Page 52 of The Reaper

His face was cold under my touch. I’d let him be after he walked out, and dusk had turned to chilly night. I’d spent those hours reading the details of my mission, studying everything I’d been given for success, the redemption I came here for. This was my chance to prove I wasn’t a complete failure and waste of time.

And it was … not what I imagined it would be. At all.

I’d noticed Archer’s gun on the counter of the tiny kitchenette, and I felt an urge to hold it, feel the weight of cold metal in my hand. I turned it over, examining it, and wondered how many people had fallen at the hands of its owner. It was then I looked out the window and found him sitting on a patch of grass near the pond. His head was tucked between his legs; the moonlight made his exposed back glow. I grabbed the blanket draped over the small armchair before heading outside.

I wasn’t sure why I was pushing him to open up so much. He was right with what he’d said earlier: it was time for him to go. Whatever we were doing, it couldn’t continue. Maybe that was why I pushed, so I would remember him when he was gone. He wasn’t always what he appeared to be on the surface. We all have a facade we hide behind. I was a great example of that. I was a priest with a secret more lethal than the people Archer had confessed to killing.

“I didn’t want this life,” I admitted, offering something about myself. Trust begets trust. His head shifted, peeking to meet my gaze. Archer remained silent, so I kept going. “I never wanted to be a priest.” I shook my head.

“Then why did you choose it?” he asked. “Why did you go through all the bullshit to be a priest if it’s something you didn’t want?” He lifted his head, watching me closely.

“I came from a family of priests. My uncles were priests, and so is my brother. I didn’t have a choice.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you not have a choice?” The crease on the sides of his eyes deepened. “You’re an adult. You can make your own decisions.”

“You don’t understand. I wish it was that easy.”

Archer eyed me, his gaze intensifying. He rubbed his chin, now covered with a blond five o’clock shadow. He leaned forward, pausing when we were face-to-face. His eyes were filled with hesitation. He stared at my lips, swallowing. The arrogant persona he used as a default faltered when he released a shaky breath. Something dark was brewing inside him, and I was ready for his storm. “Do you really want to know?”

I nodded. “Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered. He combed his hair with his fingers before dragging them down to his face and neck.

“Shouldn’t or won’t?” I pressed, wondering about the possible reasons that could hold him back. “You can tell me anything.”

Another deep breath escaped Archer’s pursed lips. He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening, and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. The turmoil he was fighting must’ve been so great that the idea of sharing it with someone caused him distress. “I got it when I was younger. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.” He ran his finger over the scar. “I was sentenced to life for the murder of four of my classmates, including my only friend, Luke.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, Luke,” he whispered.

My eyes widened, and he must’ve witnessed my shock because he shook his head repeatedly. I remained silent and focused on every word coming from his mouth.

“I didn’t do it. I was framed.” His eyes begged me to trust him. “You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you,” I said. I’d only known him for a short time, but my gut was telling me to trust him. I mean what I say and say what I mean. I repeated his mantra in my head.

“I was so afraid. You should’ve seen my grandparents. They were devastated.” Archer looked up at the sky, his watery eyes shining.

“Did they believe you were innocent?”

“They did. They raised me, after all,” he said. “I was a good kid. I did well in school and stayed out of trouble. Even still, I ended up in prison.”

“What about your parents?”

He shook his head. “Mom told me my dad was killed in the Gulf War. Then she disappeared when I was eight years old. My grandparents spent so much money looking for her, even hiring several private investigators. But after ten years, they gave up. All efforts were a waste of time.”

“I’m sorry. That must’ve been awful.” I rubbed his back, my heart breaking for him. I knew too well how that felt. I’d lost my parents at an early age too.

“They visited me in prison every week without fail. They attended my trial, which lasted for almost a year. Do you know how hard it is to witness someone you love die inside? The ugly truth of losing me dulled the light in their eyes, but they kept fighting until the end.” A stray tear fell on his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away.

“I do know,” I admitted. “I know how ugly the world can be.”

“You don’t have to say that. What would you know? You have this perfect, holier-than-thou world.”

“I’m just like you,” I said.

“No, you’re not. You wouldn’t know ugly if it hit you in the face,” Archer whispered. “The unimaginable ugliness looming outside the sanctuary that has sheltered you.”

His assumptions were as unfair as my own back in the confessional. But I understood. “I know more than you think I do.” I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Emotion was a liability.

“You don’t know pain.” He gritted his teeth, pointing his finger at me. “The kind of pain that extinguishes hope and destroys any shred of happiness because it’s dangerous to feel anything at all.”

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