Chapter One – Giselle
Heaven. Hell. I always envied those who believed in something greater, an all-knowing higher power. A being of unimaginable strength, omnipotent, always with a plan. My mother was like that, or so I was told. I didn’t remember her at all because she died when I was a child. The people who believed in God would say it was all part of his plan.
I didn’t know whether I believed that.
I’d started to go to church a few years back, wanting to be closer to her, to my mother. That was the excuse I’d told my father, anyway. At the time, I’d hoped it would give me some sense of purpose, something my father could never give me, regardless of how hard he tried.
It didn’t, but it was the reason I was here now.
That was a long story, one I didn’t really want to get into, but as I stared up at this particular church, the oldest church in Cypress, I wondered if this place’s halls could give me anything. I doubted it. The old me might’ve sought answers, but now I just wanted…
Well, that was the problem. I didn’t know what I wanted. Not anymore.
The wind blew past me, the sidewalks all but empty even though it was the middle of the day. Not many people walked the streets of Cypress apparently; I wouldn’t know. We’d just moved here, all so my father could win a place on the Black Hand.
Yeah, another long story, but needless to say, my father’s empire was not big enough. It never was. There was always more to take, more money to make, more enemies to eliminate. Being on the Black Hand would revitalize the Santos last name and make everyone remember why they should fear us.
The gentle breeze rustled my hair, causing its yellow length to get in my face. I let it, still staring up at the old, pointed steeple. This building looked so very old, completely out of place on this street. Stained glass windows, a big bell up on top. Ominous. Foreboding… but again, that could just be a feeling inside me due to what happened the last time I’d stepped foot in a church.
I stood before the door, my hands resting at my sides. I wore a white coat lined with fur. Underneath, an equally white dress. Ivory gloves sat on my hands, and my heart did something strange in my chest as I brought my gloved hands before me, just inches from the door. I was slow to drop my gaze off the church and onto my hands.
The gloves were white, without an imperfection. They were flawless and pure, just like I was supposed to be. Only I wasn’t. I was as impure as the worst sinner here.
My mind flashed back, and I remembered the last time I’d entered a church much like this one.
My feet took me through the city, knowing where to go in the darkness of the night. I was bundled up, my blond hair tucked up in a hat. It was an off day, but it was open confessionals. I’d stopped confessing my sins a long time ago, mostly because the sins I confessed were not mine.
But Father Charlie didn’t care. He sat with me in silence most of the time, a quiet comfort. The only comfort I had these days. After what happened, after what I nearly did… he was the reason I was still here, and I couldn’t forget it. I felt like I owed it to him to try to find inner peace in his God, even if I didn’t personally believe.
I didn’t hesitate when I reached the church; I walked right in, instantly feeling more relaxed. Past the pews, I saw the altar, where the giant cross hung, a statue of Jesus on it. I reached up to take my hat off, letting my long hair free. As I shook it out, I walked down the middle aisle.
No one else was here, which I thought was kind of odd. Normally, there was always a person or two here, someone praying for something or other. Whether or not their God answered them, I never had any idea. I supposed that was between them and their God.
Me? I came here for Father Charlie. For his guidance, for everything he was and everything he stood for. A wizened man of sixty, he was everything my father wasn’t—and perhaps that was why I’d taken to him so strongly, after…
No. I wasn’t going to think about it. Thinking about it made my skin crawl and those feelings of helplessness return, and I never wanted to feel like that again.
Clutching my hat, I couldn’t feel the fabric through the gloves I wore. White, as usual. Always white, because white meant purity. It was a lie, like everything else, but it was one my father approved of. Had to keep up appearances. Appearances were about all I was good for these days.
I stopped about halfway down the aisle, freezing. My ears heard not a thing. No footsteps, not a single thing. It was enough to make me crease my eyebrows in concern. If no one was in confessional with Father Charlie, you could still hear him moving about, cleaning, fixing things, doing anything he could to stay busy and keep the church in tip top shape. He lived right next door, so it wasn’t like he had much of a life outside of this place.
But… there was nothing. Not a single sound, and it didn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was because I was a Santos, but I knew something was wrong. I knew it instantly, my gut hardening in anticipation. I’d seen enough to know when something was wrong, it usually meant the shit had hit the fan in the worst way.
My feet picked up the pace, drawing me toward the altar. I opened my mouth, seconds from shouting for Father Charlie, but a faint sound called my attention, a sound coming from the left—where the private confessionals were. I turned to face the area, slowly walking toward it. As I did, the sound grew louder.
It wasn’t a loud sound by definition. It was something most people would overlook entirely, but my ears heard it; they were keenly attuned to the sound of blood.
When I saw the red dripping from the confessional’s door, from the side where Father Charlie normally resided, I knew my instinct had been right. Bright and garish, thick and oozing into a puddle near my feet; there was only one thing that red stuff could be.
Blood.
No. No, no, no.
My breath caught in the back of my throat, and I reached for the door, swinging it open to see what I already knew, and the sight made the last flickers of hope within me die. My world had shattered three years ago, but this… this was a reminder that nothing I could ever do would make it okay ever again.
Father Charlie’s body was slumped against the wall. His eyes, which normally held such kindness and warmth and generosity, were still open, but they were glassy and dilated. He stared right through me, his body pale. Blood painted the walls behind him and next to him, splattered on the divider.
Three times. He’d been shot three times, at point-blank range. Once in the gut. Once in the chest, near his left shoulder, and once in the head. His clothes were ruffled, and I could see he no longer wore the decorated, golden cross he’d picked up while visiting Rome decades ago. He never let that thing out of his sight.