Chapter Three: Sins of Confession
Killian dresses in black when he takes me to church, like he’s attending his own funeral.
I should be relieved to leave the estate, to feel the city breathing around me again, but my chest stays tight the entire drive. Chicago passes by in stained glass blurs—brick, steel, rain-slicked streets—until the spires of St. Patrick’s rise into view, sharp and accusing against the gray sky.
Sunday bells echo as we step inside.
The smell of incense hits me first. Sweet. Heavy. Suffocating.
My fingers twitch. Old instincts. Count the exits. Measure the ceiling height. Control your breathing, Scarlett. You’re not a child anymore.
Killian’s hand brushes mine—not holding, just there—and I hate how grounding it feels.
People stare. Of course they do. He’s infamous even in a place like this. The devil walking willingly into God’s house. I slide into the pew beside him, my spine stiff, my eyes fixed on the altar as if marble saints can protect me from what’s sitting inches away.
When Killian stands to confess, I don’t mean to listen.
But his voice carries.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “I’ve killed men who begged. I’ve ordered things done that can’t be undone.”
The priest murmurs something I can’t hear.
Killian exhales. “I’ve fallen in love with a woman who thinks she can save my soul.” His pause is sharp, deliberate. “But my soul was sold a long time ago. I don’t know if there’s anything left to redeem.”
My heart slams into my ribs.
I stare at the back of his head, at the candlelight catching in his dark hair, and something inside me fractures. Love. He said love like it was a curse. Like it was already damned.
After mass, Father Michael asks to see me alone.
Killian doesn’t protest. That should terrify me more than if he had.
The priest’s office is dim, lined with books that smell older than guilt itself. Father Michael studies me with eyes too sharp for a man of faith.
“You have your mother’s hands,” he says softly.
My stomach drops. “You knew her?”
He reaches into his robe and presses a cold object into my palm.
A key.
“Open the box beneath the seventh gravestone in the lower crypt,” he says. “It contains what you need to understand.”
“Understand what?”
His jaw tightens. “Why some sins were never meant to be forgiven.”
The crypt is colder than I expect.
Stone presses in from every side, the ceiling low enough that my shoulders curl inward without permission. My breath starts to come too fast, too shallow. The walls feel closer with every step.
Seven.
I count gravestones until I find it. My hands shake as I unlock the rusted box hidden beneath. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a leather-bound journal.
Dr. Alistair’s name is etched into the cover.
My vision blurs as I flip it open.
Fear tolerance experiment. Subject group: six children.
My pulse roars in my ears.
Descriptions spill out in clinical handwriting—sensory deprivation, confinement, panic thresholds. Ages. Reactions. Notes about “optimal breaking points.”
And then I see it.
Subject Two: Male, Irish descent, age nine. Extreme dissociation. Displays attachment fixation to Subject Four.
Subject Four: Female, red hair, age ten. Severe claustrophobic response. Elevated empathy markers.
I drop the journal like it burns.
Killian.
Me.
Footsteps echo behind me.
“Scarlett.”
Liam’s voice.
I spin around, relief and terror colliding so hard it makes me dizzy. He looks older than I remember. Tired. His eyes sweep over me like he’s cataloging damage.
“You have to come with me,” he says urgently. “Right now.”
“You followed me?”
“I never stopped,” he snaps. Then softer, “You don’t belong with him.”
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical and broken. “You don’t even know who he is.”
“I know exactly who he is,” Liam says, raising his gun as footsteps approach from the other end of the crypt. “And I know what he does.”
Killian steps into view, his own weapon already drawn.
The space shrinks.
Stone. Guns. Men I loved and men I feared standing six feet apart.
My lungs seize.
The ceiling feels like it’s collapsing. The walls pulse. The lights flicker, or maybe that’s my vision tearing itself apart. I try to speak and nothing comes out. The ground tilts violently and—
I fall.
The sound of a gun clattering to stone echoes like thunder.
Arms catch me before I hit the floor.
Killian’s arms.
“I’ve got you,” he says, voice breaking through the static in my head. His gun is gone. Thrown aside without hesitation. He cradles my head against his chest, rocking me the way he did that night. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I won’t let it take you.”
Liam shouts my name. Distant. Panicked.
I clutch Killian’s coat, my fingers fisting into fabric as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world. His heartbeat is fast. Human. Terrified.
“I remember you,” he whispers, so quietly it feels like a confession meant only for me. “You used to sing when the lights went out.”
The last thing I see before the darkness pulls me under is Father Michael standing at the top of the stairs, a cross heavy around his neck, his face carved from regret.
Some sins aren’t buried.
They’re inherited.