Chapter 28 Charlie
CHARLIE
POV:
Sister Margaret’s sensible shoes click against the tile floor with the precision of a metronome as she approaches me after morning Mass.
I’m arranging leftover bulletins in the narthex, trying to look busy, trying to be invisible.
Yesterday’s image of Isabella crying in Marcus’s arms still burns behind my eyelids every time I blink. The way his hand rested on her shoulder. The intimacy of their bent heads.
“Miss Davis.” Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “A word, please.”
My stomach drops.
Her sharp blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses miss nothing, and right now they’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
“Of course, Sister.” I set down the bulletins with hands that want to shake.
She moves closer, her traditional habit rustling with each step.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been volunteering here for several months now, yet I don’t recall seeing you attend confession.
” Her thin lips press into something that might be a smile on someone else.
“It’s expected of all parish volunteers.
Spiritual health is just as important as physical service. ”
The words land like stones in my chest.
I can’t refuse without raising suspicion, but the thought of confessing anything right now, with everything so tangled and dangerous, makes panic claw up my throat.
“I…of course. You’re right.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I’ll go today.”
“Excellent.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Father Cross is hearing confessions this afternoon, but I believe the Bishop has graciously offered to assist as well. Such a blessing to have him here.”
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing in the empty narthex with my heart hammering against my ribs.
The confessional booth smells like old wood and decades of whispered sins when I slip inside hours later after a shift at the diner.
My palms are sweating as I kneel on the worn cushion, the carved screen between me and the priest a barrier that suddenly feels far too thin.
I can see only shadows through the intricate woodwork, the outline of a figure on the other side.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” The words taste like ash. “It’s been…a while since my last confession.”
“How long, my child?” The voice that responds makes my blood turn to ice.
It’s not Adrian’s rough timbre or Marcus’s accent-tinged warmth.
It’s the Bishop’s distinctive baritone, measured and authoritative, and I realize with horror that I’ve walked directly into a trap I should have seen being set.
My mouth goes dry.
I’ve already started.
I can’t leave now without making everything worse.
“Several months,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I see. And what brings you to confession today?”
I close my eyes, trying to think past the panic flooding my system. “I’ve been…struggling. With inappropriate feelings.”
The silence that follows feels eternal. I can hear my own heartbeat, can feel sweat trickling down my spine beneath my dress.
“Inappropriate feelings,” the Bishop repeats slowly. “Can you elaborate?”
“I just…I care about people I shouldn’t care about. In ways I shouldn’t.” My hands twist in my lap, fingers knotting together. “I’m trying to do the right thing, but I don’t know what that is anymore.”
“Do these feelings involve anyone at this parish?” His voice remains gentle, but there’s steel underneath. “Anyone in a position of authority?”
My throat closes completely. I can’t answer that.
Can’t confirm what he’s clearly already suspecting.
But I can’t lie in a confessional either, can I? Isn’t that its own kind of sin?
“I’m just confused,” I whisper finally. “I’m trying to figure out what’s right.”
“Confusion often stems from allowing ourselves to entertain thoughts we know are wrong.” The Bishop’s tone shifts slightly, becoming more pointed.
“Young women sometimes develop attachments to priests and deacons. It’s natural, in a way.
These men represent authority, guidance, and safety.
But such attachments, if indulged, can become dangerous. For everyone involved.”
I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper.
He knows.
Maybe not everything, but enough.
Enough to be asking these questions, enough to be sitting in this confessional instead of Adrian.
“I understand,” I manage.
“Do you?” There’s a pause, and I can almost feel him studying my shadow through the screen. “Because I’ve observed certain…patterns during my time here.”
My hands are shaking now, trembling so hard I have to press them against my thighs to still them. The dress fabric is damp with sweat beneath my palms.
“I’m trying to be good,” I whisper, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve said. “I’m trying so hard to be good.”
“Then perhaps you should consider whether your presence here is helping or hindering that goal.” His voice softens slightly, almost kind.
“Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is remove ourselves from situations that lead us into temptation. For our own sake, and for the sake of those we care about.”
The words hit like a physical blow. He’s telling me to leave. To walk away from Adrian, Marcus, and Elijah. From the only place I’ve ever felt like I belonged besides my grandmother. From the men who’ve become my entire world.
“I’ll…I’ll think about it,” I manage past the lump in my throat.
“Good. I’ll expect to speak with you again soon. In the meantime, I suggest you examine your conscience carefully. And perhaps maintain more appropriate distance from the clergy.”
He gives me a standard penance, three Hail Marys and an Our Father, like this was just a normal confession instead of an interrogation that’s left me feeling flayed open and exposed.
I stumble from the booth on unsteady legs, my vision blurring at the edges.
The church hallway tilts sideways, and I put one hand against the wall to steady myself.
“Charlie?”
Elijah’s voice cuts through the fog. I look up to find him standing a few feet away, his soft gaze widening with concern as he takes in whatever he sees on my face.
His golden hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the stained glass, making him look angelic and untouchable, and I want nothing more than to collapse into his arms.
He moves toward me instinctively, his hands reaching for my arms to steady me.
The touch sends electricity shooting through my body despite everything, despite the fear and panic and crushing weight of the Bishop’s words.
