Page 34 of Priestly Sins

I’ve asked Killian for a few favors—ones that he has grumbled, loudly and continually about, but still he has acquiesced to.

Today he is no less grumpy.

“Aye?” he grumbles when he answers the call.

“Killian, it’s Sean.”

“What?”

“No pleasantries for your favorite nephew?”

“What do ya want, lad?”

He and I work through some details on my retirement home he is overseeing being built on the property. What this means is he grouses and complains about people, equipment, and supplies. That, and the noise. It’s got to be almost a half a mile away from his cottage on our property. When I say “our” property, he bristles and curses me in Gaelic. Occasionally he does it in English as well, just for good measure.

I want him to live out his days in peace where he chooses, and I want to support him if he ever gets to the place where he needs help to do that. His wife has long since passed and they never had children, so he’s stuck with me if he’s going to be independent. He curses about that too, but my answer never changes.

“Lad, I’m not interested in a family reunion.”

“Killian? I’m the only family you’ve got. And you’re the only I have left. Know you don’t trust me yet, old man, but I am not my father.”

He hmpffs and ends the call.

* * *

Weeks passand my dilemma never changes.

Enzo still breathes and I, the good pastor, smile and bide my time.

I wait and I plan.

But mostly, I just fucking wait.

Nineteen

On a hot July evening, I follow Sirona, wearing a tiny green tee that hugs her tits too tightly, as she leaves her shop early and heads toward the Central Business District. Her behavior lately has been erratic, and I know this because I’ve been watching her more than I’ll admit. She’s antsy—jumps when people move around her. Her head is always on a swivel. Her gaze, while alert, is vacant at best, fearful at worst.

She hasn’t come back to confession. Not that I expect it, just hope for it since it’s private and personal. Little risk for her, even less for me.

While she drives, I notice a black SUV keeping pace with her, and since she isn’t speeding, this is odd. Louisiana drivers don’t allow for much space and rarely tolerate speed-limit drivers. I pull back just a bit, something in my gut telling me to slow down and watch.

She winds her way to a parking garage, another oddity for her. The Escalade does the same. I park on the street and remove my collar and black shirt, leaving only the graphic tee below. Throwing on a long-sleeved shirt and a baseball cap, I feed the meter and begin to wander like a tourist. It’s too damn hot for this extra shirt, but the baby blue is so different from my normal black, it is a refreshing change and a great disguise. She exits the garage on foot, not seeing the goon behind her doing the same. As nonchalantly as possible, I follow, allowing them to lead and not drawing their attention.

I text her.

Me:Find a women’s clothing store or duck into the D-Day museum and go to the women’s room.

Sirona:Who is this?

Me:Sean. Need you to trust me.

Sirona:How do you know where I am? How did you get this number?

Me:Explain later. Just do it.

Sirona:Okay.

Her paused steps quicken and she makes a hard right, the museum in her sights. She walks in through the restaurant entrance and winds her way down the hall to the women’s room. The glass walkway is visible from outside where the goon stands brazen, leaning against the wrought iron fence. He watches while grabbing his phone and punching the display furiously with his fat thumbs. The sweat rolls down his rounded forehead and he shifts restlessly.