Chapter Eighteen

For the rest of the week I sit in the bleachers with Allie while Luca trains. And every night I patch him up. He might be a lion, but he’s my lion. When I put aside the first-aid kit, Luca’s rough voice tells me to pull down my pants. He reaches under my panties and touches me until I’m sobbing his name, gushing against his fingers, turning the fabric wet.

It’s a strange and sensual purgatory that I could live in forever.

Judgment day comes too soon.

The morning of the fight, I wake up to find the hotel suite empty. There’s a note by the coffeemaker. Went in early for strategy session. Allie will pick you up before the fight.

The fight doesn’t start until tonight. Why didn’t he bring me with him? Why didn’t he wake me up if he needed to leave early? I remember what he told me— This close to a fight, I need to focus. And I’m a distraction.

At least I can call Delilah during the day.

I find her finger painting with Candy, her face smeared with pink war paint. “Mama!”

“Hey, sweetie,” I tell her, my heart feeling full. I’ll get to her soon. And we’ll be free of the threat, free from my past. And then what? Where will we go next? “What are you painting?”

“Wainbow,” she says, holding up a picture with colorful streaks.

“That’s beautiful. And just what I needed to see today.”

“Mama!” Her voice is demanding, and I hear the questions in it. Why aren’t you here? When are you coming back?

“I miss you so much, baby,” I tell her with a sigh. “This will be over soon.”

At least I hope so.

Luca has told me a little of the plan.

Colin has a network of other fighters and ex-military guys stationed at the ticket entrance. Of course they’ve never seen him. Even Luca’s never met him. So I worked with someone who contracts with the police force to create a sketch.

With any luck they’ll apprehend him when he enters the stadium.

I’m a little nervous with the knowledge that I’ll be close to him soon. Even if he doesn’t make it inside, we’ll be in the same city. In the same building. We might have already been, if he’s stalked me here. I’ve been well insulated in the hotel suite and the gym—both heavily guarded places. And I’ve always had Luca at my side. Except now.

My breath catches. It would be the perfect time to approach me.

I gaze out the large windows overlooking the city. The buildings seem to go on for miles, highways running through them like arteries through muscle. Is he out there?

Or is he even closer?

The skin prickles on the back of my neck. With uncanny certainty I can feel him closing in. Maybe that’s just paranoia. Or maybe Luca understands the darker shadows of the mind enough to predict this.

On jelly legs I cross the plush carpeting to look out the peephole.

And let out a startled squeak at the distorted view of a man on the other side. Not my brother. Wearing a suit, from what I can see.

“Ma’am?” he says through the door. “Are you okay?”

My heart thuds with lingering adrenaline. “Yes. Um…who are you?”

“West Hightower, ma’am. Sorry to startle you. If you give Luca a call, he can verify my identity.”

Too late I remember that the elevator required a key card to open on this floor. I flip open the lock. “No, I’m sure you’re—”

“Ma’am, I’d really prefer that you call Luca.”

I blink, startled at his insistence. So I find my phone and call Luca, who confirms that he did send West Hightower, a private security consultant with Blue Security, to protect me while he’s training. When we hang up, he sends me a picture of the man outside, not smiling, wearing a suit.

With a small laugh I open the door. “Wow, these are some serious security measures.”

West doesn’t smile. “We want to keep you safe, ma’am.”

“Of course.” My stomach falls, the ground rising up to meet me. “So I’m stuck here?”

“No, ma’am. We can go anywhere you need to. There’s a car downstairs.”

I glance back at the skyline. “I’d actually like to go for a walk.”

West excuses himself to confer with the other guards on my detail. Apparently there are more than one. I feel like royalty or something. But it doesn’t take long for them to sort out a plan of action. Then we’re heading down the elevator to the ground floor.

Out on the street I glance to the left and then right. There are several little pizza shops and one with sub sandwiches. There’s some kind of electronics store and a concrete park with a metal playground. I choose one direction at random and keep walking until I find what I’m looking for: a steeple.

