Page 55 of Wicked Believer
So if something like this happened, I wouldn’t feel so ...
Grief tightens my throat.
That line of thinking seems foolish, cruel even.
“Name’s Father Brown.” The priest extends a hand toward me like he’s unaware of my distress. Or just polite enough to ignore it.
“I’m—”
“I know who you are, Charlotte.” He smiles softly.
My insides turn cold. Of course he does. My face is constantly plastered across every kind of screen these days.
Which means I’m ... not welcome here.
Why would I be?
Gingerly, I set the empty Dixie cup down onto the pew beside me, my gaze shifting toward the exit. “I suppose I should—”
“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Father Brown says, reading my expression easily. “AllGod’s children are welcome here, you included. In fact, I’d wager a guess this’ll be the most interesting conversation I have all day, though let’s keep that last bit strictly between you and me.” He chuckles, watching me for a long beat, like he’s trying to gauge my reaction. “But if you really want to leave.” He gently nods toward the door to show he won’t try to stop me.
My eyes dart toward it. To where the rest of the world waits.
It won’t take long for the paparazzi to find me.
If Lucifer doesn’t first . . .
Honestly, I’m not sure which of those possibilities terrifies me more.
I swallow. “I’d ... like to sit here for a moment actually, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.” He nods like somehow he gets it, though he couldn’t possibly begin to understand.
No mortal can anymore.
A thick feeling constricts my throat.
I half expect him to leave then, or for this conversation to take a turn for the worst as he tries to convert me, make me repent and see the error of my ways for being “the devil’s whore,” like my father or Mark would have done, but instead he just turns toward the front of the church and sits with me, both of us together in a companionable silence.
I stare up at the stained glass window overhead, watching how the colors stream in from the early morning light, and after a while, the feeling in my chest grows tighter until I find my eyes stinging. A sharp twinge of grief settles in as I realize the sight, the smells, the sounds of this place make me ...
Incredibly homesick.
Though how can I feel homesick for somewhere I’ve never even been?
I gaze up toward Heaven.
“I still pray to Him, you know,” I whisper, unable to stop myself.
Father Brown casts a proud sidelong glance at me, smiling a little. “Do you?”
I lower my head. “But I ... don’t think He’s listening.”
“How can you be so certain?” he asks.
I open my mouth to answer, but something stops me. “I suppose I’m not,” I mumble, “certain, I mean. But if He is listening, I ... wouldn’t know it.”
“Mmph.” He gives a meaningful hum. “That’s the thing about faith.” He casts a conspiratorial grin at me. “Sometimes He’s listening when we least expect it.”
