Yet, Arthur said. He hadn’t done it yet. And that still did not break the priest’s focus from the road, but the word ‘blackmail’ caught his attention.

Not enough to propose a question, not nearly; that would only open the door for such questions to be asked in return, and Malachi did not wish to lead the conversation back to him. The important thing was that Arthur was not depraved enough to hurt Mable, or any other girls like her, and perhaps for his own sake more than any trust he’d gained, Malachi chose to have faith in his odd response.

“Alright,” he said. “I believe you.”

The threads linking his buttons to his cassock kept digging into the cut. Every time it felt like the blood had dried, stuck to the fabric, the movement of his body jostled the buttons and tore the congealed substance free to shed anew.

Malachi did not immediately answer the next question. For a few quiet seconds, it seemed as if he might have ignored ever hearing it, but then he said, “yes. Most of them.”

No one had asked him much about them before, on account of most people not having seen them. He had never had to come up with any answers.

“There are a few I could not reach; my father finished those. But he was…”

He hesitated, searched for an appropriate word. Settled on, “queasy.”

There had been a lot of blood, and Malachi’s hand had not always been so sure with a knife. His skill was evident in the clean designs that covered most of his skin – but in several spots along his back, it was clear the lines had been done over several times, cut open again and again until they were right.

“Who would you kill?” he asked casually, tossing another glance Arthur’s way.

“If you could choose anyone. Who would it be?”