Page 66 of Their Will be Done

Keith most of all.

Please.

Monica.

The fire pops,breaking me from my trance. I whirl around to look at the clock. Quarter past eight.

I press the laptop’s power button. It starts shutting down as I yank out the drive and hike up my skirt to slip it behind my underwear again.

A noise reaches me from the passageway outside Gabriel’s room. So faint, it could have been my imagination, but I’m not taking any chances. Whether the drive had enough time to copy everything it needed, I don’t know.

I slam closed the lid and pull out the cable, shoving the laptop back in the bag before winding up the cord as I trace it back to the power outlet.

Was that a door opening?

My heart knocks against my breast bone. I’m seconds away from puking with nerves.

I break off the tip of my nail when I pull out the power cord. I kick the side of the nightstand, shoving it back against the wall with my foot.

Tossing everything in the bag, I zip it up and crawl under the bed.

I can’t bear going all the way to the back.

You’re taking too long!

Fuck. I crawl out again, jump to my feet, and spin to face the door on the other side of the apartment.

Then I remember to breathe, and let out a massive sigh of stale air.

I tug my dress straight as I hurry back to the fireplace, glancing back over my shoulder to make sure the bedroom is in the same condition I found it.

I hiss in pain when my ass hits the chair. Despite the cushioning, I felt that impact all through my body. I shudder as I try to ignore the pain, and gently shift into a more comfortable position.

What were you doing while I was gone, Trinity? Who, me? Just been sitting here the whole time. Sitting here, watching the fire.

God, my heart’s pounding. I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, and then use both hands to swipe the sweat from my hairline.

Crackle, pop, grumble.

Caught between a hungry fire and an angry thunderstorm.

Shit, it’s hot in here.

I get up again, scanning the bedroom again as I pass. Dear Lord, I hope I didn’t fuck this up. I open the window and stick my head into the wet, chilly air.

Better.

Lightning fractures the sky, and a few seconds later a muted crack rumbles around Saint Amos.

I check the clock.

Twenty minutes past eight.

Damn it! I could still have been going through his emails. It only took me a minute to find the one my mom sent. Father Gabriel—Gabe?—is super organized. His emails were all sorted into folders. Accounts, Personal, Redmond, Bishop, To-Do, Unsorted, Spam, Sent, Deleted.

Mom’s letter had been the tenth one in the personal folder. I guess it says a lot that the entire folder only contained a little over thirty emails. But although Gabriel likes to pretend he doesn’t have a personal life, judging from my mom’s email, he’s had his nose stuck in our family’s affairs for a long time.

Hisguidance?

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