It doesn’t matter what denomination the church is. There’s no place that worships like Leader Allen did except for Harmony Hills. And I don’t believe him anymore—most of the time.

This is a Catholic church, with a long display of candles as I enter. Each one represents a different saint. Some are already burning, by whoever came in before me. I find the candle for St. Francis, who cared for the poor and the sick, who loved all creatures big and small, and light it with shaking hands.

The pews are made of a beautiful scarred wood, with small kneeling benches in front of them covered with burgundy leather. West tails me all the way to the church, but once we enter, he stands at the back, arms crossed behind him.

I walk down the aisle in my jeans and T-shirt, feeling out of place. I’m not fancy enough for the elaborate stained glass or altar made of marble. But I slip into one of the pews, kneeling on the padded bench. I bend my head and whisper the Lord’s Prayer five times.

It’s a comforting ritual. A painful one.

Does my brother still pray? Of course he does. True believers never stop.

“Do you need counsel, my child?”

I jump, almost falling off the narrow bench. Whirling around, I see a man in black cloth and a white square collar sitting behind me. How did he sneak up on me? Over his shoulder I see that West has gone.

“Father?”

“Yes, my child?”

“I don’t know what to do.”

His wrinkles deepen in a gentle smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

I struggle with the words. “The things that I learned, the things that I was taught, they aren’t right. They’re not what Jesus taught. And now…now I don’t know what to believe.”

Part of me expects him to ask what I’ve been taught. Maybe if I were raised Baptist he could convert me to Catholicism. Instead he sighs, studying the golden cross with rheumy eyes. “A crisis of faith. Is that right?”

“Yes, Father.” So punish me, punish me. Make me hurt.

“Sometimes I wonder whether I’ve followed the right path.”

Surprise jolts me out of the past. “You do?”

“That’s the lovely thing about faith. There’s no science to prove it. No numbers to define it. We can’t touch it or taste it. We’re supposed to question it. That’s what makes it faith.”

“Then how do you decide what to believe?”

“I think about what will help me the most, what will help my flock the most. And I try not to judge other people for their beliefs. But most of all…most of all I try to forgive.”

My breath comes faster. How could a woman of sin, proud and serene, come to the same conclusion as a man of God? “What if I can’t forgive?”

The things Leader Allen did to me, I’ll never really let them go.

“Then he must not deserve forgiveness,” the priest says gravely. “But remember, you are not bound by anyone else’s faith but your own. You can take what resonates with you and leave the rest. You can use what works for you. That’s the beauty of faith.”

I bow my head. “Thank you, Father.”

We’re silent a moment, communing in the acknowledgment of our mutual frailty, our fallibility in faith—but if I understand him, then it’s supposed to be fallible. It’s supposed to be frail. That’s what makes it a miracle.

My knees are stiff by the time I stand. The priest still prays one row behind me.

I head down the aisle and look back. “Father?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Why do you think Eve took a bite of the apple?”

He gives me a small smile. “You’re asking about temptation.”

“I’m asking about sin.”

“I think she took a bite of the apple for the same reason you’re asking me these questions. Do you call it disobedience? Or do you call it a crisis of faith? I call it yearning for knowledge. God gave you that curiosity, child.”

It’s a different interpretation of the Adam and Eve story I’ve been shamed with my whole life—a brighter one. Because God gave me this curiosity. He gave me the apple.

“Thank you, Father.”

I turn to the back of the church, expecting West to be gone, half thinking he was some handsome fever dream my mind made up. He’s standing as still as a statue, head bowed as if in prayer. I approach him quietly, not wanting to interfere.

He smiles gently. “Ready?”

“Completely.”

I’m ready for knowledge, for sin. Two sides of the same coin. I want to know him in every way possible, including carnal intimacy. When this is over, I’m going to tell Luca how I feel. I’m going to ask him to stay with us, wherever we end up going. Because I’m curious about what we can become together. And I’m strong enough to find out.

Except as we pass the rows of candles, some lit and some not, the candle for St. Francis isn’t burning anymore. A coincidence in a drafty old church?

Or was it snuffed out by someone watching me?