Page 91 of Priestly Sins

“No, PawPaw. He had a red face and red hair and red eyebrows.”

“Someone you know from the village?”

“I don’t think so.” She pauses, staring at the bouquet in her hand and playing with one of the thin petals. “He didn’t talk like people here. He talked like people in America.”

I’m on high alert now. That’s just wrong.

“And where’s your poppa?”

“He went to the city this morning. Mommy says someone called him to come visit. Anyway…” She drags out the word for so long I’m going to lose my mind.

“Mommy said I should come see you and run as fast I can to show you my pretty pink flowers.”

“They are beautiful!”

“The man tried to take them back and grabbed at my dress, but Mommy kept saying ‘run to PawPaw’ so I ran all the way to show you.”

I grab for my pocket and the stupid cell phone Sirona insisted I have. I thumb through all three contacts I have and get to his.

Four rings and voicemail. Take two. Three more rings before “Killian?”

“Get home. Now, lad!”

“What is it?”

“Your daughter has a bouquet of pink daisies in her hands.”

“Fuck!”

“Yes. See you after.”

“On my way! FUCK!!”

I slide the phone back into my pocket and stare down at Clara.

“Can I have some water, PawPaw?”

“Little lass, sit tight, all right?”

“Where are you going?”

“Gonna go meet this leprechaun. Stay here and make sure Winkles has company.”

“Okay. I’ll go find him now.” Down goes the bouquet on my kitchen table and Clara is off to search for my cat.

I run as fast as I can through the wet, spring slush. The cold mud pulls my shoes in as I go. The hollow, sucking followed by the pop of my shoes sets the rhythm.

I’ve got to give up the cigarettes. I’ll be lucky to make it to the house before my chest collapses.

Instead of barging in the front door, I sneak in through the mudroom and down the hall. The muddy, wet sound of my shoes surely would give me away, except they can’t be heard over the grunting and groaning of a man, the keening tears of a woman, and the continual whining and barking of a dog.

When I peek my head around the corner toward the living room, the sight before me turns my blood cold. Sirona is trapped below the man Clara described—wrestling, kicking. Brave lass is fighting and her face looks more determined than afraid. But she is struggling and vulnerable.

He straddles her waist, trying to pin her hands to stop them from wailing on him. She’s gotten in a couple of licks… but so has he. Blood covers both of them. There are splatters on the floor, on Hagrid.

He has one of her kitchen knives in his left hand. Her fighting means he can’t get a clean shot, but she’s getting nicked in the process. The glint on the knife is enough to make me come unstuck. A guillotine might as well be poised above her head.

He punches her with his right, just above the eye and that’s when a roar rips from my chest and I barrel toward them both, bowling into him down low.