Suzanne heard a smile of satisfaction in Elizabeth’s voice.
She didn’t speak. Although young, Suzanne had been a journalist long enough to know that she often got the truth only when she stopped asking questions.
“I’m glad he went to St. Ignatius,” Elizabeth continued. “He was happy there, apparently. Converted to Catholicism. Learned a dozen or more languages from all the priests who taught there. Met that Kingsley.”
Suzanne smiled because she knew Elizabeth expected her to.
“And Kingsley’s sister, right?” Suzanne prompted.
“Oh, yes. My brother’s wife. Never met her. I found out about the marriage only after the girl had died. He did it for the money, of course.”
“The money?”
“The trust fund. My brother and I had trust funds set up by our parents. We received a huge sum at age twenty-five or sooner if…”
“If you got married.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I think my brother just wanted to help Kingsley and his sister stay together in the States. They were both penniless, really. Didn’t end well, as you know. Which I suppose is for the best. My brother was destined for the priesthood.”
“He does seem to have found his calling.”
“It’s a lovely thing, having a priest for a brother. It’s quite nice to have someone in the family who can absolve all your sins and is bound to keep your secrets even from the laws of man. My brother…he has had to absolve me for so much.”
Elizabeth turned her violet eyes on Suzanne. In them Suzanne saw the truth, heard the truth, finally understood the truth.
Elizabeth Stearns had killed her father. And her brother knew it.
And to Suzanne, a priest who had absolved his own sister of the sin of murder and kept her confession secret even from the police…
“That sounds like a conflict of interest to me,” Suzanne said. “A brother hearing his sister’s confession.”
“I suppose it is. But perhaps you have your answer now.”
“Perhaps I do.” Suzanne rose off the bench on unsteady feet. She had to get out of there now. She knew what she had to do, who she had to see, what she had to say. And she needed to do it tonight. “I need to go. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. Anything for my brother. I hope you understand him a bit better now. If you’re looking for a sex-offender priest, you won’t find him at Sacred Heart. My brother knows better than that. He’d have to answer to me.”
Suzanne gave Elizabeth a tight smile.
“No, I’m sure you’re right. After what happened to my brother, I can certainly sympathize with what you feel and with what—” Suzanne choose her words carefully “—with what you did. I’m glad your brother absolved you. If it makes you feel any better, I would have absolved you too. If I believed in that.”
Elizabeth picked up her trowel again and started digging once more in the dirt, this time with a much gentler touch.
“I’ll show myself out. I promise all of this was off the record.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kanter. Please have a safe trip home.”
Suzanne started for the door but paused before she touched the knob.
“You don’t call him Marcus?” Suzanne asked. “Your brother I mean. That’s what you call him—my brother. Why is that?”
“He hates the name Marcus. It’s our father’s name.”
“Thank you. I was just curious. Good night.”
Suzanne reached once more for the doorknob and stopped.
“I think I understand something you don’t,” Suzanne said as she remembered something Elizabeth had said earlier. “About your brother not waking up the way you thought he would.”
Elizabeth only stared at her and said nothing.
“You wanted him to wake up that night and kill you as he did that boy who attacked him in his sleep at school. But he didn’t. Because he was sleeping heavily. And he was sleeping heavily because he was home. And he thought he was safe.”
Even in the low light Suzanne could see Elizabeth’s eyes harden like two glinting amethysts.
“He should have known better than that. No one is ever safe.”
22
Michael had never felt so safe in his life. A strange sensation considering the agony he’d been in the last two hours as Spike, the purple-haired tattoo artist, pierced black ink deep into his damaged skin. But the pain centered him, calmed him the way pain always did. But even more than the pain, Griffin’s strong hands on him, holding him steady, brought Michael into a haven inside himself he’d never gone to before. Nora sat on the couch working on her edits. Spike dug into his wrists with her buzzing needle. But no one in the world existed but him and Griffin.
Every few minutes Spike would pause and reink her needle. Griffin would loosen his grip on Michael’s forearms and offer him a drink of water or ask if he needed a break. The pain hit its peak and sweat would drip down Michael’s forehead. Griffin would call for a break, wipe Michael’s face and let him breathe for a few minutes before Spike started up again. At no point did Griffin ask him if he needed or wanted to stop. And for some reason Griffin’s faith in his ability to take the pain meant more to him than anything.
“That’s it, mate,” Spike said, leaning back in her chair and stretching her back. “Done as much as we can do tonight. Let it heal. Six weeks, we’ll do touch-ups.”
Michael turned his eyes from Griffin’s to his own wrists. During the entire ordeal he’d kept his gaze on Griffin’s face and not on Spike’s needle. He hated seeing his own scars, hated the memory of that moment of despair and idiocy that had led to them. And he’d yet to find anything or anyone in the world he’d rather look at than Griffin. But now he looked at his wrists and inhaled at the sight of them—and not with disgust as he had every day for the past three years, but with awe.
