Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Vestry
The heavy oak door of the vestry slammed shut with a finality that made the stained-glass windows overhead rattle in their lead frames. Richard dropped Leo onto the threadbare oriental rug, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. The dim, amber light of a single wall sconce cast long, distorted shadows across the rows of priest vestments hanging neatly in the dark wooden cabinets.
“Listen to me very carefully, Leo,” Richard said, dropping to one knee so he was eye-level with the boy. His voice was dangerously low, stripped of any familial warmth. “What you think you saw out there... it never happened. Do you understand me? Your mother passed away in her sleep three days ago. The coroner signed the papers. The medical examiner confirmed it.”
Leo wiped his tear-stained face with the sleeve of his white collared shirt, his hazel eyes narrowing with a fierce, unnatural maturity.
“She was wearing the silver cross, Richard,” Leo fired back, his voice frighteningly calm compared to his earlier hysterics. “The one Dad gave her before he died. Corpses don’t wear anniversary necklaces, and corpses don’t wear brand-new running shoes with muddy soles.”
Richard flinched, a micro-expression of sheer panic flashing across his clean-shaven face before he quickly masked it with stern authority.
“You are letting your imagination run wild because you miss her,” Richard lied, though his hands shook slightly as he reached out to adjust his dark silk tie. “People are buried in their favorite clothes and jewelry all the time. It’s a traditional family custom. Nothing more.”
“You’re lying,” Leo said, taking a deliberate step backward toward the heavy brass poker resting beside the unlit brick fireplace. “You and Clara planned this. I heard you talking in the kitchen last night. You said the ‘insurance payout’ would clear all of Uncle David’s debts by the end of the month.”
The color drained entirely from Richard’s face, leaving him looking like a ghost in the dim vestry light. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of churchgoers whispering anxiously in the main hall.
“You shouldn’t listen at keyholes, Leo,” Richard whispered, his tone shifting from defensive to chillingly predatory. He slowly rose to his full height, towering over the eight-year-old boy. “Curiosity has a habit of getting people into very deep trouble. Permanent trouble.”
Before Richard could lunge forward to grab him, Leo’s small hand shot out and gripped the heavy brass poker. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he swung the blunt instrument upward, catching Richard squarely across the knuckles of his right hand.
Richard let out a sharp cry of pain, stumbling backward and clutching his bruised fingers to his chest.
May you like
Leo didn’t wait to see the aftermath. He turned on his heel, threw his full weight against the heavy side exit door, and burst out into the cool, gray afternoon air of the church courtyard, the iron latch clicking loudly behind him.
---
