Possess

Bridget’s body. She thought of Sergeant Quinn as he gripped her by the shoulders and looked her dead in the eye. He’d thought the same thing.
    “A copycat killer, in all likelihood,” Monsignor Renault said.
    “I doubt they’ll find anything,” Father Santos continued. “Just like last time. No murder weapon, no evidence. Just a corpse.”
    Monsignor glanced at Bridget. “Hmm. Um, Father Santos . . .”
    “And there will be days of questions. The boy’s body was—”
    “Peter,” Bridget said, her voice raspy and coarse. “His name was Peter.”
    Father Santos leaned forward in his chair to look Bridget in the face. She didn’t even glance his way, just continued to stare at the Pietà paperweight on Monsignor’s desk.
    “I’m sorry,” Father Santos said, leaning back again. “Peter’s body, found in that condition and with the symbols drawn in a circle around his body. There are bound to be questions about the religious implications of such a death.”
    “Murder,” Bridget corrected him. They might as well call it what it was.
    “Murder,” Father Santos repeated.
    “Yes, questions.” Monsignor rested his elbows on his desk and twirled the silver ring absently around his finger. “They won’t find what they are looking for that way.”
    “And, of course, Bridget will be their focus.”
    Monsignor tilted his head. “I’m sorry?”
    “The police. They’ll want to talk to Bridget again. After all, she’s the link between these two murders.”
    Bridget stared straight ahead. She was a link between the murders. Of course. Alexa had said it; now Father Santos too. Just like possessions, death followed her.
    Monsignor slammed his fist down on the desk. “Father Santos. Bridget is not responsible for these murders, do you understand? And I will not sit here and listen to any suggestion to the contrary.”
    “O-o-o-oh, yes. Of . . . of course.” Father Santos wrung his hands in his lap. “I just wanted . . . I mean . . .”
    “Bridget,” Monsignor said softly. “Let’s discuss what you saw tonight. If you’re okay to talk about it again.”
    It was kind of him to change the subject, and she was eager to tell him what he wanted to know. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
    “Aside from what you told the police, was there anything else you remember?”
    “Um . . . ,” she started.
    Father Santos shifted in his chair to face Bridget. “Was there anything you heard in the sanctuary? Voices? Sounds? Something familiar, perhaps? Or something that happened before that you might see in a new light now?”
    Bridget opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She was about to tell them about Penemuel when the warning message of the demon dolls popped into her head. Don’t trust the priest . She glanced at Monsignor. She wanted to confide in him, but not here. Not in front of Father Santos.
    “I know it was quite a shock,” Father Santos continued. He seemed intent on getting some sort of answer out of her. “If you aren’t sure, maybe we should go back and check again? Maybe something in the church will trigger a memory?”
    Why was he questioning her?
    “I’m sure Bridget would tell us if she heard anything relevant.”
    “Yes,” Father Santos said quietly. “I’m sure.”
    “Let us recap then, shall we?” Monsignor said. “Bridget must be exhausted, and I’m sure she would prefer to be home with her family.”
    Bridget smiled at Monsignor. That was exactly what she wanted.
    “We’ve had three instances of demonic infestation in just over a month, and now this murder with apparent satanic overtones. We believe these events are related?”
    “Most definitely,” Father Santos said.
    Monsignor nodded. “I agree. But we also know that these demons have no physicality unless they are attached to a human body, and even then, to undertake a murder of this magnitude, it would have to be the strongest, most thoroughly acquiescent case of possession I’ve ever seen.”
    “True,” Father Santos said.
    “So we are left with the reality that a human such as you”—he pointed to Father Santos—“or I has perpetrated this crime.”
    “Yes,” Father Santos said quickly. “But it would have to be someone with an intimate knowledge of the benefits of such a murder.”
    Bridget turned on him. “Benefits? What’s the benefit of murdering a fifteen-year-old science whiz? What were they going to do, harvest his brain?”
    “N-no,” Father Santos said. “I was thinking more of his