Chapter 22 Charlie
CHARLIE
The storage room smells like mothballs and old fabric softener, but I barely notice as I fold donated sweaters with trembling hands.
Last night’s discovery still haunts me—that rosary bead hanging on the basement door handle.
My stomach churns every time I remember it.
Marcus works beside me, sorting through boxes of winter coats, and I’m hyperaware of every movement he makes.
The way his tattooed forearms flex when he lifts something heavy.
How his dark eyes find mine across the cramped space, holding my gaze a beat too long before we both look away.
We’re trying to act normal, but normal feels impossible when paranoia has infected everything.
“This one’s too damaged,” he says, holding up a jacket with a torn lining. His voice is rough, strained, like he hasn’t slept either.
I reach for it, and our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I watch his jaw clench, see the muscle jump beneath his olive skin.
He doesn’t pull away immediately. Neither do I. For a moment, we just stand there, connected by this simple touch that feels anything but simple.
This is dangerous, I think, but I can’t make myself care.
Not when his thumb traces a small circle on my palm, hidden from view by the jacket between us.
Not when his dark eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, tracing the curve of my neck visible above my cardigan.
I feel his gaze like a physical touch, and my body responds despite the fear still coiled in my chest.
“Charlie.” My name sounds different in his voice. Rougher. Like it costs him something to say it.
I lean closer, drawn by gravity I can’t resist. The storage room suddenly feels too small, too warm. I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine.
Can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath his black t-shirt.
My fingers ache to trace the saints and sinners inked into his skin, to discover if they feel as warm as they look.
I shouldn’t want this, I tell myself. Not here. Not now. Not when someone’s watching us, documenting everything. But my body doesn’t care about logic or safety.
It only knows that Marcus is close enough to kiss, that his hand is still touching mine, and that the hunger in his eyes mirrors what I’m feeling.
“We should,” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
Should what? Stop?
Pretend we don’t feel this?
Go back to the careful distance that’s been slowly killing us?
Marcus’s hand slides from mine to my waist, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my dress. His thumb finds bare skin where my cardigan has ridden up, and the touch makes me gasp.
“I know,” he murmurs, his accent thickening. “I know we should stop. But Dios, Charlie, I can’t think straight when you’re this close.”
I’m about to respond, about to close the distance between us and damn the consequences, when a woman’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife.
“Marcus?”
We spring apart so fast I nearly drop the jacket. My heart hammers against my ribs as I turn toward the doorway, trying to look innocent and pretend my face isn’t flushed and my breathing isn’t ragged.
The woman standing there is everything I’m not. Late thirties, classically beautiful in ways that make my throat tight with inadequacy.
Her dark hair is cut in a sleek bob, framing high cheekbones and olive skin that glows with expensive skincare.
She’s wearing a tailored dress that whispers money and sophistication, designer heels that add inches to her already impressive height.
The kind of woman who belongs in magazines.
The kind of woman who makes me feel like a child playing dress-up in thrift store clothes.
Marcus has gone completely pale, his body rigid with shock. “Isabella.”
The name hits me like a physical blow. Isabella. The woman he almost destroyed himself for. The woman who made him leave the priesthood.
She steps into the storage room, her movements graceful and confident, and I watch her eyes take in everything, the cramped space, the donated clothes, Marcus’s defensive posture.
Then her gaze lands on me, and I feel assessed, cataloged, and found wanting.
Her eyes linger on my simple dress, my worn cardigan, and the way I’m standing too close to Marcus despite our attempt to create distance.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Isabella says, her voice smooth and cultured. “I thought you’d left town years ago.”
Marcus clears his throat, and I watch him physically step away from me, putting more space between us.
The movement feels like rejection, even though I know it’s necessary. “Isabella. This is…unexpected.”
“I just moved back.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “My divorce was finalized last month. I’ve been thinking about returning to St. Michael’s, reconnecting with my faith.” Her gaze flicks to me again, curious and calculating. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
Marcus makes awkward introductions, his voice strained. “This is Charlie Davis. She’s volunteering at the parish. Charlie, this is Isabella Moretti.”
I force myself to smile, to extend my hand like a normal person instead of someone whose world is tilting sideways. “Nice to meet you.”
Isabella’s handshake is firm, her skin soft and manicured.
Everything about her screams polish and sophistication, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of my chipped nail polish, my flour-dusted clothes from this morning’s stress-baking, and the way my hair is escaping its messy bun.
“Volunteering,” Isabella repeats, her tone suggesting she doesn’t quite believe it. Her eyes move between Marcus and me, reading the subtext we’re trying so hard to hide. “How wonderful. Marcus always did have a gift for inspiring devotion.”
The words sound innocent, but there’s an edge underneath that makes my stomach clench.
She knows.
Maybe not everything, but enough to recognize that what’s between Marcus and me is more than volunteer coordinator and volunteer.
“I should let you get back to work,” Isabella says, but she doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, she touches Marcus’s arm, her fingers lingering on his bicep. “But we should catch up properly. Maybe coffee? I’d love to hear what you’ve been doing all these years.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches, and I watch him fight for composure. “I’m pretty busy with parish duties.”
