Father Nicolas Chatry pushes his wheelchair into the confessional and pulls back the small door that covers the screen between the booths when he hears someone enter. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” a voice whispers. “Welcome,” Nicolas says. “What do you have to confess?” “I killed her.” Nicolas’s pulse shoots up, and he sucks in a breath. “Are you saying you willingly took the life of another person?” “Yes. God is the reason I killed her. Will you absolve me, Father?” As Nicolas fumbles for his phone to send an urgent text for help, he hears the chair in the other booth squeak, and a shadow passes in front of the screen. His pulse pounds in his temples and he starts to sway, dizziness washing over him. Help isn’t going to make it in time.
