CHAPTER EIGHT
Father McMullen knelt before the altar, his hands trembling as he clasped the rosary, praying for clarity. And also, he had to admit, praying for protection. His mind still flashed images of that girl, Scarlet, brought here by her mother so many days before, of that moment when even here, in this holy place, every window shattered. The father glanced up and looked all around, as if wondering if it had really happened—and he felt a sinking pit in his stomach as he was given the stark reminder, the former windows now boarded up with plywood.
Please, Father. Send us protection. Send her protection. Save us from her. And save her from herself. I ask for a sign.
Father McMullen didn’t know what to do. He was a small-town priest, with a small-town parish, and he did not have the