“I’m sure you can spare an hour for an old friend.” Isabella’s smile widens, and there’s something possessive in the way she’s looking at him. Like she’s staking a claim. “I’ll return to daily Mass soon. We can talk after.”
She finally leaves, her heels clicking against the tile floor, and the silence she leaves behind is suffocating.
I stare at the doorway, my hands shaking as I try to process what just happened.
Marcus stands frozen, his face pale and his dark eyes haunted.
“She’s that Isabella, isn’t she?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I just need to hear him say it.
Marcus’s silence tells me everything.
The pain in his expression, the way his hands curl into fists at his sides, the careful distance he’s maintaining between us now. This is the woman who almost made him leave the priesthood. The woman he was prepared to destroy himself for.
The woman he might still love.
Of course, I think bitterly. Of course she’s beautiful and sophisticated and age-appropriate. Of course she’s everything I’m not. I’m just the girl who stole from the church, the charity case living in the rectory, the distraction he’ll eventually outgrow.
“Charlie,” Marcus starts, but I shake my head.
“I need to go.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I have a shift at the diner.”
I flee before he can respond, before the tears burning my eyes can fall, before I have to watch him choose between his past and whatever this thing between us is supposed to be.
The church is crowded after Sunday service, parishioners lingering in the nave to chat and share coffee.
I weave through the crowd, trying to make myself invisible, when I spot Elijah near the choir loft stairs.
He’s talking to Sarah Chen, and something about the scene makes me pause.
Sarah is holding a gift wrapped in expensive paper, her face flushed with excitement as she presents it to Elijah. Even from across the room, I can see how her body angles toward his, possessive and intimate. How her fingers linger when he takes the package, how her eyes never leave his face.
Elijah looks uncomfortable, his angel face carefully neutral as he tries to refuse. But Sarah’s eyes fill with tears, and I watch other parishioners turn to look, drawn by the drama.
She’s insisting it’s just gratitude, her voice carrying across the space, and Elijah reluctantly accepts rather than embarrass her publicly.
My stomach drops as I recognize the manipulation. The public setting, the tears, the way she’s positioned this so Elijah has no choice but to accept.
This isn’t a harmless crush.
This is calculated.
I watch Elijah unwrap the gift—a book, clearly old and expensive.
His blue eyes widen with genuine appreciation, and Sarah’s face lights up with triumph.
She touches his arm, stands too close, and I see the same possessive body language I witnessed weeks ago.
He doesn’t see it, I realize. He thinks she’s just an enthusiastic student. But I see the way Sarah’s watching him, the hunger barely concealed beneath her teenage sweetness. The same warning feeling from before intensifies, making my skin crawl.
I should go to him, should warn him again.
But Isabella’s appearance has shaken me more than I want to admit, and I can’t face another conversation about threats and danger and all the ways our lives are falling apart.
Instead, I escape to kitchen, my hands already reaching for flour and sugar before I’ve fully processed the decision.
Stress-baking is my therapy, the only thing that quiets my racing thoughts.
I work the dough with practiced precision, kneading out my anxiety about Isabella’s return, about the rosary bead warning, about Sarah’s increasingly concerning behavior.
The kitchen fills with the scent of cinnamon and butter as brownies bake. I’m frosting them when my phone buzzes with a notification. Social media.
I almost ignore it, but something makes me check.
Sarah Chen has posted a photo of the poetry book Elijah accepted, the expensive binding catching the light. The caption makes my blood run cold.
Found the perfect gift for someone special.
Comments are already piling up. Sarah’s friends asking who the lucky guy is. Sarah responding with a blushing emoji and He’s amazing.
The post is public. Visible to anyone.
Including Mrs. Delacroix, who I know monitors the parish’s social media like a hawk.
My hands shake as I screenshot the post, my mind already spinning through the implications.
This isn’t just a crush anymore.
Sarah is publicly claiming Elijah, creating a narrative that could destroy him. And she’s doing it where everyone can see.
My phone rings, making me jump. Mrs. Delacroix’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach drops. I consider not answering, but that will only make things worse.
“Hello?”
“Charlie, dear.” Mrs. Delacroix’s voice drips with false concern. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” I force my voice to stay steady.
“I wanted to let you know that I’ve seen some concerning posts on social media.
About Brother Elijah and young Sarah Chen.
” She pauses, letting the words sink in.
“People are talking, dear. About inappropriate relationships. About a man in his thirties accepting expensive gifts from a teenage girl.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent,” Mrs. Delacroix says, but her tone suggests she believes the opposite.
“But you know how people talk. And I thought you should know that I’ve already mentioned my concerns to someone who’ll be visiting the parish soon.
Someone with the authority to investigate such matters properly. ”
The line goes dead, and I stand in my tiny kitchen, surrounded by the scent of brownies and the weight of everything falling apart.
Mrs. Delacroix was the one to light the fuse that could destroy us all.