“Yes,” he acknowledges. “It was terrible.”
We walk together, he and I, toward the front where we sit on a pew. My back is as stiff as Eleanor’s, my breath hesitant as I wait.
“Can you tell me?” I ask and he looks up at God.
“I think,” he replies slowly. “That some things are left unsaid, and perhaps actions are your true answers.”
I’m confused and I tell him that and he nods.
“You wonder what happened to Adair. But to be honest, the only thing that matters is who Adair is today. You know who he is, and that’s what’s important.”
But I know what I know.
I want to know what I don’t.
“Eleanor Savage hid it,” he nods. “She doesn’t wish for it to be known or talked about. Perhaps that’s why you encounter so many walls at Whitley.”
“Father,” I say slowly, watching his face as I speak. “Would you believe me if I said I have dreams… dreams about things that have happened?”
“What do you mean, my child?”
So then, because he’s a priest and he has vowed to hold things confidential, to his parish and to God, I tell him.
I tell him all of it, as though I’m confessing to some great sin.
“I don’t ask for the dreams,” I tell him desperately. “And sometimes, I’m not sure if I’m crazy. Maybe I’m imagining what I see.”
Just like I imagine my dead brother.
The priest sighs and he holds my hand, his grip so warm and sincere.
“I don’t know how to explain it,” he says finally. “But your dream, in this case, is true. There was a terrible thing that happened… with Dare and Richard and Olivia. Richard was cruel and he damaged Adair in a thousand different ways. And one day, Dare couldn’t take it anymore. But he paid for that, my dear. A thousand times over.”
“How?” I ask, fear in my tone and stilting my words.
“If Dare wants you know, he’ll tell you,” Father Thomas answers carefully. “Until then, you should know, he’s a good boy.”
I know he’s good. I know his eyes, I know his heart.
He’s too good for me, even though he thinks otherwise.
Even if he thinks he’s a monster.
“Few know what happened,” the priest continues. “But those that do whisper that Adair could be dangerous. Don’t believe them.”
I’ve done terrible things, Dare said once.
You’re not safe.
I wrap my mind around these things, or try to. But it’s too much, too much, too much to focus on.
“There’s something else, Father,” I continue, speaking softly because Jesus is watching me from his bloody perch on the wall.
The priest waits.
“I see someone,” I say hesitantly, because I know how insane it sounds. “When I’m out walking, the last time I was here, on the grounds of Whitley. A man in a gray hooded sweatshirt. He watches me, and he wants something from me.”
The father is interested by this. “Does he speak to you?” he asks, my hand still cradled in his.
“No. He seems to want me to find something, but I don’t know what it is.”
The father peruses me, his expression gentle.
“You’ve been through a great deal, Calla,” he says, his words so understanding. “Perhaps you’re still trying to figure it all out.”
I want to slip into the floor because he’s basically saying I’m crazy.
“I’m not crazy, am I?” I ask and he shakes his head.
“Of course not,” he says firmly.
“Does it have to do with Dare’s secret?” I ponder and the priest shrugs.
“I don’t know.”
He doesn’t treat me like I’m crazy or like the things I’m saying are so preposterous. He just listens and smiles and holds my hand.
He’s a true comfort and I tell him so.
Today, when I leave, the boy in the sweatshirt is nowhere in sight.
Thank God.
At dinner, Eleanor turns to me.
“Don’t forget, the event is tomorrow night. Your dress has been delivered, along with your jewels and shoes. You are up for it, I presume?”
Like always, her question isn’t a question.
I nod. “Of course.”