Chapter 34 Elijah
ELIJAH
The encrypted email arrives while I’m reviewing sheet music in the choir loft, and a chill dances down my spine when I read the subject line.
I know what Whitmore is doing to you.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, every instinct screaming this is a trap.
But desperation makes people reckless, and after yesterday’s interrogations by the Bishop, after watching Charlie’s face crumble when Marcus explained the Bishop’s decision, I’m willing to take risks I’d normally avoid.
I open it.
Brother Moreau, my name is Jennifer Torres.
I was Victory Life’s bookkeeper until six months ago when I was fired for asking too many questions.
I’ve been following the news about St. Michael’s struggles, and I can’t stay silent anymore.
I have documentation that could change everything.
Please meet me. I’ll explain everything, but I need anonymity.
Coffee shop on Route 9, two towns over. Tomorrow at noon. Come alone. –JT
I read it three times, my mind spinning through possibilities.
This could be Whitmore setting another trap. Or it could be the miracle we’ve been praying for.
I forward the email to Adrian with a single line. We need to talk.
His response comes immediately. My office.
Adrian’s face is grim when I arrive, Marcus already there, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl firmly in place.
Charlie sits in the corner chair, her hazel eyes red-rimmed from crying.
The sight of her makes my chest tight with conflicting emotions.
I want to cross the room and pull her close, to promise everything will be okay.
But the Bishop’s investigation has made even looking at her feel dangerous.
“Read it,” I say, handing Marcus my phone.
He scans the email, his jaw clenching tighter with each line, and I watch understanding dawn in his dark eyes.
“It could be a setup,” Marcus says, his accent thickening with stress.
“Or it could be exactly what we need.” Adrian’s gray eyes find mine. “You’re going?”
“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “If there’s even a chance this is real, we have to take it.”
Charlie stands, moving closer. Her simple dress clings to curves I’ve memorized in stolen moments, and I force my gaze back to her face before my body can respond.
“Be careful,” she whispers. “Whitmore is dangerous.”
The concern in her voice does something to me. Makes me want to be the kind of man who deserves her worry, her care.
I’ve spent my whole life performing, being the angel-faced choir director everyone expects.
But with Charlie, I can be real. Flawed. Human.
Mon Dieu, I love her. The thought hits me with devastating clarity. Not just want, not just need. Love. The kind that makes you willing to risk everything.
“I will,” I promise, and the words feel like a vow.
The coffee shop is generic and forgettable, exactly the kind of place you’d choose for a clandestine meeting. I arrive early, positioning myself in a corner booth with a clear view of the entrance. My coffee grows cold as I wait, my mind spinning through worst-case scenarios.
She arrives exactly on time. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled into a severe bun, wearing jeans and a nondescript jacket. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention.
Haunted. Afraid.
The look of someone who’s been carrying a terrible secret for too long.
JT slides into the booth across from me, clutching a manila envelope like it contains explosives.
Her gaze darts around the coffee shop, cataloging exits, checking faces. “You came alone?”
“As requested.” I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. “Thank you for reaching out.”
“I shouldn’t be doing this.” Her hands shake as she sets the envelope on the table between us. “I signed an NDA. Whitmore threatened to sue me into bankruptcy if I ever spoke about what I saw.”
“Then why are you here?”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see rage burning beneath the fear. “Because I can’t watch him destroy another church. He’s hurting more people while I stay silent.” She pushes the envelope toward me. “It’s all in here. Everything.”
I open it carefully, and my breath catches. Bank statements. Emails. Invoices. Contracts. Page after page of documentation that paints a picture of systematic corruption.
“He’s been embezzling for years,” JT explains, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
“Fake vendors that don’t exist. Inflated expenses for services never rendered.
Money laundering through church donations.
” She points to a bank statement. “See that transfer? Two hundred thousand dollars labeled ‘building fund.’ It went directly to his personal account.”
My hands shake as I flip through the pages. An email where Whitmore jokes about “stupid sheep” funding his lifestyle. Invoices for construction work that was never done. Contracts with vendors whose addresses don’t exist.
“There’s more.” JT’s voice cracks. “The affairs. At least three female staff members that I know of. All paid off with church funds to sign NDAs and disappear quietly.”
She pulls out more documents. Non-disclosure agreements signed by women whose names I don’t recognize.
Payment records showing large sums transferred to personal accounts. Photos that make my stomach turn.
“I was one of them,” JT admits, and the shame in her voice makes my chest ache.
“Not the affairs. But I witnessed the financial fraud. Tried to report it internally. Whitmore called me into his office, showed me what his lawyers could do to me if I ever spoke about it. He threatened my family. My career. Everything.” Tears stream down her face.
“I took the money and stayed quiet. And I’ve hated myself every day since. ”
I reach across the table, covering her shaking hands with mine. “You’re speaking now. That takes courage.”
“It’s too late for courage.” She pulls her hands away, wiping her eyes. “I can’t come forward publicly. The NDA is ironclad. But I can give you copies of everything. Let you use it however you need to stop him.”
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Why risk this for us?”
