2. Trinity
Chapter 2
Trinity
I was right. There’s barely enough space on my side of the closet to hang the few dresses and jeans I have. Even the four cubbyholes on my side of the cabinet are barely large enough to fit a pair of shoes.
After shoving as much of my clothing into the closet as I can fit, I shove my almost-empty bags under the cot.
I perch reluctantly on the creaky bed with my thick bible in my lap, tracing my fingers over the gold title embossed on the white leather cover. I flip it open and take out the photo nestled between the first few pages.
My father’s stern eyes stare out at me from a decade past. Despite his no-nonsense expression, he looks dashing in his full clerical vestments.
I wish I had a photo of mom too. Even better, the three of us together. But my parents considered photos a form of vanity, much like having more than four sets of clothes to rotate out during any given week.
Makeup? Please.
Jewelry? That money belongs in the church’s coffers.
If they knew they were going to die months before my eighteen birthday, would things have been different? Would we have spent less time in church and more time in the park, or going to the beach, or playing ball in the backyard?
Nope.
I open the first drawer and put the bible inside, shoving it as far back as I can.
I have no intention of reading it. I only brought it along because Mother had always treasured it. I didn’t even know about the photo until I accidentally dropped the book on its spine while I was collecting my things from our house a week ago.
Twenty-seven days.
Not even a month since they’ve been gone, and it already feels like a lifetime ago. I only remember bits and pieces since then, and most of those I try to forget.
Fuck you.
I kick the drawer closed with my ballerina pump, and there’s the unpleasant sound of something wooden splintering.
“Already destroying school property on your first day?”
I rush to my feet and whirl around. There’s a guy in the doorway, leaning with his shoulder against the jamb.
He’s tall and lean-muscled with a sharp nose, angular jaw, and hooded blue eyes.
Even with his military-style haircut that leaves little more than a layer of fuzz on his perfectly shaped head, he looks like a fashion model. We didn’t have magazines around the house, but I saw them once or twice in the library. He’s wearing Saint Amos’s school uniform, but his collar is loose, his tie crooked.
A smug smile carves a dimple into his cheek. “You miss the turn off for Sisters of Mercy?”
He runs his gaze down my body before snapping them back to my eyes. “Or did your parents want a boy so bad they never told you you’re a girl?”
I shake my head, and stagger back when he slips inside the room.
“Can you talk?” He glances about the room as if the answer doesn’t concern him. “Or are you an orphan and a mute?”
I’m starting to wonder the same thing, because I seem incapable of forming words. It doesn’t help that he keeps moving closer, and the only way to keep my distance in this tiny room would be to climb over the bed.
“’Cos I’m pretty sure they’d tell the hallway monitor to expect a mute orphan.” His eyes flicker to me. “Especially one as adorably fuckable as you.”
Hallway monitor?
Adorably…fuckable?
My cheeks flare with heat. “Excuse me?” I bark out.
“Aw,” the hallway monitor croons, pouting his lush lips. “You just became slightly less tragic.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Air whistles through his teeth. He rushes forward. The closet door bangs as he pushes me up against it so hard, the air knocks out of my lungs.
“How dare you blaspheme in the House of the Lord, you little slut?” he hisses.
I open my mouth to scream but yelling for help isn’t an option once his fingers wrap around my throat. He presses so hard my face flushes hot with trapped blood.
He leans close enough for his breath to caress my lips, his voice a dangerously quiet growl. “I don’t like surprises.”
“Please,” I squeak, grabbing his wrists and digging my fingernails into his skin.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Maybe you’re not a girl,” he murmurs, his mouth so close to my ear that his lips brush my skin.
“That would explain why they sent you here, and not to Sisters of Mercy.” His free hand skims across my stomach and latches onto the top of my jeans. With a twist of his wrist, the button pops open.
I struggle frantically, but I can’t let go of his wrist in case he strangles me to death, and wriggling my hips around doesn’t stop him.
“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he murmurs. His fingertips slide behind the elastic band of my underwear.
My body goes stiff. Nothing exists but the feel of his fingers inching down, down, down .
A gong sounds.
It’s not exceptionally loud, but it’s so unexpected I jerk in surprise. He jerks his hand out of my underwear and steps back, releasing my throat.
I cough, sagging against the closet as cool air rushes down my throat, one hand pressed to my throat as if to feel if it’s still in the same shape it was before.
“Saved by the bell,” he says through a laugh. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes as he studies me trying to catch my breath.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” I grate out, the effort making me cough again.
His face transforms into a hard, unfriendly mask. “Next time I hear you cussing, it’s going on your record.”
He stalks out of the room on long, slender legs, leaving behind dread and a lingering scent of something spicy, like cinnamon.
I count ten thundering heartbeats before I dare go over to the door and check if he’s gone. The hallway outside is empty. Slamming closed the door, I back up into the room until the bed knocks into the back of my knees. I sit on automatic, staring at the door through wide eyes.
Who was that guy?
Why on earth did he?—
I flinch at a knock on the door. My heart pitter-patters anxiously in my chest.
Oh God, he’s back.
But then logic intervenes.
Of course it’s not him.
He’d never knock.
So what fresh hell is this then?
“Trinity?”
Another knock.
I jump to my feet and race to throw open the door.
A man in his late thirties stands at the threshold, his mouth set in a gentle curve.
“Good to see you again,” he says, his warm chestnut brown eyes wrinkling in the corners as his smile inches up.
“Father Gabriel! It’s?—”
A wave of emotion crashes into me, choking the words. His is the first familiar face I’ve seen in weeks.
I’d never known what loneliness was. The longest I’d been apart from my parents had been a few hours. But from the moment my parents left for church that night, I was alone.
As soon as their car impacted that barrier, I had no one.
A week later I realized the policeman who knocked on my door that night hadn’t come to tell me my parents had died in a car accident. He’d actually come to say that nothing would ever be the same again.
I was destined for a dark, lonely future where flowers didn’t bloom, the sun no longer shone, and food had lost its taste.
For weeks, I’ve been handed from person to person like a goddamn parcel with no return address, the receiver simply marked as ‘To Whom it May Concern’.
Until now.
Finally, the other shoe has dropped.
Strong arms wrap around me, squeeze me, warm me as I break down into ragged sobs.
Cigarette smoke and candle wax waft up to me in a familiar and oh-so-comforting smell.
I cling to Father Gabriel like I’d fall if I were to let go.
When he murmurs, “Hush, child. You’re safe now,” I can barely hear him over the sound of my own anguish.
Hush, child.
You’re safe now.