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Let them look.

Soon they’ll have much more to talk about than vague suspicions.

I push the door open, feeling its weight, like I’m holding the lid to my very own coffin. As we cross the threshold, I’m acutely aware of the smell of incense.

That goddamn nightmare inducing smell.

Behind us, the door swings shut with a soft whisper. The sound of finality—of no return.

I glance at Mercy.

The perfect offering.

I straighten my shoulders, adjust my tie, and lead Mercy into the heart of the church, where judgment waits like a silent predator, ready to ambush her and rip out her throat.

I guide Mercy to a pew at the back of the church, my hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. The wooden bench creaks as we sit, the sound drawing several heads in ourdirection before they quickly turn away—too polite or too scared to stare.

Light filters through stained glass windows, casting muted halos across bent heads and folded hands. From our position at the back, I can see the entire congregation—rows of pressed suits and modest dresses, all facing forward like obedient sheep.

They don’t know that they are waiting for slaughter, but that it’s coming from the inside, from one of their own.

Mercy’s parents sit in the front pew. They haven’t looked back once since we entered. I wonder if they suspect what’s coming.

“Are you okay?” I whisper to Mercy.

She nods mechanically, eyes fixed on the altar. Her hands twist in her lap. I place my hand over hers, squeezing to stop her.

“Just breathe,” I tell her. “It will all be over soon. Then we’ll never have to come back.”

Her eyes flash open and she looks over at me, her mouth dropped open.

She hadn’t been expecting that.

The organ begins to play, and it vibrates through me like a second heartbeat. The congregation rises as one, and we follow, though Mercy stumbles and nearly falls forward as she does.

When he steps up onto the podium, I watch Pastor Williams. He’s older, in his 60s, with intense eyes and a carefully calculated exterior. He’s known Mercy since she was a child.

He baptized her.

Confirmed her.

He’s like a member of her extended family.

He hasn’t looked at her once today.

Pastor Williams approaches the pulpit with a measured smile on his face. He places his Bible down, adjusts the microphone, and sweeps his gaze across the congregation before speaking. He is careful not to look at me.

Bastard.

“Today,” he says, “I want to talk about penance.”

Beside me, Mercy stiffens. I resist the urge to smile. The topic couldn’t be more perfect if I’d chosen it myself.

All the pieces are falling into place.

“Penance is not merely saying ‘I’m sorry.’ It is not a quick prayer before bed or a hasty confession followed by the same sins committed again and again.” Pastor Williams leans forward, his hands gripping the edges of the pulpit. “True penance requires acknowledgment. Requires remorse. Requires change. It requires true belief, and regret for ones actions.”

I let my gaze drift from the pastor to the small table beside the pulpit, where a laptop and projector remote sit waiting.