James Moore - Blood Red

The interior of the church was semi-dark and very solemn. As always, she was in awe of the place. Not just because it was the House of God, but because it was a beautiful structure. Everything about the building spoke of quiet dignity and strength, from the stone walls to the large carved Christ on the crucifix that adorned the wall above the pulpit. The stained-glass windows caught the sun as it shone down but muted the intensity of the light and painted it in primary colors as it fell to the marble floor.

Father Patrick Flannery was the only living soul in the church when she got there. She knew he would be. She’d been attending the church for most of her life and often stopped by after school.

He saw her and smiled, and aside from that, left her in peace. Maggie never came to the church to speak with anyone unless it was time for her confession. She had told the man many of her sins, but she had never once mentioned her line of work. She would wait on that particular confession until after she had graduated from the university. The reason was simple enough: she knew what she did was considered a sin, but as far as she was concerned it was a minor sin at worst. Mary Magdalene had been forgiven and she knew that she would be, too, when the time came. But it wasn’t time yet. Part of contrition might require that she stop, and she wasn’t ready for that, not yet. She had to follow through with her plans, and if that meant keeping a few secrets from her family and from the priests that she saw regularly, she could accept that.

Father Flannery was in his late thirties, if she had to hazard a guess. She could still remember when he first showed up at the church, back when she was a freshman at Sacred Hearts. He was stocky, but not fat, with hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be red, brown, or blond, and a wide, Irish face. He looked like he should have been playing college football back then and these days he looked like he should have been sitting in a pub, talking about the good old days when he played college football.

He was friendly, but slightly distant for the most part. He never let himself get too close to any of his parishioners, save in a professional capacity, and Maggie thought she knew why.

Father Flannery was a little afraid of losing his self-control. He was good about hiding it, good about not making his desires blatantly obvious, but she knew how he felt. She had known since the first time she’d seen his eyes on her legs and her breasts during Mass. She’d known in the way he avoided looking her in the eyes, and in the simple little gestures he made when he saw her. His hands fluttered like birds, and his jaw clenched and unclenched with astonishing regularity when he was around women he found attractive.

And she doubted that it was coincidence that he was almost always the priest who handled confessions for the children at Sacred Hearts. Oh, it might be that he was simply forced to deal with their confessions as the youngest priest at the church and the one who got stuck with the least likeable tasks, but she doubted it. Even if that were the case, he was certainly the most attentive.

He was not a pedophile. She had no doubt of that in her mind. He had probably never broken his vows, either, because he was still as nervous as a virgin whenever he was around a woman.

But he thought about it. He thought about it a lot.

Father Flannery made himself busy, dusting the pews and generally moving about as she lit a candle and then settled herself down for a quick prayer, asking the Lord for forgiveness. She had to do this. She needed the money.

If she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she was looking forward to the challenge.

Danni didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t dare. The bastard had taken all of the evidence from her purse and carefully slipped it into an evidence bag. Then he’d sealed the bag in front of her and meticulously written on the date.

“No one has to see this, ever, Danielle. We made a deal, and I intend to keep it. But you’d do well to keep your end of the bargain. Do we understand each other?” He’d tried to sound all calm and authoritative, but he’d failed. He’d been gloating.

He hadn’t exactly raped her. It had been consensual, mostly, but he’d been gloating, savoring her discomfort, and she knew in her heart that, for him, half the fun had been knowing she didn’t enjoy herself. It was a power trip, just like they always said rape was.

Either way it was a violation, and she hated him for it. She was just glad he’d used condoms, because the idea of any part of him near her or in her was enough to make her want to cry again. And just as soon as she thought it, the notion became reality and the damned tears started all over.

It was Ben that finally got her to talk.

Ben Kirby was a quiet, sweet, funny boy who always made her feel better when she was down. He wasn’t a lover and had never tried to even date her, but he was a friend when she needed one.

And God, she needed one so badly.

Ben always seemed to know when to come by, when to crack one of his stupid little jokes, or even when to just offer a shoulder to lean on. He’d found her out in the park behind the university, sitting on a bench, and doing her best not to fall apart again. Several birds were in the area, all of them whoring for pieces of bread. She didn’t have any, but Ben did. He sat down next to her on the bench and said nothing for at least five minutes. He just tore off little pieces of white bread and threw them to the gathering crowd of pigeons, seagulls, and crows. After a few minutes he started giving some of the birds nicknames, pointing them out to her as they pulled different stunts, making up gossip about the lives of the damned birds and making her laugh.

It was silly and it was futile, and she laughed just the same, enjoying every second of the show until he ran out of bread.

When the birds had finally taken a hint and gone off to seek new people with more treats, Ben looked her in the eyes and smiled sadly. He almost always smiled that way, like there was something missing from his life and he knew what it was but could do nothing at all about it.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“I can’t, Ben.”

He nodded. “Okay. That’s cool.” He patted his shoulder and gave her a puppy-dog expression that was so over-the-top pathetic that she laughed again, and then settled her head on the offered shoulder.

They sat that way for almost half an hour, until she was sure his arm must have fallen asleep. “I won’t judge you, Danni. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” she sniffed and nodded against his Winslow Harper University sweatshirt. “Yeah, I know. It’s just. I did something stupid.”

“Did you hurt anyone?” It was a simple enough question. She shook her head.

“Then it couldn’t have been too stupid.”

“Well, it was up there.”

“Look, just don’t… don’t be too hard on yourself. If it was something you did, don’t do it again, and if it was something someone else did to you, you can always call the cops.”

The last part was meant as a joke, of course. She knew that because he always said it when he was cheering her up. But she broke down right then and there, and the next thing she knew he was holding her against him, rocking her like a baby. She told him everything.

Ben sat silently and listened. He nodded from time to time, but otherwise, he said nothing at all until she had finished crying herself numb. She rested her head against his chest and he wiped at her tears, missing a few but getting most of the trails off her face.

Then he leaned down and kissed her temple with the same sort of affection her father had always shown her when she screwed up colossally.