it like you, but I saw the aftermath. I see it now. In you.”
“I’m not a victim—”
“If you can’t see that, then, love, you need me more than I even realized.” She sighs, her breath brushing over my forehead. “The past skews your vision. You see everyone as a sinner with no hope of redemption... does that mean you have no hope of redemption either?”
“I’m a killer.”
“You are, but does that stain you forever?”
“You don’t know my past. You don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t deserve—” I gulp. “The only way I can make it right is if I punish those who hurt the innocent.”
“No, I don’t know what you’ve done. But I’m here now. You can tell me.”
I haven’t had a truthful confession in so long. I lie to the bishop when he comes to take mine, and I do so with ease because she’s right.
I’m not a priest.
I’m a man just going through the motions of life. Sticking to a calling I’d once had because, in the aftermath of a catastrophic life event, I have no idea which path to take next.
“I killed a boy when I was thirteen. Death has stained my soul since I was a child, but I know my soul is clean of that particular sin.”
“Why? Who was the boy?” She doesn’t sound shocked or terrified, if anything, her hand gentles as she strokes it over my head.
“My tormentor.”
“Was it an accident?”
“Y-Yes. That’s the only reason I didn’t go to prison.”
“What happened?”
“He started a fight, I ended it. I beat him badly, but he fell and hit his head on a stone verge that lined the playground. I pushed him though—”
“Savio,” she whispers, “you’ve shed blood for that boy. You shed it tonight. You shed it every time you hurt yourself. You’re a sinner seeking redemption, but you won’t find it on your current path.”
“How do you know?” I whisper thickly.
“Because you’re giving your victims peace and torturing yourself even more.”
And at that, I have no words, because this crazy angel with wings written in Aramaic is right, and my entire life, I suddenly see, is a complete and utter lie.
Eight
Andrea
“Did you seek penance for your part in the boy’s death?”
“Yes,” he whispers, sounding so miserable that my heart hurts for him.
“And did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Then his death isn’t on your soul, is it?” That didn’t mean the other stuff wasn’t. But damn, I could only deal with so many issues at once.
He blows out a breath that gusts against my belly, pooling warmth there. “I’ve never been a popular priest.”
His sermon was a little wooden, but I’m not sure I can see him being disliked. If anything, the way he cares for his flock makes me suspect his perception is skewed. If anyone is suffering with PTSD here, it’s Savio. I’ve seen those pictures on Facebook. I’ve seen how the brain works, or doesn’t work, when someone is depressed or in pain or dealing with PTSD.
Savio’s clearly just as damaged as I am—but in a different way.
“Why do you say that?” I inquire instead of disagreeing with him.
“I ask too much of parishioners. They don’t want to give it.”
“That’s modern life. We want to go to church, want our soul to be pure for heaven when we die, but we’re lazy.”
“They want lazy priests, and I’m not that. I might not believe what I preach, but I don’t believe in loopholes.”
“Loopholes?”
“When I was in Spain, I was in this tiny town just off Madrid. It was on the commuter belt, but it was still small, and the parish wasn’t that large. A girl came to me, her mother dragging her there because she’d stolen something. We discussed what she stole, then she told me that she only did that because her mother punished her by denying her food.” His throat works. “Sin is everywhere.”
“What did you do?”
“I told her that stealing was bad, and that if she was hungry, she should come to me, and I’d feed her.”
I sigh and can’t stop myself from pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “That sounds like you were a good priest to her.”
“You’re not getting the point,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t pull away from me. If anything, he tightens his hold on me. “I’m a Bible scholar. I know the ‘rules’ of religion, and wherever I turn, there are these things that nag at me. She stole. She should atone. She wasn’t to blame. Her mother was, yet she refused to