Chapter 1: Stolen Moments, Stolen Funds
The sacristy hummed with a quiet only found in places that have heard too many secrets. Golden candlelight jumped and flickered against the worn brass of the chalices on the shelf, their edges softened by a century of polish and prayer. The air was thick, sweet with the ghost of decades of incense, trapped between moth-eaten vestments and half-empty bottles of sacramental wine with fading labels.
Riley leaned against the doorframe, watching Paul’s back. The priest’s shoulders were relaxed, his head bowed slightly over the old parish ledger open on the table. Outside, the last of Bev Keane’s furious footsteps had echoed into the cool island evening.
“She’s gone,” Riley said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet.
Paul didn’t turn. A slow, unmistakable smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was a different smile than the ones he used to wear—the serene, calculated masks of Father Paul. This was genuine, a little tired, and entirely his own.
“I take it she didn’t stay for tea,” Riley added, pushing off the frame and moving into the room. The wooden floorboards groaned softly under his boots.
“She declined the invitation.” Paul finally turned, closing the ledger with a soft thump. His kind, knowing brown eyes caught the candlelight. “It was quite the performance. The righteous indignation. The tremble in the voice when she mentioned the ‘sanctity of this house.’ I think she even managed a single, perfect tear.”
Riley came to stand beside him, his hip resting against the solid oak table. He could smell the faint, clean scent of Paul’s soap under the incense. “What did you say to her? I only caught the tail end. Something about a new roof for the schoolhouse?”
“I merely asked,” Paul said, his tone deceptively light, “if she’d prefer I discuss the roof repairs with the diocese, or if we should just use the funds from the restricted discretionary account she’s been… creatively managing for the last six years.”
A sharp, surprised laugh burst from Riley. It felt good. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” Paul’s smirk widened into a full, warm smile. “I just stated it as a simple logistical question. No accusation. Just… options.”
Riley shook his head, his dark shaved hair catching the light. The image of Bev’s face, that carefully constructed mask of piety cracking into sheer, panicked fury, was almost too satisfying. This was the woman who had poisoned an entire island with fervor, who had looked at him and seen only a sinner to be burned. Now she was just a petty thief with a key to the collection box.
“Creative management,” Riley repeated, grinning. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”
“Language,” Paul murmured, but there was no reproach in it. Only a deep, affectionate amusement.
The candle guttered, throwing their elongated shadows against the stone wall. Riley reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a stray strand of Paul’s long black hair behind his ear. The gesture was simple, domestic. A habit. “You enjoyed that a little too much.”
“Maybe,” Paul admitted, leaning into the touch. His gaze grew more serious, the amusement fading into something quieter. “It felt like balancing a scale. Just a little. For all the big things I can never truly atone for… it felt right to call her on the small, greedy crimes she thought no one saw.”
Riley understood. The past was a weight they both carried, but they carried it together. He didn’t see a monster when he looked at Paul. He saw a man who had walked through hell and was trying, every single day, to plant a garden in the ashes.
He closed the small distance between them. His hand cupped Paul’s jaw, his thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. Paul’s eyes drifted shut for a second, a soft sigh escaping him.
Riley kissed him.
It was deep and slow, a conversation without words. It tasted like victory, yes, but also like the stale coffee Paul had been drinking all afternoon, and underneath that, the familiar, essential taste of home. Of him. Paul’s hands came up, one tangling in the short hair at the back of Riley’s neck, the other splaying across his back, pulling him closer. The ledger, Bev, the ghosts—all of it receded until there was only the warmth of this room, the click of a rosary bead against the table as their movement jostled it, the shared breath between them.
When they finally parted, Riley rested his forehead against Paul’s. Their breathing was uneven in the silent sacristy.
“You’re a dangerous man, Father Hill,” Riley whispered, the old title now a private joke, an endearment.
“Only to bureaucrats and hypocrites,” Paul whispered back. He pulled back, his eyes searching Riley’s face. “Are you okay? Her shouting… it didn’t…”
“I’m fine,” Riley said, and for the most part, it was true. The loud, sudden anger used to send him spiraling, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, his mind flashing white with memories of wings and blood and fire. Now, it was just noise. Paul’s steady presence was a tether, holding him firmly in the present. “It’s just noise. She’s just noise.”
Paul nodded, accepting the answer. He trusted Riley to tell him the truth. That trust, hard-won, was the foundation of everything.
The moment was broken by the buzz of Riley’s phone in his pocket. He groaned, pulling it out. The screen glowed in the dim sacristy: Sarah.
He showed it to Paul, whose expression softened immediately. “Answer it.”
Riley swiped accept and put it on speaker. “Hey, kid. You’re on speaker with Paul.”
“Hi, dads.” Sarah’s voice was bright, threaded with the unique energy of a twenty-year-old who had seen the worst the world had to offer and decided to be kind anyway. “Just checking in. Mom’s making me eat kale. I think it’s a war crime.”
Paul laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. “Tell her I said a balanced diet includes cookies. Priestly decree.”
“I’ll try that. It might work coming from you.” There was a rustling sound. “How was your day? Bev try to excommunicate anyone at the bake sale?”
Riley met Paul’s eyes, a new, quiet joy settling in his chest. This. This was the miracle. Not wings, not blood, not eternal life. This easy, sprawling love that had somehow grafted them together into a family.
“Something like that,” Riley said, his fingers lacing with Paul’s on the tabletop. “But we handled it. Tell your mom we’re still on for dinner tomorrow. Paul’s making his famous pot roast.”
“A pot roast that famously fought back,” Paul corrected, grinning.
They talked for a few more minutes, the ordinary, beautiful minutiae of life. When the call ended, the silence returned, but it was a comfortable one. The candle was burning lower.
Paul looked at their joined hands, then out the small, leaded glass window to the darkening sky. “We should go home. I need to actually start that pot roast if it’s going to be edible for your parents.”
“Yeah.” Riley stood, but didn’t let go. He looked around the sacristy, this room of old secrets and older faith. It felt different now. Not a battleground, not a prison. Just a room. A place where work got done, where a man could quietly outmaneuver a villain, and then kiss the person he loved.
He blew out the candle.
The darkness was immediate and soft, broken only by the faint amber streetlight filtering through the window. They left the sacristy, walking through the empty nave. Their footsteps echoed in the vast, hollow space, a sound that had once felt oppressive to Riley. Now, it was just the sound of them going home.
Outside, the cold, salt-tinged air of Crockett Island hit Riley’s face. He inhaled deeply. Paul locked the church door behind them, the heavy click final and sure.
As they walked down the path toward the rectory—their home—Paul’s shoulder brushed against his. A constant, gentle point of contact.
“Do you think she’ll actually leave?” Riley asked, the question hanging in the dark.
Paul was quiet for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “People like Bev don’t leave. They dig in. They find new angles.” He squeezed Riley’s hand. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem.”
Riley nodded. Tonight, there was a pot roast to mock, a fire to build, and a quiet kitchen waiting for them. Tonight, they had won a small, perfect battle. It was enough. It was more than enough.