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Sixteen

Aidan

The ride to the church is tense, and I’m immediately regretting trying to push my religion on her.

If she doesn’t want to be Catholic, I can’t actually “make her” be Catholic.

I can make her attend Mass with me, but that’s likely going to have to be the compromise.

If her lack of Catholicism didn’t sway me up until this point, it shouldn’t be factoring in now.

It’s not as though her lack of religion is any surprise to me. Not that religion has improved me.

I’m not sure what exactly I thought Madison’s reaction was going to be to all of this. I’d somehow convinced myself that I could simply display my wealth and everything I’d become, and she’d be so impressed and relieved to have money again that she’d fall into my arms.

Honestly, when stated that way, it’s pretty cartoonish. But it seemed so logical in my head at the time.

I’ve cleaned up and toughened up since I was thirteen after all. And I saw the way she responded to me in the car when I drove her home that night—before she knew who I was. How can my actions as such a young kid still have such an impact on how she sees me?

I thought I could just get her drunk on our chemistry and displays of wealth, and gifts, and the grandeur of the wedding and that perfect Dior gown, and the size of my estate, and the size of…

other things… and that somewhere in all of that, she’d fall in love with me.

It’s the fairy tale right? That Disney Princess shit they all want?

Maybe I should have gotten her a library.

“We’re here,” I say unnecessarily. She can see we’re here. This car may have dark tinted windows but they aren’t that dark. I wonder suddenly if people will find it weird that we’re at Mass so soon. Honeymoons are customary, after all.

I should have taken her on one. I should have made time to take her on a trip away from all this where maybe I could get her to forget she’s little more than my prisoner.

But I’m not sure she would have interpreted a honeymoon as any more than further isolation from her family and friends. Erica in particular.

I help her out of the car. I’m not sure how she walks on such high heels, but even with them, she’s still a little shorter than me.

The Mass has already started, and we slip into the back of the church.

The assistant priest is out of town this week, so they have some young guy I’ve never seen before.

“Where’s Father Rossi?” she asks.

I shrug, and we sit in the back row. I really should have taken her on a honeymoon.

I’m sure the official statement is that Rossi is out sick or something until they can figure out what to do about his sudden disappearance and come up with a better story.

We missed the part where they announced whatever they announced.

I’m not even sure if they realize yet that he’s never coming back.

I wonder suddenly if there will be a missing person’s report or if the Church will send their own team of investigators to inquire about this sudden disappearance.

I really should have factored so many more things into this particular kill.

It overlaps too much with my day-to-day life.

Maybe Brian is right. Maybe I am getting sloppy.

Even though I didn’t kill Rossi at this location, being at Mass today feels like returning to the scene of the crime. I keep imagining that some old Italian grandmother will stand up, point a gnarled and bejeweled finger at me and say: “That one… that’s the demon that took Father Rossi!”

But of course nothing happens… just the endless droning of the service.

I zone out during most of it, responding at the appropriate times by rote memory. I don’t even have to look at my program. I glance over to find Maddie following along with the printed liturgy.

When it’s time to go up for communion part, I remain in my seat with Maddie.

“Aren’t you going up?” she whispers.

I shake my head, hoping she’ll let that be it.

“Why not?”

“I can’t. I haven’t been to confession.”

The shocked look she gives me is almost comical.

I genuinely don’t think until this moment that she realized my religious views were serious.

How could they be with the kind of man I am?

But yes, I am devout—or as devout as a Stryker in this city can be, anyway.

And I can’t partake of the wafer and wine with sins on my soul.

“That’s ridiculous, you went to confession the day before the wedding,” she whispers.

During the planning phases of the wedding, Carol explained a lot of the details to calm her nerves about the ceremony logistics and had told Maddie that it was customary for Catholics to go to confession before receiving a sacrament like marriage.

I look away from her. “Just drop it, Maddie.”

She does, but I can tell she really wants to know what I could have possibly done in the last forty-eight hours—besides forcing her to marry me—that requires absolution before being cleared to participate fully in the Mass.

“Guilty conscience over making me marry you?” she hisses in my ear, not missing a beat.

“No,” I growl back. “I can assure you I sleep just fine around that. And there is certainly no official sin or Church codes that I’m breaking by coercing your hand in marriage.”

I wonder if she realizes that one of the reasons I won’t force myself on her sexually is my devotion to the Church.

I realize there has definitely been deeply questionable behavior toward women enforced and endorsed by the Church in its history.

But that was then, this is now. My crimes are just business.

And my previous activity at places like The Black Gardens were a necessary distraction until I could put my full focus on her.

She decides to let it go when it seems to occur to her that I might have done something very bad, worse even than taking her as my captive bride. But even Maddie could probably never imagine that the mortal sin on my soul right now is removing Father Rossi from this world.

After the service, we go to the inner courtyard for Sunday afternoon refreshments. As we move through the crowd I hear various theories about where Rossi is, what happened, if he quit, if he ran away, if he got into some kind of accident, if he was having an affair.

“Didn’t he do the Prescott/Stryker wedding just yesterday?” someone asks. The intrigue is palpable.

I take this time to size up the interim priest. This one is young.

He doesn’t look much older than me, and I’m not sure if I can go to this guy for confession.

I should have worked out the logistics of what I would do about confession after Father Rossi was gone.

I’m going to have to go to a neighboring parish and confess there.

When the assistant priest returns I won’t go to him, even with a vague confession. I just don’t like him.

I need an older priest. Someone who looks like he gargles The Omerta after breakfast. I don’t even know if most of the guys my age have any respect for these kinds of codes and traditions anymore.

And do they even take the seal of confession to the Church seriously?

So few people really honor their codes and vows anymore.

Maybe I can find a way to give my confessions in coded language that still gets the job done without unnecessarily implicating me in crimes.

Brian thinks it’s stupid that I go to confession at all, but he would never understand.

Old habits are hard to break, and there is a fucked-up comfort in the ritual of confession.

There’s a fucked-up comfort in all of my rituals.

I let Maddie eat a couple of mini quiches before I drag her off to the car.

“Hey! I’m hungry,” she snarls at me like an angry tiger.

The message was on the longish side today.

If this new priest ends up being the permanent guy, perhaps someone should get him one of those quarter hour sand timers to keep him on task.

We like the message to be short, sweet, and to the point around here.

If you want to ramble on for an hour, the Baptist church is two blocks down.

Maddie’s still mad when I get her into the back seat of the car. Vinny pulls out onto the street. He doesn’t need to be told where we’re going. He was informed of the itinerary before we left this morning.

“I was hungry.”

“Relax, I’m taking you out to lunch, and then we’re going shopping.”

She looks at me suspiciously, but for now seems appeased.