Possess

emotions.”
    “What about them?”
    “Er.” Father Santos pulled at his collar with his index finger. “You and Peter. I mean, you two. I mean, he . . .”
    His voice died, but Bridget wasn’t going to make this easy on him. “Yes?”
    “He had a very strong attachment to you,” he said at last. “Correct?”
    “So what if he did?”
    “Ah,” Monsignor said as if he’d just discovered the cure for the common cold. “Of course. The killer was harvesting Peter’s rage.”
    Bridget thought of the thirty-seven text messages sitting unanswered on her phone. “His rage?”
    “Yes, his anger and jealousy.” Father Santos spoke quickly with obvious excitement. “In some of the medieval grimoires, the process of conjuring a demon and creating a dominance over one involves a great deal of raw emotion. A talented conjuror could summon a lesser demon and hold it prisoner for a short length of time, using raw emotion such as anger or jealousy as a means of controlling the demon.”
    Anger and jealousy. The demons in the church had said as much. “Not enough hatred for the Master.” Judging by the text messages on her phone, Peter was chock full of enough anger and jealousy to conjure a whole fleet of demons. Was that it? The killer was trying to use Peter’s emotions in some sort of ceremony?
    Monsignor rose from his chair and came around to the front of his desk. “I think we have missed something. Some clue as to who our killer is and what he wants.”
    Clue? This wasn’t exactly Colonel Mustard in the conservatory with the revolver.
    “Bridget, is there anything you overheard, anything you didn’t tell us?”
    Why was she hiding anything from Monsignor Renault? Wasn’t he the only person she’d been able to talk to about her new abilities? Hadn’t he spent his time helping her, guiding her, showing her how to banish these demons?
    “Do you think,” she began tentatively. “Do you think there’s anyone who can hear the same things I hear?”
    Monsignor looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”
    “I just was wondering.” Bridget thought of Alexa and how she seemed to hear those voices in the church during choir practice. “I thought, maybe, someone else might have heard what I did.”
    Monsignor raised his left eyebrow. “Really? Who?”
    Bridget swallowed hard. “Alexa Darlington.”
    “No,” Monsignor shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
    Was he serious? “It’s impossible for her but not for me?”
    “Bridget, the Darlingtons are one of the oldest families in this parish. I’ve known Alexa since she was born. If there was anything out of the ordinary about Alexa, I would have noticed it by now.”
    “Oh.” Bridget sighed. Of course he would have noticed. Maybe she’d just been imagining things?
    Silence. Monsignor didn’t move, and Bridget felt both his and Father Santos’s eyes on her. They were waiting for her to say something else, but Bridget bit her lips closed. Don’t trust the priest . She had nothing to say. Not to them.
    “Very well,” Monsignor said.
    Bridget slid forward in her chair, sensing that the interview was coming to an end. Her body ached, and as the adrenaline wore off, a chill had settled over her. The goose pimples and chattering were for real now.
    “Go home, Bridget,” Monsignor said. “Go home and spend time with your mom and your little brother.”
    Sammy. God, how was she going to explain Peter’s death to Sammy? “Yeah.”
    “Good.” Monsignor patted her hand. “If you think of anything, remember anything, let me know. Promise?”
    Bridget met his eye. She wanted to cry at the thought of keeping a secret from him, but somehow she knew that she needed to tackle Milton Undermeyer on her own.
    “Promise,” she lied.
    Bridget was numb as she got out of her chair and shuffled toward the door. Her feet hurt from those stupid heels, and her body felt like she’d been hit by a truck. But she barely registered her pain, she was so focused on what she needed to do next. Milton Undermeyer. It was time to talk.
    “Bridget!”
    Matt was waiting for her, sitting on the rectory steps with Bridget’s clutch purse in his lap. As soon as she came through the door, he scrambled to his feet and rushed toward her.
    “Are you okay?”
    Matt’s clothes were wrinkled. His sandy blond hair stuck straight up from his head as if he’d been running his hands through it incessantly for the better part of an hour. His tie hung limp and loose on either