you mentioned.”
Her hazel eyes, more green than gold in this light, meet mine with understanding.
We’re performing normalcy, maintaining the careful distance that’s become our prison.
But standing this close, I’m hyperaware of every detail. The way her cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
The swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. The way her teeth worry her bottom lip when she’s nervous.
Mon Dieu, I want to taste that lip and trace the freckles dusting her shoulders with my tongue, to hear her whisper my name the way she did that night in her apartment, breathless and desperate.
A flash of light catches my peripheral vision. I turn just in time to see someone in the crowd below pointing a camera phone directly at us.
The angle is deliberate, calculated to make our proximity look intimate rather than professional.
I move toward the stairs, but the photographer disappears into the departing congregation before I can identify them.
“Did you see that?” Charlie’s voice is tight with fear.
“I saw.” My hand hovers near her arm, wanting to comfort her but any touch will be documented, twisted, and used against us. “We need to tell the others.”
That afternoon, we gather in Adrian’s office like conspirators planning a revolution.
The space feels too small for the four of us and all our secrets.
Adrian sits behind his desk, the split wood from his fist still visible, a reminder of how close his control is to shattering completely.
Marcus leans against the wall, his tattooed arms crossed, dark eyes burning with barely contained rage.
Charlie perches on the edge of a chair, her hands twisted in her lap.
I remain standing near the window, watching the street for gray sedans and camera lenses.
“Mrs. Delacroix had a notebook during Mass,” I report, my French accent thickening the way it does when I’m stressed. “She was writing every time Adrian spoke or moved near Charlie.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches. “I saw. She’s documenting everything.”
“And someone photographed Charlie and me near the choir loft,” I add. “They disappeared before I could identify them.”
Adrian’s hands curl into fists on his desk. “We need to compile a list. Everyone who might be watching us.”
We spend the next hour analyzing suspects like detectives solving a crime.
Mrs. Delacroix tops the list, her jealousy over the bake-off twisted into righteous concern.
Deacon Paul Hendricks, who has resented Marcus’s popularity since he arrived.
Sarah Chen, whose teenage crush has become increasingly uncomfortable.
Charlie suggests we’re being paranoid, that the stress is making us see threats everywhere.
But even as she says it, I see the fear in her eyes.
She knows we’re right to be worried.
“We could feed different false information to each suspect,” Marcus suggests, his voice rough. “See what reaches the Bishop.”
Adrian nods slowly, though his expression suggests he hates the deception. “It’s manipulative.”
“It’s survival,” I counter. “We need to know who’s hunting us.”
Charlie reaches across the desk, her hand finding mine.
The touch sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I watch her fingers thread through Marcus’s, then Adrian’s, connecting us in a chain of solidarity and desperation.
For a moment, we’re united against the world, a family fighting for survival.
Late that night, we meet in the church basement.
The stone walls and lack of windows offer privacy we can’t find anywhere else.
A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting dancing shadows across our faces as we huddle around an old table like conspirators.
Charlie sits across from me, and the dim light makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
Her dress has been replaced by jeans and one of Marcus’s shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame.
I imagine peeling it off her shoulders, discovering what she’s wearing underneath.
The thought makes my body respond despite the danger surrounding us.
“We need to be smarter,” Adrian says, his voice low and controlled. “More careful about when and where we’re together.”
“We’re always careful,” Marcus argues, but his dark eyes find Charlie, and I see the hunger there. The same hunger burning through my own veins.
Charlie’s hand rests on the table, and I cover it with mine before I can stop myself.
Her skin is warm and soft, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my palm.
Adrian watches the gesture, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t tell me to stop.
“What if we’re wrong?” Charlie asks quietly. “What if no one’s actually watching, and we’re destroying ourselves over nothing?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I want to believe she’s right, that the paranoia is just guilt manifesting as external threats.
But I’ve seen Mrs. Delacroix’s notebook, the camera phone, the way people watch us with calculating eyes.
“We can’t afford to be wrong,” I tell her, my thumb tracing circles on her palm.
The gesture is innocent enough, but the heat in her eyes tells me she’s remembering other times my hands have touched her, other places my fingers have explored.
Marcus shifts against the wall, and I notice the way his gaze drops to where Charlie’s shirt gapes at the neck, revealing the curve of her breast.
His hands flex at his sides, and I know he’s fighting the same battle I am.
The need to touch her, to claim her and forget everything except the way she feels beneath us.
Adrian clears his throat, pulling us back to the present danger. “We implement the plan tomorrow. Different information to each suspect. We’ll know within a week who’s feeding the Bishop.”
We discuss logistics, timing, and who will approach which suspect. Charlie suggests scenarios that sound plausible, her intelligence shining through despite her fear.
I watch her face in the dim light, memorizing every detail.
The way her teeth worry her bottom lip.
The pulse hammering in her throat.
The way her body angles toward mine even as we maintain careful distance.
Je t’aime, I think but don’t say. I love you, and I’m terrified of losing you.
We’re leaving through the basement’s exterior door when we hear them.
Footsteps. Above us in the church. Someone moving through the darkened nave.
We freeze, barely breathing.
Charlie’s hand finds mine in the darkness, her fingers cold with fear. Marcus positions himself between us and the door, his body tense and ready for violence.
Adrian’s jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.
The footsteps pause directly above our heads.
A beam of light sweeps across the basement windows, searching, hunting.
We press against the stone wall, hidden in shadows, our hearts hammering in unison.
Charlie’s breathing is shallow, panicked, and I want to pull her close, to shield her from whatever’s coming.
Then silence.
The light disappears. The footsteps retreat.
We wait in the darkness for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes.
Finally, Adrian moves toward the door, his movements careful and controlled.
We follow, emerging into the cool night air like criminals fleeing a crime scene.
The church is empty. No cars in the parking lot. No figures in the shadows.
But on the basement door handle, catching the moonlight, hangs a single rosary bead.
My blood runs cold as I stare at it. Someone knows exactly where we were.
What we were doing.
The message is clear: We’re watching. We know your secrets. And we’re coming for you.
Charlie reaches for the bead with trembling fingers, and I catch her wrist. “Don’t touch it. It might be evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Her voice breaks. “That we met in a basement? That’s not a crime.”
“It is if they can prove what we were discussing,” Marcus says, his voice rough with barely contained rage. “If they can prove what we are to each other.”
Adrian stares at the rosary bead, his face pale in the moonlight. “Someone knows. And they want us to know they know.”
The bead swings gently in the night breeze, a tiny piece of jewelry that feels like a noose tightening around our necks.