There was that infernal noise again, ringing in his ears the way it had for the last several days. Echoes of it haunted him everywhere he went; trickling through the rush of water through the river, thudding against every stone underfoot, clinging in discordant notes to the harmonies of every hymn.

What was it that he could not believe: that Mable would have been present here, waiting for him, and that she would not have been all too willing to talk someone’s ear off while she did it? That Arthur would not have indulged her? That he would not have been depraved enough to hurt her?

The story was painfully believable. What shocked him instead was that he had ever felt any kind of affection for a man all too capable of doing such a thing.

“Stop,” he insisted as the doctor spoke of her blood. “Stop it, stop–”

Mable’s tears, Mable’s blood.

Before the voice on the other side even finished – before the priest could think it through – Malachi stood and exited his side of the booth quickly. A short pivot saw him throwing open the door to Arthur’s side instead – one that Malachi, without anyone at the church to take his confession, had never even seen.

It was too dark for him to see much of the man sitting inside. Malachi himself blocked out the light.

Fueled by instinct alone, he grabbed for the doctor’s collar to yank him up.

“You’re lying,” he ground out from behind gritted teeth.

His actions, on the other hand, suggested his belief.