Fear the Wicked (Illusions Series Book 2)(36)

I found myself pacing as one minute bled into another, whispers running through my mind that led to memories that led to pain. The questions were endless, the betrayal suffocating, but allowing the weight of my father's confession to crush me would only weaken me and knock me off course.

My jaw ached from clenching my teeth, my hair messy from constantly running my fingers through it. And when I came to a point where I felt like I would start screaming, I turned towards the far wall of Timothy's office and froze in the face of the cross.

Not just a cross, the large wood and metal symbol was an ornate crucifix, the detail stunning right down to the nails that held Jesus in place. My heart felt heavy to realize how evil and painful this symbol had become.

The door opened and closed behind me, soft footsteps approaching before stopping at my back. I didn't turn to Timothy when I finally said, "It's such a morbid symbol, isn't it? The image of a man tortured and killed. Of all the ways Jesus could be remembered, this is the one we hold most dearly. Like we're still celebrating the destruction of a good man."

Seconds passed before he finally answered, "I guess that all depends on how you look at it."

"When I look at this, I see the torture and destruction of purity. The proof that even when faced with God and the power of his hand, humans are still evil enough to turn their backs on it. To use it in order to feed their own selfishness and greed. When I was young, this symbol was the ultimate bearer of my guilt. It became so much more when I was ordained as a priest. Hope, maybe, or a promise. But now...now all I see is another means by which human beings hurt each other on a daily basis."

A moment of silence beat between us. I assumed Timothy was absorbing my words and considering how he could respond to them. Softly, he answered, "What I see is a symbol of ultimate sacrifice. A pure being enduring the worst forms of suffering and torture just to save us all."

Pivoting on my heel, I met his gaze. "Tell me then how everything he stood for so easily fell to shit. How the men who stand as symbols of His goodness and His sacrifice are sometimes the most evil."

He winced at the accusation, at the lack of emotion in my voice, at the truth in the words I'd spoken.

Elijah's words echoed in my head, his insistence that after Jesus had risen from the dead, man was left to fall again. I understood what he was implying, and now that I'd read my father's confession, I felt guilty for not seeing what had clearly driven him mad.

"You've known for several years what happened under the roof of this parish. And yet nothing, not a damn thing, has been done about it."

Shadows crossed over his eyes, guilt and regret lining his brow in deep wrinkles. There was no conviction to his voice when he answered, "You know how it is, Jacob. You've been a priest long enough to understand."

I could feel the beat of my pulse just beneath my skin, could feel my blood pressure rising until it was a steady drum pounding inside my head. "Actually, Father Timothy, I don't know. I've come to you so that you can enlighten me."

It was impossible for him to miss the threat in my tone, the menace, the barely controlled violence that flooded me. His throat worked visibly to swallow down the fear he felt. "We should sit down, I think. Take some time to discuss this in detail."

I smiled, the expression not quite reaching my eyes. Timothy moved quickly to take a seat behind his desk, no doubt praying that the large and heavy oak furniture would act as a barrier between his body and mine.

Stalking closer, I didn't sit down before carefully setting the metal box on the desk, its bottom clicking softly against the wood. Somehow that quiet sound carried more guilt and accusation than anything I'd ever known. Timothy moved as if to reach for it, but I splayed my hand over the top.

"I want to know what he told you, first. Then I'll let you see what's contained inside this box."

My father’s confession contained a lot of sins. I wanted to know if Timothy had heard them all.

Pulling at his clerical collar, Timothy settled as much as he could against his seat.

I jutted my chin in his direction. "It strangles you, doesn't it? The small strip of white cloth that has become a symbol of your faith."

A bark of laughter shook his thin shoulders. "It definitely has a way of silencing me. Of making me question things."

I knew what he meant. That collar had made me question my entire existence when I was faced with Eve. Slowly taking my seat, I thought back to her. Saw the complacency in her green eyes staring back at me. Just like another set of green eyes I'd known. Two sets actually, now that I was beginning to understand my obsession.

Leveling my gaze on Timothy, I sat silent, not-so-patiently waiting for his explanation.

He spoke carefully, his words more political than heartfelt. "I'm sorry, Jacob, that nothing has been done. And that nothing had been said. But this is a delicate situation."

Delicate, my ass. He just didn't want to risk losing his job. "I'm not here to talk about what kind of situation we're dealing with. I'm fucking familiar with that. What I want to know is where are the two sons of bitches who thought they had the right to touch my brother?"

Did he know they were dead?

Timothy went completely still as the words left my mouth, the room sinking into silence once the reverberation of my voice died off leaving the question to linger between us. Slowly, he sat forward in his seat, the wood creaking beneath his weight. Crossing one forearm over the other on the surface of his desk, he kept his eyes trained on me, sympathy swirling beneath the deep shadows of guilt. "I don't know."