My eyes flash to his, and he winks. “Figured she wouldn’t tell you. She was the stubborn sort. Give me at least two minutes and I have a feeling you’ll know where the confessional is.”
Not happening. I’m not the one that needs to apologize to God. It’s the other way around.
“It’s a great story!” he calls before he disappears behind the door. “By the way, your mother and I used to talk. Two phone calls a year!”
My body twitches with the need to follow. It’s like I’m a fish caught on a hook. A story involving my mom. One I’ll never have the opportunity to hear from her. Because, as Echo pointed out this morning when she talked about her brother, Mom left, and she’s never returning.
As I climb the concrete stairs for the two towering front wooden doors, I glance up, waiting for the fire and brimstone or good old-fashioned lightning to strike me dead.
The skies remain calm, and I enter the house of the God.
It’s pin-drop quiet and off to the side are rows of unattended votive candles flickering to stay alive. My dad sure as hell had one thing right: the inside of this place is immaculate. The light flowing from the stained-glass windows is like a multibeamed rainbow. Large white columns run on both sides of the center seating, and painted in the domed area over the sanctuary are pictures of the apostles.
My uncle fixes his collar and appears spiritual again in black.
“That’s a fire hazard.” I gesture to the prayer candle area.
That brings him up short. “I can see where you’d feel that way. We’re considering moving to electric candles, but it wouldn’t have the same effect, would it? Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for work.”
Without another soul but the two of us, my uncle scurries into the confessional and shuts the wooden closet door.
On the ceiling, a painting of Michael the Archangel peers down at me. He’s the warrior of God. The one who’s called when there’s a battle—a lot like the war that’s about to take place the moment I step inside that confessional. Not sure if Michael is on my side or the priest’s, but then I shake my head. Definitely the priest’s. For the past three years, the odds have never been in my favor.
Echo
My hand rushes over the canvas, and I hear a cough behind me. I’ve probably got an audience again, but I don’t care. Aires is missing. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back.
He made a promise, and he broke it.
The last thing my brother ever did was break a promise to me.
As the blues fade into a blackish-blue and as that merges into dark as midnight, there’s this undercurrent of rage pushing me forward. My brother lied to me, and I’m mad.
“Echo.” It’s a somewhat familiar voice, but I try to block it out. “Echo.”
A hand touches my arm, and all the anger bubbling inside me shoots out. “What?”
I glare at Hunter then take a step back. Oh, heck, I had shoved myself way too close into his personal territory, as in my face was a centimeter from his.
“You don’t like getting pulled out of your trance,” he says. “I got it, and it’s filed away for future use.”
There are giggles around the room, and one quick scan confirms that I’ve got fans. With a heavy sigh, I put my brush on the easel and stretch my back. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, but since I disturbed you, do you mind if we talk?”
“Sure.”
With a wave and a few words from Hunter, everyone moves on. “I’m going to have to shut this audience thing down soon, otherwise no one but you will get any work done.”
“I am sorry about snapping at you. I won’t lie—I can be hard to be pulled out, but I’m usually not so emotional, but...” I stare at the painting. “This one’s different.”
“What makes this one different?”
Because it’s my brother. “Just is.”
“You chose to leave out the star. Why?”
This thin veil that used to be a brick-and-mortar wall between me and any emotion connected with losing my brother wavers with the slightest breeze. If I wanted, the answers lie there behind the mist. All I have to do is reach for them and according to Mrs. Collins, those answers will help me keep Noah.
But there’s pain behind that curtain. Pain I’m not sure I want to tackle. Pain that, hours ago in the hotel room, came close to surfacing.
Like the canvas turned into poison, I slide back from it. The veil in my head fluctuates as I focus on the colors. “Just decided to go that way.”
“You’re not a pushover for anyone, are you? Not even the man who can open doors for your future.”
I’ve been wiping my hands on a towel and pause. “What did you say?”
“You. Not a pushover. How I like getting answers when I ask questions, and you don’t give them. Me offering you a future and you not caring.”
A smile spreads across my face. “I’m not a pushover.”