The island was too small for secrets. Crockett was the kind of place where everyone thought they knew everyone else’s business, where gossip was communion and the Mass began long before the bell rang.

So when your family arrived, private, unfamiliar, city-born, and not christians, it was a ripple across the water. But it was you he noticed. Small, careful, watchful. A child already practiced at not taking up space.

He remembered your scent first: city fog and worn cotton, fear and salt. He kept track of every person in town, of course. Every heartbeat. Every breath. But yours was the one that stayed sharpest in his mind.

Two weeks in, you began sneaking into Mass. Always in the back, half-hidden by a pillar, hands clutching your sleeves. You thought you went unseen, the way kids your age thought. You didn’t.

He never called you out.When Erin Greene whispered one Sunday about bruises she’d noticed—“I think something’s wrong at home”—he already knew.

He went to the schoolyard one afternoon and found you alone, scratching the dirt with a stick, a lamb strayed from the flock. When he spoke your name, you flinched. Then, through your lashes: “Do you think God would let me into heaven?”

Smart. Quick. You pulled threads most children didn’t even see. When the bus didn’t come, he walked you home. In winter, he said the streets weren’t safe. You never asked why. You started staying after school in the church, homework spread across a pew. When your parents left the day you turned 18, the island sighed with relief. You moved closer to the water, to nothing at all. But the bruises stopped.

By twenty-two, you were beautiful. Too beautiful. Pretty as sin, as the old-timers would say when they forgot he was in the room. You still came to Mass, though less often. “University keeps me busy, Father,” you’d say with an apologetic smile. Religious Studies. He told you it was fitting. You always asked the right questions.

And when you sinned—because of course you did—you came to him. The confessional became yours. A chapel within the chapel. You weren’t baptized, weren’t Catholic, but your faith seemed purer than most. The talks were difficult, intimate. About sin. About temptation.

Tonight was different. He had stayed late, preparing for Sunday—wine, hosts, candles, the homily. The storm outside was only fog and sea-mist. When he stepped out, he smelled you before he saw you. Your scent hit him like a memory and a warning. Alcohol. Synthetic perfume. But beneath it—still you.

You swayed down the road, giggling at your phone, skirt short, top tight, bare skin flashing with every step. He froze, almost grateful no one else saw you like this.

When he stepped forward, you smiled giddy. “Father Paul! Why are you still here?.” “You’re freezing,” he said, wrapping his coat around you.

You leaned into him. “Missed the last ferry. Lucky you were here.” Then, softer: “Always lucky when it’s you.” He guided you into the rectory. Inside, he steadied you into a chair.

“You’re drunk,” he murmured. “I’m twenty-two. I’m allowed.” “Not without consequences.” “Don’t lecture me.” “I’m not,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Not yet.”