Sylvie
There’s no waiting room. It’s just one big space with a vaulted ceiling and gigantic windows, set up to make you feel small in the face of God.
At the far end of the room there’s a table, and the requisite gauzy curtains, and some paintings I can’t really see.
I think one is of a cat? A holy cat? Is this sacrilege of some kind?
I’m not cold, but I catch myself rubbing my arms.
Knox sees my discomfort. “Did you see the rack over there? With all the little hooks on it?”
“Oh wow. Is that—is that something they use in non-Catholic churches?”
“What do you think they use it for?”
“Do they, like . . . hang you up by your shirt collar, if you’re a sinner? And then they hit a button and it crests you up in front of the congregation where you—oh.”
“Just got it, huh,” he says.
“Yeah, so this place was definitely also a dry cleaner’s.”
“I was enjoying your fire and brimstone, though. That was pretty intense imagining.”
“I try.”
A door in the back opens. That’s probably the place where they kept the priest clothes, or the dry cleaning chemicals. A woman drifts out, her hair a riot of blond curls. She keeps her hands folded in the long sleeves of her dress, and when she gets close enough, I notice her dagger-blue eyes.
Huh.
“Copy, paste of Miss Tara,” I whisper to Knox, and walk to her with my hand outstretched. “Hi. I’m Sylvie. I’m guessing your rate is fifty dollars for both of us for a half hour?”
“That,” she says with dignity, “is highway robbery. I charge forty-five.” She doesn’t shake my hand.
“I’m Knox,” he says, with a head nod.
“I am Miss Mara.”
Knox makes a sound like he’s inhaled a wasp. I am trying so hard not to do anything weird with my face.
“May I ask how you came to my door?”
“Utter happenstance,” I tell her. “I’ve never seen or heard anything like you before.”
She gives me a look. Then produces a vape, takes a hit, and jerks her head. “Follow me,” she says.