Chapter 19
Paul's apartment is a mess, and I could cry with relief.
Not because it's nicer than the Overton. It's not. It's because it belongs to an ordinary life.
No portraits judging me from the walls, no dark art bordering on the profane or old books full of terrible secrets.
Just the cramped studio of a guy who's rarely home. Camera gear stacked against one wall, hard drives lined up on the desk. I don’t even mind the takeout container on the windowsill that I choose not to examine too closely.
The messiness is the appeal. The place feels normal, the ratty couch feels like home.
"Nice place," I say.
"It has character."
"Is that what that smell is?"
I flash him a playful grin.
Paul hands me a beer from a refrigerator that contains almost nothing else, then settles beside me with his laptop, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Outside, rain taps softly against the window.
He hits a few keys, and a photograph of an old city church fills the screen. A figure stands in front of it.
The man from outside my building.
Younger. Much younger. Dressed in black, with a white collar.
Holy shit. He's a priest.
"Meet Father Dominik Vale," Paul says. “Parish priest at St. Michael’s Parish, until about fifteen years ago."
He clicks another result, and an archived newspaper article appears.
CHURCH INVESTIGATES LOCAL PRIEST.
My stomach tightens. I start reading aloud. “Accusations of inappropriate conduct involving minors...” My voice trails off as the horror of this sinks in.
"The Church removed him," Paul says quietly. "No criminal charges. Then he disappeared."
I study the photograph again. Father Dominik looks younger, but it's the same face. The same guarded eyes. And something about it doesn't fit.
"This feels too convenient."
Paul glances at me. "What do you mean?"
I don't answer right away, because another photo has caught my eye beneath the article. Dominik leaving a courthouse, reporters crowding around him, cameras flashing.
Then I see her.
Half-hidden in the background. Elegant black business attire, dark sunglasses.
Every muscle in my body locks. "Wait."
Paul enlarges the image. The pixels sharpen, and a silver pendant grows visible around the woman's neck.
It’s Eleanor. Has to be. She's simply watching Dominik, an icy smile touching her lips.
Paul stares. "You think she set him up?"
I barely hear him. My mind is racing. All the pieces are falling into place. The pendant, the occult books, Dominik's terror when he saw me.
"I think he knew something about her." The certainty surprises even me. "Something dangerous."
Paul looks back at the screen. "And Eleanor buried him."
I turn toward him. "Can you find him?"
His hands are already hitting the keys. "I wouldn't be much of a reporter if I couldn't. Institutional scandals leave paper trails."
New tabs multiply across the screen. Church investigation, civil complaint, property records, court filings. I watch him work, and this time he isn't politely entertaining another impossible theory. He's a reporter chasing the truth.
"Come on, Father Vale," he mutters. "Where'd you crawl off to?"
A page finally loads. Paul leans closer. "There."
An old church directory. ST. MICHAEL'S CHURCH.
"Closed after the scandal," Paul says, scrolling. "Condemned but it's still listed as his last known address." He pauses. "There's a phone number."
"Call it."
For the first time since I met him, Paul hesitates. Just for a heartbeat.
Then he dials the number.