Forty-two

His hands reeked of gasoline. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, the smell of it. The scent drifted up to him, sharp and heavy, from where his fingers gripped the steering wheel, and every breath he took reminded him of his Margaret and what he’d done to her.

You mean what we did to her, don’t you, boy?

The voice inside his head sounded petulant, like a complaining child who’d been told he couldn’t go outside to play. It annoyed him. Still, he owed Wade Bauer his freedom. Without him, the night he’d watched him drape a very dead Melissa Walker across that bench, he never would’ve understood the urgent need that had gripped him since he was a young boy. Never would’ve had the guts to act on it.

He would have been alone.

His father long gone. His mother dead. There’d been no one else to guide him, to tell him it was okay. To show him how to be who and what he was.

A killer.

“Of course I mean we,” he murmured out loud, the ghost of a grin sliding across his face. He’d been sitting in his car for a while now, watching the steady trickle of people flow in and out of Saint Rose for confession. Thinking about all those sins, confessed in hushed, shame-filled tones. All the bad things people did that needed forgiving. Aside from the killing, it was his favorite part of what he did. Saying it out loud. Listening to the soft, labored breathing of the old priest behind the screen while he shared his sins. The difference was, he never asked for forgiveness. He didn’t want it. Didn’t need it.

She was inside. Nosing around. Asking questions about him. It was only a matter of time before the priest told her everything.

You’re gonna have to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“I know,” he muttered, distracted by the slam of a car door. He watched Elena Hernandez cross the lot, heading into the sanctuary.

What’s little sister doing here?

He knew she was an observing Catholic but he suspected that her attending mass and giving regular confession was more for her mother’s benefit than because she actually believed. He could see it, her doubt. Her loss of faith. She knelt and prayed. Accepted communion and the blessings of the old priest, but it was all for show.

Elena stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.

He wondered if she’d change her mind if she knew the truth. That she was a miracle. That every breath she’d taken since that night had been a gift from God.

God don’t want no part of what we’re doing here, boy.

For some reason, knowing that made him smile.