Page 55 of Girl, Accused

Beyond the vestibule, the sanctuary opened up. Late morning light pierced stained glass windows in cylinders of orange and blue and green. The nave stretched forward to an altar draped in purple – Advent season, Ella remembered from childhood Sundays when her aunt had still believed church might fix what was broken in her niece. A wooden cross hung suspended above, but there was no Jesus in sight. No crown of thorns. Just geometry stripped to its barest symbolism.

‘Adam Canton?’ she shouted. ‘FBI. Show yourself.’

No response.

Ella's hand hovered near her weapon as she advanced down the center aisle. The place felt deserted, but her instincts hummed with that familiar warning frequency. Empty spaces were never truly empty. They waited to be filled. ‘You see a back door on your way in?’

‘No. You?’

'No. There must be another entrance, though. I doubt Canton comes and goes through the oak doors.'

‘Then if he’s here, we need to block him off.’

Ella scanned the periphery. A dry baptismal font stood to her left. Confessional booth on the right. Hymn books with cracked spines lined the back of each pew. At the front, beside the altar, a small door presumably led to auxiliary spaces. Offices, classrooms, storage. Perhaps the stairway to Canton's apartment above.

‘Check out the windows,’ Ripley said, nodding toward the stained glass. ‘Bit on the nose, isn’t it?’

Ella followed her gaze. The nearest window depicted an angel with a flaming sword standing guard over what Ella figured was Eden's gate. Adam and Eve cowered in the foreground, shame-faced and newly aware of their nakedness. The next window showed what Ella guessed was Sodom and Gomorrah in flames.

‘Gotta get your inspiration from somewhere. Come on, let’s find Canton’s apartment upstairs.’

Ella reached the altar and paused. A Bible lay open, and some of the verses were underlined in red. She leaned closer, careful not to touch. The open passage was Revelation 18.

Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and has become a dwelling place of demons, a prison for every foul spirit, and a cage for every unclean and hated bird!

Ripley joined her at the altar, her eyes flicking to the Bible, then to the door beside it. ‘Someone's been busy with their homework.’

‘It amazes me someone wrote this thing.’

‘It amazes me someone reads this thing.’

Ella turned her attention to the door beside the altar. It was unassuming – plain wood with a simple brass handle. No sign indicated what lay beyond, but instinct told her it might lead to the answers they sought.

‘Pastor Canton?’ she called one last time, giving due diligence to announcement before entry. ‘If you're here, we need to speak with you. It's important.’

‘Either he’s not here or he’s ignoring us.’

‘Either option is cause to go upstairs.’ Ella grabbed the door handle, turned and opened up into a narrow hallway. There were two doors, one on either side. Both were hanging open.

She slid up to the first door and peered in. It appeared to be a small office – desk, chair, filing cabinet. Nothing remarkable except its emptiness. No computer. No papers. Nothing to suggest the daily business of saving souls had happened here anytime recently.

The second door revealed a Sunday school room. Child-sized chairs arranged in a semi-circle. Felt boards with cutout figures of Jesus and disciples. Crayon drawings of arks and floods and burning bushes taped to walls.

‘Just an office and Sunday school.’

‘Where the magic happens,’ Ripley kept her voice low. She was already at the end of the corridor. ‘Here. Staircase.’

Ella rushed over, surveyed it. The center of each step was dust free. ‘We might be in luck.’

Ripley went first, treading quietly. Ella counted the steps as she ascended. It was a habit born from years of thinking about escape routes. Fourteen steps. Steep pitch. Narrow treads that would make running down them a gamble with gravity. The staircase curved halfway up, then straightened for its final approach to a landing. A single door waited at the top: solid wood with chipped green paint and a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head.

At the top, she paused, listened. No sounds from the other side. No deadbolt. No security measures at all, which struck Ella as odd for someone so focused on sins and judgment. Maybe Canton figured God was protection enough.

One knock. ‘Adam Canton. FBI. Open up.’

Silence answered.

Ripley tried her luck. She hammered and shouted, ‘Canton, we need to speak with you.’

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