His fingers are warm through the thin fabric of my dress, and I can feel his pulse racing where his thumb rests against my inner elbow.
“What happened?” His voice drops lower, more intimate, and I watch his gaze track across my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “You’re pale. You’re shaking.”
I open my mouth to answer, but footsteps echo from the sacristy. Elijah’s hands drop from my arms immediately, and we both step back, putting careful distance between us.
But not before I see the hunger flash in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches with the effort of not pulling me close.
Sister Margaret appears around the corner, her sharp gaze moving between us with calculating precision. “Brother Moreau. Miss Davis.” Her tone suggests she’s noted exactly how close we were standing, exactly how quickly we moved apart.
“Sister.” Elijah’s voice is perfectly controlled, his angel face smoothing into professional courtesy. “I was just checking on Miss Davis. She seemed unwell.”
“How thoughtful.” Sister Margaret’s smile is cold. “Perhaps Miss Davis should rest in her apartment. She does look rather…overwhelmed.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a dismissal.
I nod mutely and flee toward the stairs that lead to my small apartment above the rectory, feeling both their gazes burning into my back.
My legs barely carry me up the narrow staircase, and I’m shaking so hard by the time I reach my door that it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.
Inside, I lean against the closed door and slide down to sit on the floor, my dress pooling around me.
The apartment is quiet except for my ragged breathing and the distant sound of the church bells marking the hour.
I press my hands against my face, trying to stop the tears that want to fall.
I don’t think we can survive this anymore.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Marcus.
Where are you? Are you okay?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
How do I explain that I just confessed to the Bishop?
That I nearly revealed everything?
That his careful questions felt like a noose tightening around all our necks?
Before I can respond, there’s a soft knock on my door. I freeze, my heart hammering.
“Charlie?” Marcus’s voice, rough with concern. “I know you’re in there. Let me in.”
I stand on shaking legs and open the door. Marcus takes one look at my face and steps inside, closing the door behind him despite the risk of being seen. His dark eyes search mine with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
“What happened?” His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I lean into the touch despite knowing I shouldn’t. “Talk to me, querida.”
“Sister Margaret made it clear I needed to do confession, since it’s been awhile. The confession,” I whisper, “it was the Bishop. He knows something. He asked if my feelings involved anyone at the parish, anyone in authority.”
Marcus’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his olive skin. His hands tighten on my face, not painfully, just possessively. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. I deflected. But Marcus, he knows. The way he talked, the things he said…” My voice breaks. “He told me to consider whether my presence here is helping or hindering my attempts to be good. He basically told me to leave.”
“Mierda.” Marcus pulls me against his chest, and I feel his heart racing against my cheek. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and for a moment I let myself pretend we’re safe. That this is allowed. That loving him, loving all of them, isn’t going to destroy everything.
Another knock, softer this time. Elijah’s voice. “Marcus? Charlie? I know you’re both in there.”
Marcus releases me reluctantly, and I open the door to find Elijah standing in the hallway, his angel face troubled. He slips inside quickly, closing the door behind him.
“Sister Margaret is watching,” he says quietly. “She saw me follow you upstairs. She’s going to report this.”
The three of us stand in my tiny apartment, the walls feeling like they’re closing in. I can see the fear in their eyes, the same fear that’s clawing at my chest. Everything we’ve built, everything we’ve risked, it’s all crumbling around us.
“Adrian’s with the Bishop now,” Elijah adds, his voice tight. “Private meeting in his office. I saw them go in together.”
My stomach drops. I move to the window, looking down at the garden below.
From here, I can see Adrian’s office window, can see the shadows of two figures inside.
Adrian’s shoulders are rigid with tension even from this distance.
Marcus joins me at the window, his body close enough that I can feel his warmth. “What do you think the Bishop is asking him?”
“The same things he asked me.” My voice sounds hollow. “About inappropriate relationships.”
Elijah moves to my other side, and suddenly I’m flanked by both of them, their presence both comforting and terrifying. We stand there in silence, watching Adrian’s office window, waiting for something we can’t name.
The meeting stretches on. Minutes feel like hours. My hands twist together, and Marcus covers them with one of his, stilling the nervous movement. Elijah’s fingers brush my shoulder, a touch so light it might be accidental, except I know it’s not.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Adrian emerges from his office.
Even from this distance, I can see how pale he is, how carefully blank his expression.
He stands in the garden for a moment, his head tilted back like he’s praying or trying to breathe, then his gray eyes lift to find my window.
Our gazes lock across the space. Even from here, I can see the weight of whatever just happened written across his face.
He starts walking toward the rectory, toward us, his movements deliberate and controlled. Marcus’s hand tightens on mine. Elijah’s breath catches.
We wait in tense silence until Adrian’s footsteps echo on the stairs. He appears in my doorway moments later, and the four of us stand frozen, the air thick with unspoken fear.
“We need to talk,” Adrian says quietly, his voice carefully controlled. “The Bishop asked me directly if I know which young woman in the parish might be a source of temptation.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“And?” Marcus’s voice is rough. “What did you tell him?”
Adrian’s gray eyes find mine, and I see everything in that look. The love. The fear. The impossible choice he’s been forced to make.
“I said I would look into it,” he says slowly. “We can’t let him think it’s Charlie.”