Chapter 33 Charlie
CHARLIE
The hallway outside the Bishop’s temporary office feels like a tomb. I sit on the hard wooden bench, my hands twisted together in my lap, trying to control the trembling that’s taken over my entire body.
Sister Margaret stands nearby, her sharp blue eyes tracking every nervous gesture I make, every time I bite my lip or shift my weight.
She knows. They all know.
The only question is how much.
The door opens, and Sister Margaret’s voice cuts through the silence. “Miss Davis. The Bishop will see you now.”
My legs barely support me as I stand. The walk into that office feels like walking to my own execution. Bishop Carmine sits behind a borrowed desk, his steel-gray hair catching the early afternoon light streaming through the window.
His deep-set eyes miss nothing as they track my entrance, cataloging every detail of my appearance, my posture, the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Please, sit.” His voice is measured, almost kind, which somehow makes it worse.
I lower myself into the chair across from him, hyperaware of how my dress rides up slightly, how exposed I feel under his scrutiny. Sister Margaret takes a position by the door, her notebook open, pen poised to record everything.
“Miss Davis.” The Bishop folds his hands on the desk, his ruby ring catching the light. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me today.”
“Of course, Your Excellency.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“I understand you’ve been volunteering at St. Michael’s for several months now. Working off a debt to the parish.” His tone is conversational, but there’s steel underneath. “Tell me about that arrangement.”
I explain about the money I took, about Grandma Rose’s medical bills, about Father Cross’s mercy in helping cover some of her bills and allowing me to work off the debit instead of pressing charges for my attempt or kicking me out on my own.
The words come easier than I expected, probably because this part is true, documented, safe.
“And how has that experience been for you?” He leans back slightly, his expression unreadable. “Working so closely with the clergy here?”
“It’s been…good.” I choose my words carefully. “Everyone has been very kind. Very professional.”
“Professional.” He repeats the word slowly, like he’s tasting it. “That’s an interesting choice. Tell me, Miss Davis, why do you spend so much time at St. Michael’s? Beyond your required volunteer hours, I mean.”
My throat tightens. “I…I help where I’m needed. The parish has been good to me.”
“Indeed.” The Bishop pulls a folder from his desk and opens it.
I can’t see what’s inside, but my stomach drops anyway.
“I’ve been observing the parish for several days now.
Speaking with parishioners, reviewing schedules, watching interactions.
” His eyes lift to mine. “You seem to be around the clergy quite frequently. Father Cross, Deacon Reyes, and Brother Moreau especially. Always one or more of them nearby.”
“They’re my supervisors.” The words sound weak even to my own ears. “They oversee my volunteer work.”
“Of course.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “And your relationship with them is purely…supervisory?”
The question hangs in the air like a noose.
I think about Adrian’s hands on my body in his office, his rosary beads pressed between us.
Marcus’s mouth on mine in the confessional, his Spanish whispers making my skin burn.
Elijah’s fingers threading through my hair, his beautiful face promising sin.
The memories make heat flood my cheeks, and I watch the Bishop’s eyes narrow slightly, noting my reaction.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Purely professional.”
“Miss Davis.” He leans forward, and his voice drops to something almost paternal.
“I’ve been a priest for forty years. I’ve heard thousands of confessions, counseled countless souls.
I know when someone is carrying a burden they’re afraid to share.
” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “I can see you’re hiding something.
And I want you to understand that lying to a Bishop is a grave sin. ”
My hands clench in my lap. “I’m not lying.”
“Aren’t you?” His gaze is penetrating, seeing straight through every defense I’ve built. “Let me ask you directly, then. Has anyone at this parish behaved inappropriately toward you? Has anyone crossed boundaries that should not be crossed?”
The careful phrasing gives me an out, and I take it desperately. “No one has behaved inappropriately toward me. Everyone has been respectful and kind.”
It’s technically true. Nothing that’s happened between us has been unwanted or coercive. But the Bishop’s expression tells me he hears what I’m not saying.
“I see.” He makes a note in his folder. “And you’re always around them because…?”
“Because they’re good men.” The words come from somewhere deep inside me, honest despite the danger. “They’ve shown me more kindness than I deserve. They’ve given me a chance when no one else would.”
Something flickers in the Bishop’s eyes, but I can’t read it. He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to hold his gaze, to not look away like a guilty child.
“Miss Davis, I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to search your conscience.
” His voice is gentle but firm. “To pray about what you’ve told me today.
To consider whether there’s anything else you need to share.
” He closes the folder. “We’ll speak again tomorrow morning. And I expect complete honesty.”
The dismissal is clear. I stand on shaking legs, mumble something about understanding, and flee the office. Sister Margaret’s knowing look follows me down the hallway.
I make it to the bathroom before the tears come. My hands grip the sink as I stare at my reflection, seeing the guilt etched across my face. How did I think we could hide this?
How did I believe we could keep this secret when everything about us screams the truth?
The bathroom door opens. I expect Sister Margaret, but it’s just Mrs. Patterson, who gives me a sympathetic smile and asks if I’m alright. I nod, splash cold water on my face, and escape before she can ask questions I can’t answer.
