The priest approached her and she shrank back a little, for the last priest she came in contact with in that very church was a man who had heard of what happened and kept prodding her for a confession she didn't even need to make to begin with since there was no guilt for poisoning her husband. "Will you judge me too for what I did not do?" she asked in heavy Spanish accent. "For the husband I did not kill or the baby I lost? For the poison we drank from the cups my mother gave us? Will you judge me harshly like the last priest did for sins of my mother?" It all came spilling out even as she tried not to. She looked so ill, her skin almost chalky.

She was gripping her hands again so hard that fresh blood spilled as did tears. This was not how a guilty woman acted. She clutched the pew in front of her then, smearing blood along the way, and stumbled toward the aisle, only to hit the floor with her knees as said long lasting effects caused her to become weak. Sweat poured from her face and she leaned her head on her arm, which was draped over the seat of the pew she'd left.

Her eyes were then on the old man and she muttered something about men like him calling her a black widow, though not him specifically.