Jennifer’s smile is sad. “Because I’ve been watching what he’s doing to St. Michael’s.
The whisper campaigns, the sabotage, the systematic destruction.
It’s what he did to my last church before Victory Life.
Tore it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left.
” She meets my eyes. “Someone has to stop him. And if I can help, even anonymously, maybe I can live with myself again.”
I take the envelope, feeling its weight like a physical thing. “I promise to protect your identity.”
“Just stop him.” She stands, preparing to leave. “Stop him before he destroys anyone else.”
She’s gone before I can respond, disappearing into the afternoon crowd like a ghost.
That evening, I spread the documents across Adrian’s desk like tarot cards predicting our future.
Marcus and Charlie are already there, still reeling from the Bishop’s interrogations.
The air in the small office is thick with exhaustion and barely contained panic.
“Mon Dieu,” I breathe, and they all turn to look at me. “We have him.”
Adrian moves first, his gray eyes scanning the bank statements with increasing fury. His hands shake as he reads, and I watch his jaw clench so tight I hear his teeth grind. “He’s joking about them. About the parishioners funding his lifestyle.”
Marcus finds the transfer records, his tattooed fingers tracing the numbers. “Two hundred thousand dollars. Straight to his personal account.” His accent thickens with rage. “While we’re struggling to keep the lights on, he’s stealing from his own congregation.”
Charlie discovers the NDAs, her hazel eyes widening with each page. “These women. They were coerced. You can see it in the language.” Her voice breaks slightly. “He destroyed their lives and paid them to stay quiet.”
We work in silence, each of us processing the magnitude of what we’re holding. This isn’t just evidence of financial impropriety. This is systematic corruption, abuse of power, the kind of evil that destroys faith itself.
“We could destroy him,” Marcus says finally, his dark eyes burning. “Release this to the media, the authorities. End him completely.”
“We should.” Adrian’s voice is rough. “Men like Whitmore don’t deserve mercy.”
But I hear the hesitation underneath. The priest who wants to turn the other cheek warring with the man who will do anything to protect what’s his.
I watch his gaze find Charlie, see the hunger flash across his face before he buries it.
Even now, even with everything falling apart, he can’t stop wanting her.
Charlie shifts in her chair, and the movement draws all our attention. Her dress rides up slightly, revealing more of her thighs, and I watch Marcus’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
Adrian’s breathing changes, becomes more controlled, like he’s fighting himself.
And I’m no better. I imagine those thighs wrapped around my waist, remembering the sounds she makes when we claim her.
Stop. I force my thoughts back to the present danger. We’re holding evidence that could save us or damn us, depending on how we use it.
“Ray Kowalski,” Marcus says suddenly. “The PI. He seemed uncomfortable working for Whitmore. What if we approach him? Offer him a better deal?”
Adrian’s expression shifts, calculating. “We don’t have money to compete with Victory Life.”
“I have some savings,” I offer. “From before I came here. Not much, but something.”
“I have money from before the priesthood,” Adrian admits quietly. “I’ve never touched it. Kept it for emergencies.” His gray eyes find mine. “This qualifies.”
Marcus nods. “I can contribute what little I have.”
We pool our resources, counting out what we can spare without completely bankrupting ourselves. Three thousand dollars. It’s not much compared to what Whitmore can offer, but maybe it’s enough.
The diner where we meet Ray is the same one where Charlie works, and I can’t help scanning the room for her familiar form.
She’s not here, probably at the church, but the scent of coffee and grease reminds me of watching her move between tables, her body graceful despite the exhaustion written across her face.
Ray Kowalski looks older in person, more worn down. He slides into the booth across from us, his expression wary. “This better be good. Whitmore doesn’t like his employees taking meetings with the competition.”
“We’re not competition,” Adrian says, his voice carefully controlled. “We’re victims of his campaign to destroy us.”
Marcus slides the envelope across the table. “Look at this. Then tell us if you still want to work for him.”
Ray opens it, and I watch his face change as he reads. Shock. Disgust. Rage. He flips through page after page, his jaw clenching tighter with each revelation.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes finally. “I knew he was dirty, but this…” He looks up at us. “You’re offering me what? Three grand to switch sides?”
“To help us gather additional proof,” Adrian clarifies. “To document his activities. To be our eyes and ears.”
Ray is quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against the table. Then he pushes the money back toward us. “Keep it. I’ll do this pro bono.”
“Why?” Marcus’s voice is suspicious.
“Because some things matter more than a paycheck.” Ray’s expression hardens.
“I became a PI to help people, not to enable charlatan preachers who steal from their congregations. Whitmore makes me sick.” He taps the envelope.
“This makes me sick. So yeah, I’ll help you.
But I don’t want your money. Consider it penance for the surveillance photos I took. ”
Relief floods through me so intense it’s almost painful. We’re not alone anymore. We have an ally, evidence, and a fighting chance.
Back at Adrian’s office, we spread the documents out again, the four of us standing around his desk like generals planning a war.
The evidence is damning, irrefutable, enough to destroy Whitmore completely.