The hallway outside the Bishop’s office is empty now except for Marcus, who’s been summoned next.
Our eyes meet for a brief second as we pass, and the look that passes between us communicates everything we can’t say aloud. Fear. Love. Desperation.
His jaw is clenched tight, his tattooed arms rigid at his sides, and I want nothing more than to throw myself into his arms and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
But Sister Margaret is watching from her position by the door, her sharp eyes cataloging this moment, this look, adding it to whatever evidence she’s building.
I force myself to keep walking.
The wait is torture. I retreat to my small apartment above the rectory, pacing the narrow space like a caged animal.
Every sound makes me jump, every footstep in the hallway sends my heart racing. I try to pray, but the words won’t come.
I try to bake, but my hands shake too badly to measure ingredients. I just…wait.
When Marcus finally appears at my door, his face tells me everything before he speaks.
His dark eyes are stormy, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his olive skin. He slips inside quickly, closing the door behind him, and for a moment we just stare at each other.
“How bad?” I whisper.
“Bad.” His voice is rough. “He knows about the sacristy. Sister Margaret gave him a full report.”
My stomach drops. “What did you tell him?”
“That it was a moment of weakness. That nothing actually happened.” Marcus runs his hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I didn’t implicate you or the others. But Charlie…” He moves closer, and I can see the fear in his eyes. “He knows. Maybe not everything, but enough.”
“What did he say?”
Marcus’s jaw clenches tighter. “He reminded me that I left the priesthood once for a woman. Asked if I was repeating history.” His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“We need to tell Adrian and Elijah.” He reaches for me, then stops himself, his hand hovering in the air between us. Even now, even in private, we’re too afraid to touch. “We need to figure out what to do.”
That evening, we gather in the church basement, the stone walls offering the only privacy we can find.
Adrian’s face is pale, his gray eyes dark with barely contained fury as Marcus goes over and over our questions and answers.
Elijah sits on the edge of the table, his angel face troubled, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that nervous gesture he has.
“He’s isolating us.” Adrian’s voice is tight with control. “Questioning us separately, looking for inconsistencies in our stories.”
“What did you say?” Elijah asks Marcus.
“The truth about the sacristy. That we had a moment of weakness but nothing happened.” Marcus’s accent thickens with stress. “I didn’t mention anything else. Didn’t implicate either of you.”
“And Charlie?” Adrian’s eyes find mine across the small space, and the heat in his gaze makes my breath catch despite everything. “What did you tell him?”
“That everyone has been professional. That no one has behaved inappropriately.” I wrap my arms around myself. “He didn’t believe me. He gave me twenty-four hours to ‘search my conscience’ before our second interview.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
I watch Adrian’s hands curl into fists, see Marcus’s jaw clench tighter, notice how Elijah’s fingers have stilled their nervous drumming.
They’re all thinking the same thing I am. We’re trapped. The Bishop is dismantling our defenses, forcing us toward confession or destruction.
“We could tell the truth.” Marcus’s voice is quiet but steady. “All of it. Face the consequences together.”
“That would destroy Charlie.” Adrian’s response is immediate, fierce. “She’d be labeled a seductress who corrupted three men of God. Her reputation, her future, everything would be ruined.”
“And you’d all lose your positions.” I force the words past the lump in my throat. “The church would be shut down. Everything you’ve built would be destroyed.”
“So what do we do?” Elijah’s crystalline blue eyes move between us. “Keep lying? Hope the Bishop gives up?”
“He won’t give up.” Adrian’s voice is flat. “Men like him never do. He’ll keep pushing until something breaks.”
I look at each of them in turn. Adrian with his severe beauty and barely controlled violence, standing rigid by the wall like he’s fighting himself.
Marcus with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes burning with protective fury.
Elijah perched on the table’s edge, his delicate features shadowed with worry.
These men who’ve become my entire world, who’ve shown me what love looks like when it’s real and complicated and worth fighting for.
“Then we make sure nothing breaks.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “We stick to our stories. We’re careful. We survive this.”
Adrian’s gray eyes hold mine, and I see everything he’s not saying. The fear. The love. The desperate need to protect me even if it costs him everything. His jaw clenches as he fights the urge to cross the room and pull me close.
Marcus shifts his weight, and I catch him staring at the curve of my hip where my dress clings.
His hands flex at his sides, and I know he’s remembering how that hip felt beneath his palm, how my body arched into his touch.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly despite the terror surrounding us.
Elijah’s gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, tracing the line of my throat. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I remember how that tongue felt on my skin, how his whispered praise made me feel beautiful and wanted and whole.
The sexual tension in the small basement is suffocating, mixing with fear and desperation until I can barely breathe. We’re all thinking the same thing.
This might be the last time we’re together like this, the last moment before everything falls apart.
“The Bishop made his position clear.” Marcus’s voice breaks the charged silence. “He’s recommending my removal from the parish unless I can prove my commitment to my vows.” His dark eyes find mine, and the pain in them makes my chest ache.