Crossed: Chapter 52

“I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE,” I SAY, STARING down at the hole I’ve spent the last three hours digging deep in the forest. Sister Genevieve’s body is lying next to the suitcase I stuffed Parker stuffed into, and I’m taking these final moments with them both to have a heart-to- heart. “I have a sickness inside me.” I rest my hand on top of the shovel. “To which there is no cure. But Amaya…she feeds both the monster and the man. My perfect match in every way. I’m sorry it took both of you to die for us to be together, but He is merciful, and He will forgive.”

Pausing, I think about what I’ve said. While I still have my faith and I still believe in God, things have changed. I have changed. I’ve seen corruption run rife through the church and the “good” men end up being bad. I’ve seen years of my life that I’ve struggled to atone for my sickness be wiped clean by simple kisses on my scars.

When I’m with Amaya, the memory of Sister Agnes doesn’t scream so loud.

I find my peace in her. She is my sanctuary. My home. My soul. “But even if He doesn’t,” I continue, “I’ll survive.”

It takes me two hours to bury them beneath the trees, and then I drive back to Festivalé to tie up the last of our loose ends. Amaya is grief- stricken from losing her friend, and whether she admits it or not, there’s some level of guilt that will follow her like a second skin, as it does with every person who plays God and holds someone’s life in their hands.

I head to my cottage to clean up first and then straight to the hospital. It’s evening now, past visiting hours, but they won’t turn down a priest who’s there to comfort a victim.

This will be the last thing I do as a priest.

Fitting, I think.

Walking into the room, I close the door behind me, holding my rosary and Bible as I spin around and stare at the woman resting on the bed in the middle of the room.

Florence Gammond.

Alive and well.

She’s hooked up to an IV bag and a heart monitor, and she turns her swollen face toward me as I drag over a chair and sit down next to her.

Her face is mangled, almost unrecognizable, and they had to shave her head to place several stitches along the side of her scalp.

But she’ll be fine.

And if she wants to stay that way, she’ll do exactly as I say.

“Bonjour, Florence.”

“Father,” she rasps, her voice scratchy and dry. “Did my husband send you?”

“Parker,” I state.

Her heart rate monitor beeps faster, and my eyes flick to it before landing back on her. I took a random guess, based on the way she singled out Amaya and always sought him out in every crowd.

I pick a piece of lint off my arm. “Do you remember anything at all about what happened?”

She blinks, as much as she can blink with swollen, purple eyelids, and she parts her mouth as if she’s thinking. “Am— ”

“Non,” I cut her off, leaning forward until my face hovers above hers. “I think you’re about to be confused. Let me help you.” She tries to speak again.

“Shh.” I press a finger against her mouth, and she winces when I press down. “Don’t speak, my child. Just listen. Did you know Parker liked to make tapes?”

Again, the heart rate monitor increases, and my gaze wanders to it before focusing back. I’ll need to hurry. Much more stress and a nurse will show up.

None of what I’m saying is true, but she doesn’t know that, and Parker’s not around to dispute the claim. “He had a lot to confess over the past few months, Mrs. Gammond. His poor, unfortunate soul was more than happy to hand the tapes to the church, to ease his conscience and allow God to grant mercy on his soul.” I lift a brow. “Do you think there were any of you?”

She tries to sit, and I move closer, pressing lightly against her chest and keeping her pinned to her bed.

I lean down close and whisper in her ear, “If you don’t do exactly as I say, I will release them all. You’ll be the laughingstock of Vermont, blacklisted from every single career path you wish to take. I’ll put it on display so your mother sees it. Your father. Your husband. Your son. Do you understand?”

“My husband can’t know. He can’t—”

“Does he know Bradley isn’t his?”

That shuts her up quick. I had a feeling.

I whisper her instructions and leave as quickly as I came, heading back up into the mountains to be with Amaya and Quinten.

And then I pray like I’ve never prayed before, hoping my empty threats will work.

They do.

Three days later, a press conference is held with Detective Fuller announcing that with Florence Gammond’s help, they were able to connect the Green Mountain Strangler to Parker Errien.

According to her, he was obsessed with his wife, Amaya, long before she agreed to be his. He stalked her to her work, killing Andrew out of a jealous rage. It was a fortuitous coincidence that he also frequented the woman I murdered on my first night.

Florence said she was tired of the games, threatening to tell Amaya about their affair, and he followed her in a rage, beating her to a pulp in the bathroom. When they found Dalia murdered with his cuff link at her side, it was an open- and-shut case.

Both Festivalé and Coddington Heights would rather people stay calm and think they’ve caught the killer, even if the story doesn’t quite line up.

I’m just grateful Amaya wasn’t the one who ended up stuck in the crosshairs.

Since Parker’s not around to dispute the charges, they assume he fled the scene, and a national manhunt is underway.

They won’t find him. Not unless I decide they should.

His wife, on the other hand, is free and clear, and after the dust settles and we wind up wherever it is she wants to be, we’ll handle the assets that Parker’s lawyer insists are now in Amaya’s control. He has no living relatives, no working will— the conceited prick— and no prenup signed to prevent her from accessing the funds.

Technically, he’s still alive in the eyes of the law, so if a body eventually needs to show up in order for everything to remain hers, I’ll make that happen.

I would do anything for her.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

I’m in the monastery’s living room, looking out at the snow- covered pine trees with Amaya tucked into my side.

She nods, biting on her lower lip. “I’m sad. But if I let my grief consume me, then Parker wins. And Dalia would hate me for it.”

I press a kiss to her head, my monster quiet and sated, purring deep in my chest. I’m no longer a priest, not officially anyway. I resigned and left the priesthood yesterday with Bishop Lamont, and he’s allowing us to stay here in the monastery until we decide where we’d like to go.

“So now what?” I muse.

She smiles, glancing over at Quinten, who’s lining up his new set of dinosaurs that I bought him on my way back from town.

She leans into my chest, resting her hand over my heart.

“Now, we live.”

I reach down and tip up her chin, leaning down and nipping her mouth with my teeth until the skin breaks and I can lap up the blood. “And, petite pécheresse,” I whisper against her lips.

“Tell me…who do you belong to?”

“To myself.”

My hand tightens on her face.

She grins. “And to you, Cade Frédéric. My heart belongs to you. In all our lifetimes.”