Page 96 of Broken

“Homicidal?” I mock, stunning myself with the levity in my tone.

“Ugh, really?”

I pull back so she can see my arched brow. Her fingers trace it, and I let her, accepting that I need her affection. It grounds me. Reminds me I’m a man—not a priest.

I settle on: “It cements a truth home,” for an answer.

“What kind of truth?”

“That you’re right. I wear the vestments, but that’s it.”

Her lips twist. “You’ve seen the light. I wondered if I’d have to fight you to recognize that.”

“No fighting required.”

“How are you feeling?” Her hand brushes over my temple like a lock of hair has fallen loose, but I showered and gelled it this morning after I dealt with the blood on the wall.

There’s no reason for her to do that aside from the need to connect with me, and fuck if I don’t need that connection.

“I’m feeling better,” I say slowly, not altogether surprised that I mean it.

“What about the drug dealer?”

“He killed someone. I’m finding it hard—” My throat closes. “He doesn’t deserve to live. Everyone lets him get away with murder. I would have already dealt with him if he came to confession more often.”

My past and present selves are in discord. I’ve been this Savio without Andrea far longer than I’ve had her, so the tension creates a storm that urges me into gently straightening, being careful with her before I head for the window.

As I peer onto the street, my gaze drifts over the homeless around me.

There are three who have patches in this locale, and in the next hour or so, more will appear, seeking food.

Lisabetta, Matteo, and Gianni are all in place, huddled under their sheets, but as I stare at Gianni, who’s in front of his supermarket, tucked into the doorway because there are vents that let out heat during the night, something about his positioning comes across as peculiar to me.

Matteo and Lisabetta are in fetal positions under their blankets, but their bodies practically buzz with tension.

I always feel guilty for having a spare bed when they’re around. I actually asked the archdiocese if someone could use it while the room was empty and they refused.

I’ve been tempted, several times, to break that rule, but there’s no rhythm or rhyme as to when they’ll permit someone to stay there, and though these three have all showered in my home, they’re surprisingly uncomfortable with my allowing them to do so.

Lisabetta usually asks me once a month, and I have to assume that’s in alignment with her period. I can’t even imagine having to deal with that on the streets. I make sure to give her more money than usual around that time.

Matteo typically showers before he goes to his weekly confession, but Gianni’s only showered a handful of times, mostly when he’s been beaten.

Still, there’s something about his posture that grates at my awareness. His body is oddly sprawled out. One of his legs is under the now-filthy sleeping bag I gave him a few months ago when the weather turned bitter, but the other isn’t.

Lisabetta and Matteo are tense from the cold.

Why isn’t he?

“Savio?”

When Andrea’s hand brushes my shoulder, I jump in surprise.

“Savio?” she repeats, and I hear her concern.

Turning to her, I mutter, “One of my friends, he’s—” I don’t linger long enough to explain. Instinct prompts me into action.

I rush from the office toward a side entrance that takes me to the community hall.

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