She didn’t speak. Although young, Suzanne had been a journalist long enough to know that she often got the truth only when she stopped asking questions.
“I’m glad he went to St. Ignatius,” Elizabeth continued. “He was happy there, apparently. Converted to Catholicism. Learned a dozen or more languages from all the priests who taught there. Met that Kingsley.”
Suzanne smiled because she knew Elizabeth expected her to.
“And Kingsley’s sister, right?” Suzanne prompted.
“Oh, yes. My brother’s wife. Never met her. I found out about the marriage only after the girl had died. He did it for the money, of course.”
“The money?”
“The trust fund. My brother and I had trust funds set up by our parents. We received a huge sum at age twenty-five or sooner if…”
“If you got married.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“I think my brother just wanted to help Kingsley and his sister stay together in the States. They were both penniless, really. Didn’t end well, as you know. Which I suppose is for the best. My brother was destined for the priesthood.”
“He does seem to have found his calling.”
“It’s a lovely thing, having a priest for a brother. It’s quite nice to have someone in the family who can absolve all your sins and is bound to keep your secrets even from the laws of man. My brother…he has had to absolve me for so much.”
Elizabeth turned her violet eyes on Suzanne. In them Suzanne saw the truth, heard the truth, finally understood the truth.
Elizabeth Stearns had killed her father. And her brother knew it.
And to Suzanne, a priest who had absolved his own sister of the sin of murder and kept her confession secret even from the police…
“That sounds like a conflict of interest to me,” Suzanne said. “A brother hearing his sister’s confession.”
“I suppose it is. But perhaps you have your answer now.”
“Perhaps I do.” Suzanne rose off the bench on unsteady feet. She had to get out of there now. She knew what she had to do, who she had to see, what she had to say. And she needed to do it tonight. “I need to go. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. Anything for my brother. I hope you understand him a bit better now. If you’re looking for a sex-offender priest, you won’t find him at Sacred Heart. My brother knows better than that. He’d have to answer to me.”
Suzanne gave Elizabeth a tight smile.
“No, I’m sure you’re right. After what happened to my brother, I can certainly sympathize with what you feel and with what—” Suzanne choose her words carefully “—with what you did. I’m glad your brother absolved you. If it makes you feel any better, I would have absolved you too. If I believed in that.”
Elizabeth picked up her trowel again and started digging once more in the dirt, this time with a much gentler touch.
“I’ll show myself out. I promise all of this was off the record.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kanter. Please have a safe trip home.”
Suzanne started for the door but paused before she touched the knob.
“You don’t call him Marcus?” Suzanne asked. “Your brother I mean. That’s what you call him—my brother. Why is that?”
“He hates the name Marcus. It’s our father’s name.”
“Thank you. I was just curious. Good night.”
Suzanne reached once more for the doorknob and stopped.
“I think I understand something you don’t,” Suzanne said as she remembered something Elizabeth had said earlier. “About your brother not waking up the way you thought he would.”
Elizabeth only stared at her and said nothing.
“You wanted him to wake up that night and kill you as he did that boy who attacked him in his sleep at school. But he didn’t. Because he was sleeping heavily. And he was sleeping heavily because he was home. And he thought he was safe.”
Even in the low light Suzanne could see Elizabeth’s eyes harden like two glinting amethysts.
“He should have known better than that. No one is ever safe.”
22
Michael had never felt so safe in his life. A strange sensation considering the agony he’d been in the last two hours as Spike, the purple-haired tattoo artist, pierced black ink deep into his damaged skin. But the pain centered him, calmed him the way pain always did. But even more than the pain, Griffin’s strong hands on him, holding him steady, brought Michael into a haven inside himself he’d never gone to before. Nora sat on the couch working on her edits. Spike dug into his wrists with her buzzing needle. But no one in the world existed but him and Griffin.
Every few minutes Spike would pause and reink her needle. Griffin would loosen his grip on Michael’s forearms and offer him a drink of water or ask if he needed a break. The pain hit its peak and sweat would drip down Michael’s forehead. Griffin would call for a break, wipe Michael’s face and let him breathe for a few minutes before Spike started up again. At no point did Griffin ask him if he needed or wanted to stop. And for some reason Griffin’s faith in his ability to take the pain meant more to him than anything.
“That’s it, mate,” Spike said, leaning back in her chair and stretching her back. “Done as much as we can do tonight. Let it heal. Six weeks, we’ll do touch-ups.”
Michael turned his eyes from Griffin’s to his own wrists. During the entire ordeal he’d kept his gaze on Griffin’s face and not on Spike’s needle. He hated seeing his own scars, hated the memory of that moment of despair and idiocy that had led to them. And he’d yet to find anything or anyone in the world he’d rather look at than Griffin. But now he looked at his wrists and inhaled at the sight of them—and not with disgust as he had every day for the past three years, but with awe.
