The Priest (The Original Sinners #9) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,3

matters. It’s like having married friends, and you think their marriage is strong, and you admire them because their marriage is strong, and you want something strong like that. Then you find out he hits her or she cheats. You know their marriage is private, but it hurts something in you to know you’ve been watching nothing but a show all that time. Father Ike was married to God.”

“I don’t know if anybody gets married or becomes a priest planning to break their vows.”

“No, I know. Still.”

“We could be jumping to conclusions,” Cyrus said softly. “He might have been counseling her, trying to help her get out of that life.”

“You think that?” she asked. He could hear the hope in her voice.

“It’s possible.” True, it was possible. But not very probable.

“Is this going to get out?”

“We’re going to try to keep it quiet,” Cyrus said. “Until we know something, I guess.”

“He’s an adult man, and I’m gonna assume she was an adult woman if she’s handing out business cards. This shouldn’t be something for the press. This is between that man and God, and he’s in God’s hands now.”

“I wish it worked like that. Look, if you don’t want me digging, I won’t take the case. But if you think I should—”

Paulina faced him. “If he was seeing somebody like that and somebody knew and told him they knew…”

“Blackmail, you mean?” Cyrus asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if there’s any chance something else was going on, somebody making him do it, I’d hope somebody was investigating, that’s all.” Paulina checked the oven, all business. He knew the tears were coming, but not yet. She was still in shock.

“How long until breakfast is ready?” he asked.

“About ten minutes? Biscuits need to cool.”

“You mind if I go out back for a minute?”

“Gotta think your thinks?”

“Gotta think my thinks.”

She smiled sadly at him, and he kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned against him. He wrapped his arms around her and let her lean. He’d let her lean forever if she wanted to.

“Ten minutes,” she said softly. Cyrus kissed her again and started to leave. He watched from the backdoor as she packed her grief away, her sense of betrayal, saving it up for later when she could be alone to talk it out with God.

He went out into the backyard and took a seat on the wooden bench between Paulina’s bright orange zinnias and pink and yellow begonia bushes.

Cyrus always found it easier to meditate when he was outside and alone, close to trees, close to water. The morning sunlight trickled through the trees and over the grass like ripples on the surface of a living river.

He closed his eyes and went to his river.

In the beginning, when he first learned how to meditate, Cyrus would have to wait nearly an hour to get even a distant glimpse of that cosmic river in the deepest, oldest, wisest part of his mind. Now he could find it in seconds. He’d close his eyes and open his inner eyes and there was the pine forest and there was the winding dirt path, and just over the hill flowed the river.

He heard the water rising.

Cyrus focused on the coolness of the soft dirt under his feet as he walked and nothing but the cool soft dirt. The path was short and the river came into view quickly. Today it flowed slowly and the sun on it was gentle. On the opposite bank, a man stood, waiting. If they were to meet, they would meet in the river.

And if they were to meet in the river, Cyrus had to wade in first.

He reached the muddy bank and didn’t stop to roll up his pants. No need. This river was a river of truth and dreams and meaning. It ran only through his mind. Without fear—that had taken months to learn as well—Cyrus stepped into the water and found it warm and welcoming. The bottom was sandy but sturdy and shallow, though there were parts of this river that went over his head. Sometimes truth was like that.

The man on the opposite bank saw him and smiled. He, too, entered the river. And at the mid-point, halfway from bank to bank, they met.

Father Ike Murran.

He wasn’t wearing his usual clerical garb. He had on a light gray suit—a bit loose like he’d lost weight he didn’t need to lose—and a white shirt. No tie. His brown-gray hair was neatly combed. Cyrus could see the