Page 4 of Sinister Savior

I hold up a calming hand and she stills. “Alice, please trust me. I only want to help you.” Need to help her is more like it, and she doesn’t even know how badly. My conscience will never allow me to turn this woman out to the streets where she’ll surely be killed.

“Fine, but only for a night. I feel like the more space I put between me and this town, the better.” Her head drops again, and I sense her unease, but I know what I’m doing—sort of.

I know who I’m dealing with and I know how to hide her. How to get her out of this mess is another story. For that, I’ll need help.

“Come with me,” I tell her, standing, and she follows.

My life just got really tricky again. Call it the ultimate penance, but I think I’ve found my calling.

Saving Alice Darling.

3

ALICE

Ilay awake last night for hours listening to the sounds in this old church rectory. Everything that happened had me so emotionally overwhelmed and exhausted, but my anxiety wouldn’t allow me to rest. When I finally did sleep, it was fraught with the same nightmares, only this time, there was blood in all of them. Everywhere.

Now the birds are chirping, singing happily in the tree outside the window above the bed where I lie. I can’t name them by their songs, but I’ve always enjoyed watching them at the bird feeder in my back yard. A place I’ll likely never enjoy again. Nothing about my life will ever be the same. I’m on the run from dangerous criminals and the police. And I don’t know which group to be more frightened of.

Pushing myself up, I sit on the edge of the bed and yawn, stretching my arms far over my head. The tiny room is modest, only a bed and a dresser, but at least the bed is comfortable. The colors are drab, too, plain brown furniture, solid blue bed linens, old wood floors. There is no art on the walls, nothing decorating the top of the dresser. There isn’t even a television in here in case I get bored.

The room appears as if no one has stayed here for years. A thick layer of dust coats the small dome light fixture in the center of the ceiling, and the scent of stuffy mildew tickles my nose. But I’m grateful for the place to have slept. It’s better than the backseat of my car, which likely would have been reported to the police with an APB out for me. And it’s better than a jail cell, that’s for sure.

I fold the blankets back and stand, noticing my shorts lying on the floor where I tossed them last night. My shoes, left by the door haphazardly, remind me that I shouldn’t be here. As safe as this feels and as nice as it is for Father Clemmons to have offered the respite, I am only endangering these people. As it is, he had to take my keys and park my car far away from here, then walk all the way back in the rain. I have to hand it to the weather man this time. They finally got it right.

I relieve my bladder, then put my shorts and shoes back on. The scent of bacon meets my nose. It wafts in from the kitchen where I’m not even sure who is cooking. Father Clemmons is a mystery to me. I came here to confess, having heard that Father Clemmons was a great man and an even better priest. I know nothing about Father Grieshop, who is the head of this church. I haven’t even been to church in years. I should be only passing through.

After collecting my purse, I open the door and tiptoe into the hallway. If I could sneak out the back without anyone knowing, I would. I know how dangerous it is for me to be here. If the men who are hunting me find out I’m here, they’ll unleash hell on these priests, the building, and any parishioners who happen to be in their path. I can’t stay.

“Alice…” The buttery warm baritone of Father Clemmons startles me, and I jerk around to see him behind me. I was so busy looking toward the back of the rectory, toward a potential escape, that I never heard him coming.

“Father Clemmons…” He’s so handsome, strikingly so. And he looks so different from last night. He’s wearing a polo shirt and jeans, not his robe and Roman collar. His high cheekbones and stormy blue eyes captivate me for a moment. I find myself speechless.

“Did you sleep okay?” He holds a cup of coffee in his hand, cradled in his massive palms. I smell it and my stomach begins to growl.

I should be leaving, sneaking out the back and getting away from here so I don’t endanger anyone else, but one cup of coffee won’t hurt. Besides, after his hospitality, it’d be rude to just run out without at least thanking him properly.

“Uh, as well as can be expected.” I fidget with my purse strap, awkwardly jerking it up to my shoulder. I must look a mess. My hair is unbrushed, as are my teeth. I want a shower, not the compassionate gaze of this man. Though his eyes are kind and his smile warm.

“Good. That’s so good to hear. I’ve made breakfast for us. You can join me if you’d like.” It’s an offer, not a command, though he has no true authority over me so I can reject that offer if I’d like. But I find myself wanting to eat with him. His presence is calming and reassuring.

“Sure…” My tight-lipped smile accompanies my weak response, and he leads the way to the dining room where he has everything set out.

The décor in this room is as boring as the rest of the home. I swear the priests who live here have taken an oath against things looking nice or something. It’s more browns and blues, no portraits, only bare walls, and the cupboards are even boring. They don’t even have pulls on the doors.

The food, however, is out of this world. The first bite I take melts in my mouth, tasting like heaven on my fork. I raise my eyebrows and look up at Father Clemmons, who has a broad smile on his handsome face.

“You enjoy it?” He uses his fork to scoop up some of his eggs Florentine and brings it to his mouth as I answer.

“This is incredible. Where’d you learn to cook like this?” I gobble it up, eating faster than is polite, but the meal really is incredible. Despite his calling to a life of humility and piety, the priest appears to have a lot of pride for his cooking.

“I summered in France as a much younger man, before my life as a priest. My nanny made this for me at least once a week. She said the spinach was good for me, and I didn’t care because it was so delicious.” He eats slower than me, respectfully so.

I chew on what he said for a while as I finish my plate of eggs. I wish there were more where that came from, but I don’t want to appear greedy. Not in front of a priest. But I am most definitely gluttonous. And I’m strangely attracted to this man too, a man who will never be able to do anything for me but pardon my sins.

“Summer in France? You must’ve had a wealthy upbringing.” I wipe my face with the napkin he laid out for me and drape it over my empty plate as he thoughtfully chews and swallows, but I’m not expecting his response.

“I came to the Lord later in life. My past is behind me now, and I am a man of the cloth. What about you? Tell me about your husband.” His eyes bore holes into my soul, and I want to hide.

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