Ah. He starved his little guard dog.

That one struck a nerve.

Pierced it quick and hard enough that Malachi did not even have the time to fully register before it was gone, and the moment had passed without any outward sign of the dread that it inflicted upon him. Did Hurley know? How did he know?

Malachi side-eyed the rest of the church, peering across the crowd for any faces turned their way. He’d never worked the senior Hurley, nor had he done anything close to the son. His father had never deemed them useful enough. More trouble than they were worth, he’d said, but had someone else told them, or was the insult just that – one of many jabs thrown his way like the scattering of a shotgun, with the hope that at least some of them would hit.

His gaze slid – slithered – back to the corpse-toucher. Was he smart enough to figure it out, was the question. Unfortunately for Hurley, the flippant jab only served to remind the little guard dog of his own power in the room.

“I do,” Malachi whispered. A smile crept across his face, even as he barely restrained his teeth from chewing at the inside of his cheek. God, he wanted a cigarette. He wanted Hurley’s finger. Anything to occupy his mouth.

The toxic little bitch wanted to take him up on his offer, then? Have his way with his father’s cold corpse after hours? Ha, ha, ha. Malachi wanted so badly to know what kind of unfriendly look he’d get if his evening plans were ruined.

He might have even let him, had the bastard not finally offended him for real.

Malachi’s features softened into something more neutral, and he took a hand out of his pocket to make the sign of the cross. As he did, he whispered, “it’ll be empty tonight, after the others clear out and mother and Levi go home.”

What a thought: a priest paving the way for someone to enter a church and violate his dead father. Malachi’s hand slipped back into his pocket, where Lyle’s spectacles pressed cold against his fingers.

“Knock, and I’ll let you in. Leave his face alone and I won't bother you.”