THIS TIME, THE DEAD BODY HITS THE NEWS ALMOST immediately.
The Green Mountain Strangler is what the media has dubbed me, and their lack of creativity is almost insulting. I’m not even killing them in the mountains.
And I did far more than just strangle them.
In fact, it was almost cathartic in a way that atonement never is to reenact every single step of how I murdered Andrew. I got to replace the random man’s face with his, reveling in the satisfaction of broken bones while I snapped every finger for touching what should have been mine.
For thinking he could have her. Hurt her. Touch her.
I ache to go to Parker and demand to know whether Amaya’s name has been cleared, but I resist. There’s honestly no good reason I could give for being that invested, and I’ve been far too messy with my kills to give anybody any ammunition.
Especially someone like Parker.
Other than the murmured whisperings of a killer on the loose, the rest of the week passes without much fanfare, one day bleeding into the next until it’s time for another Holy Mass. And there she is, appearing out of thin air in one of the front pews with Parker on her arm and her chin tilted high.
It takes everything inside me to not rush to her side. To treat her as though she’s just another random face in the crowd, when she’s anything but. Visions of me dropping to my knees in front of her, spreading my arms wide and begging, “Do you see what I’ve done for you? What I will do for you?” hit me with force, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve done to keep myself away.
I force my mind to jump from her to Him, where it should be while I quote the Bible passages to the people.
But the power behind my prayers is weak when she is near.
She’s consumed me wholly.
My sickness grows strong in her presence, until I never wish to feel well again.
When I walk into my back office on Monday morning, Amaya’s already there, waiting for me.
My stomach flips but quickly falls to the floor when I see Jeremiah sitting behind my desk, his arms crossed and his brown eyes narrowed into slits.
I put him in charge of setting up the Festival of Fools accommodations. It will be cold, and people will want an inside area to keep warm, and I told him we could meet for an update at some point today. I just didn’t specify when.
“Jeremiah.” My voice cuts through the air.
I don’t like the way he’s looking at her.
His gaze swings over to me and softens before he flicks it back to her one more time. “Sorry, Father. I wasn’t aware you were expecting visitors.”
Amaya smiles, but her fingers curl into fists. She reins herself in well, the way I’ve seen her do countless other times with the people in this town. She seems to have an extraordinary amount of control with everyone she encounters…except for me.
“That’s right,” I say, moving farther into the room. “Miss Paquette is here on the request of her fiancé, Mr. Errien, for tutelage.”
Jeremiah’s brows lift. “Oh, I didn’t know.”
“Because it’s not your concern,” I snap.
A brief look of shock flashes on his face before he schools it, and I sigh while I try to figure out what to do. It isn’t his fault I didn’t tell him ahead of time, but Amaya’s anxious energy is skittering along the walls, like she can’t wait for an excuse to escape me.
I run a hand through my hair and shake my head. “We won’t be long. You can just wait here and work on the homily for Sunday.”
A grin takes over his face, and I know I’ve made the right decision. It will be the first time I’ve given him the lead on something like this. In all honesty, I’ve barely spent any time with him, little more than I’ve spent focused on Festivalé in general, so letting him spread his wings is the least I can do.
Especially since I’ve decided to leave Festivalé for good as soon as I know Amaya’s name is cleared.
Amaya stares between us, but she keeps quiet.
“Miss Paquette.” I turn toward her and my lungs cramp. There’s so much I want to say, so much I want to do. So many things I wish I could tell her and even more I know I never will.
“Father Cade.”
A smile plays on her lips, and a spark of heat whips up my legs and through my middle.
She’s so beautiful.
For so long, I hated her because I feared her. And now I fear her because I crave her.
But in the end, Parker gets her. The thought of her being with him is an ice pick to the chest, but it’s for the best.
There’s nothing I can offer her. It’s ridiculous to pretend otherwise.
“Fancy a walk, Miss Paquette?” I place my hand in the space between us, knowing I shouldn’t allow the touch but not being able to stop myself from offering it.
She nods, her eyes flicking back and forth between me and Jeremiah before she slips her delicate hand in mine.
My stomach flies into my throat, my heart slamming against my sternum.
I pull her to a stand, a little too forcefully, making her legs stumble as she rises. Her hand flies into the flat of my chest. We both suck in a breath, and my palm settles on the small of her back to balance her.
Heat spreads through my arm and settles in my chest.
My fingers tighten in the fabric of her shirt and tug, the smallest amount, and her body skims along the front of mine.
It’s just a second. A moment that will surely get lost in infinite space and time. But it shakes me like an earthquake anyway.
We separate quickly, and I open the door, nodding to Jeremiah one more time as I lead her into the hall.
I keep us moving until we’re outside and heading down the small path connecting the cathedral to the cottage. Far enough away for the illusion of privacy and close enough to explain it away.
Nobody really comes back to this area anyway.
She looks at me when we near the front door, her body growing tight. “What are we doing here?”
I shrug, because the truth is, I’m not sure. I don’t ever know what I’m doing when it comes to her. “Something we shouldn’t, probably.”
A small smile graces her face, and when I open the front door, she walks inside, stripping off her coat and laying it on the back of the couch. Immediately, I know bringing her here was a mistake.
All I can do is picture the last time she was in my home, how wet and hot and perfect she was.
If I was a smart man, I’d be telling Parker I have no interest in these ridiculous one- on- one sessions.
There’s nothing honorable about my intentions with Amaya Paquette, and I should try to hold on to the small shreds of decorum I try so hard to possess. But I cannot help myself.
“Makes sense,” she says, spinning to face me. “We’re friends now after all. Right?” No.
“I just thought you’d want to be somewhere familiar,” I reply.
“I want to be anywhere that you are.” Her eyes grow wide, and my chest lights up like fireworks. “Oh, I didn’t mean— well, you know what I meant.”
“Non, petite pécheresse.” I take a step closer. “I don’t think that I do.”
She retreats until she hits the back of the couch, and I chuckle, moving past her and into the kitchen, assuming she’ll follow.
She does.
When you spend so many moments watching somebody live their life, you learn all the idiosyncrasies that make them them.
And I may not know what Amaya’s first words were or how old she was when she realized she wanted to dance, but I know she licks her lips when she’s nervous and that she mouths silent songs when she’s all alone.
I know she loves control and hates being told what to do, and she’ll stuff down emotion until she’s vibrating from holding it in.
I know her favorite color is emerald green, she hates dressing up, and she’s so beautiful even an angel can’t compare.
So I knew she’d follow me into the kitchen, because I know Amaya Paquette, maybe better than she knows herself.
