Page 29 of Dark Prince

He spins around, and in an instant, recognition clicks in his eyes.

“Maura? Maura Flanagan?”

As we share a long embrace, it feels as if no time has passed at all, even though it's been ages. I’m reminded of the times I'd run to him for advice or when I just needed someone to talk to. “Father, can we chat in your office? There's something I need to talk to you about,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Of course, Maura, follow me,” he says, a worried expression clouding his face. His office is nothing fancy—a desk drowning in paperwork, multiple religious, psychology, and mental wellness books filling the shelves, and a large photo of the current pope gracing one wall.

Sitting down across from Father McCarry, I suddenly find myself tongue-tied. The seriousness of why I want to speak with him hits me all at once. He leans in with concern and readiness to help. “What's on your mind, Maura? Are you looking for advice or is this more of a confessional visit?” he asks gently.

Part of me wishes I was there for confession, to offload some guilt. “Actually, Father, it's something else altogether,” I manage to say. “I've got something to show you, and it isn’t pretty.”

He looks worried again, the lines around his eyes appearing deeper. “What's going on?” he asks, bracing himself for unsettling news.

Taking a deep breath, I dive into it. “It's about a death, Father. Of someone whom we know.” Just saying it out loud makes the whole thing feel more real, heavier somehow.

Father McCarry straightens, a visible tautness to his posture as he prepares himself for what I'm about to reveal. “Go on,” he says, a quiet strength in his voice.

I sigh as I pull out my phone, scrolling to the photo I want to show him. Taking it was a risk but also a necessity, driven by the need for answers. The image of a dead man, taken in the dim lighting of the basement, fills the screen. I hand the phone to him, my heart pounding. “Does this man look familiar?” I ask, watching his face for any sign of acknowledgment.

Father McCarry takes my phone with steady hands. As he examines the photo, a flicker of something casts over his eyes. I am unsure what, but recognition and a bit of shock come to mind.

This photo is the reason I've come to see him. Beyond seeking guidance or absolution, I need his insight, his knowledge of the community I’ve been away from for so long.

The silence stretches between us as he studies the photo, anticipation enveloping me like a glove.

Father McCarry's reaction unravels slowly, a realization creeping into his expression with a gravity that pulls at my heart. “That's little Sean McManus,” he says, the weight of his words heavy with anguish. “Although he isn’t so little anymore. What is this, Maura? What happened? And why do you have a photo of his body? I didn't even know he'd passed.”

I take another deep breath, the air in the office suddenly feeling thick. “Father, there was an attempt on my life. Sean was the would-be assassin.” The words feel surreal as they leave my mouth.

Father McCarry's expression of sadness deepens, but there's also a resignation there, an acknowledgment of a path long feared. “He was full of potential but troubled, always drawn to the shadows and trying to fit in.”

“Remember the two of us in choir practice? And all the stupid stuff we used to do around here when we were kids?” I toss out there, trying to keep my voice light despite the lump in my throat.

Father McCarry's expression softens, a sad smile flickering across his face. “Oh, yes. The kid had a voice that could make the angels jealous. He sang those hymns like he was trying to reach heaven itself. It’s hard knowing that's the same person in the photo you just showed me.”

I let out a little laugh, the kind that recognizes a happy memory in sadness rather than anything funny. “Right? He'd always act so tough, but then he'd start singing, and we’d get a glimpse of the real him for just a bit.”

The room grew quiet as we both took a minute to remember Sean as he was. Father McCarry looked down, his voice dropping a bit. “I tried to help him after things went sideways at home; I thought maybe this place could be his safe space. But you know how it is—once the streets get a hold of you, they don't let go very easily.”

“Yes,” I nod, remembering. “You did everything you could. But sometimes people are unreachable, unfortunately.”

Father McCarry looks genuinely upset as he says, “Sean was one of our own. It's like we lost a piece of this place when he left.”

“I agree,” I say, feeling that same loss heavy in my chest. “But somewhere, somehow, he slipped through the cracks and got lost, unable to find his way back.”

We both sit in silence for a moment, lost in our thoughts, the room feeling like a little bubble away from the rest of the world. “We've got to figure out why, Father. For Sean. He deserves that, at least,” I say, feeling a new determination rising inside me.

Father McCarry looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and I see a fire there. “Indeed. For Sean and the kids like him. It's the least we can do.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he touches on Sharon and the shift in the neighborhood dynamics. ” Nothing’s been the same since Sharon took over the Flanagan operations,” he remarks. “The balance has been off, and the community is suffering because of it.”

“How do you mean?” I ask.

Father McCarry leans slightly forward, his voice dropping to a confidential tone as if the very walls of his office might be listening, ready to betray him. “Maura, what I’m getting at when I say Sharon has changed the neighborhood is not just about the power shift. There's a palpable difference in the air now—less trust, more suspicion.”

I raise an eyebrow, intrigued yet saddened by his observation. “What exactly do you mean, Father?”

He nods to himself, a sigh escaping as he begins. “Well, for starters, there used to be a sense of honor among families, even those involved in... let’s just say less savory activities. There were lines you didn't cross, unspoken rules that kept the peace. But now?” He shakes his head, disappointment clear in his eyes. “Sharon's actions have blurred those lines, and it’s every person for themselves.”

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