Chapter 3
The heavy oak doors of St. Jude’s parish church creaked open, admitting a thin slice of moonlight that cut across the dusty flagstone floor. Clara walked unsteadily, wrapped in a heavy woolen blanket Leo had fetched from the vestry closet. Her steps were cautious, each one a reminder of the narrow margin by which she had escaped being buried alive. Father Thomas locked the heavy timber doors behind them, sliding the iron deadbolt home with a resounding echo that rattled the stained-glass windows.
They gathered in the small administrative office behind the altar. A single brass desk lamp cast a warm, amber glow over piles of parish ledgers and municipal paperwork. Clara sat in a worn leather armchair, holding a mug of hot black tea between her trembling hands. The steam curled lazily into the cold air, but the warmth did little to chase away the chill settling deep into her bones.
"We cannot go to the police tonight," Father Thomas said quietly, pacing the small room with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. "If District Attorney Vance finds out that the county coroner falsified a death certificate to clear hospital space, his office will bury this investigation just as quickly as they tried to bury you, Clara."
Leo slammed his fist onto the edge of the mahogany desk, making the tea in Clara’s mug slosh over the rim. "Bury her? They already tried that, Father! Look at her hands! Look at what your system did to her!"
"Leo, lower your voice," Clara admonished softly, reaching out to touch her son’s arm. Her touch immediately grounded his volatile fury, though the fire in his eyes remained unquenched. She turned her gaze to the priest. "Thomas is right, Leo. Vance is running for state senate on a platform of fiscal efficiency. A scandal like this would destroy his campaign, and he has enough power to have us all institutionalized or worse before morning."
Father Thomas stopped pacing and looked directly at Clara, his expression grim. "The municipal audit files are locked in the parish archive downstairs. Every fast-track burial authorization from the past six months is documented there—including yours. If we have the ledger, we have undeniable proof."
"Then let's go down there right now," Leo said, his shoulders squaring as he instinctively reached down to check his pocket for the wooden mallet, which he had tucked securely into his waistband before leaving the gravesite.
The priest hesitated, his gaze shifting toward the heavy iron grate in the corner of the floor that led down to the subterranean crypt and document vaults. A faint draft of cold, stagnant air drifted upward from the depths, carrying with it the subtle scent of wet stone and old paper.
"It won't be that simple," Father Thomas said grimly. "The archive door requires a digital security key, and the only other person with a master override code is Deacon Miller."
May you like
Clara’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the deacon. "Miller was the one who rushed the funeral service. He was the one standing over the grave, pushing you to lower the casket before the sun even went down."
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