He could imagine it.

If it was any brighter in the booth, he might have pulled Arthur’s collar aside to see it for himself. But that would have involved getting far closer than he intended to, without a proper reason.

Like bashing in his skull, of course.

Malachi bit down hard on the soft inside of his cheek. Somehow the confessional felt even smaller. Hotter, where his white collar scratched against the marks on his neck.

“I hope you die,” was his answer, and he turned to exit the booth.