The Shadows of the Sanctuary
You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sarah replied softly, her voice dripping with affection, yet her eyes held that same razor-sharp, warning glint.
The priest stepped forward, raising his hands. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses…”
The priest’s voice faded into background noise for Michael. His mind was down in the dark, damp basement of the church. Who was the woman downstairs? Why did Sarah have her keycard? What did she mean when she whispered, ‘My mom took something that belongs to her’?
Sarah wasn’t just a corporate attorney. Over the past year, she had been working on a massive, multi-million-dollar land acquisition case that involved the demolition of an old, working-class neighborhood on the south side of the city. Michael remembered her coming home late, stressed, talking about “stubborn tenants” who refused to sign the relocation papers.
Could the woman downstairs be one of those tenants? Or was it something much worse?
“…If any person can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, let them now speak, or else hereafter forever hold their peace,” the priest intoned, pausing for the traditional, dramatic silence.
The sanctuary was dead silent.
Suddenly, Michael’s phone, which was supposed to be turned off in his jacket pocket, began to vibrate. It was set to silent, but the intense vibration against his chest felt like a countdown clock. He ignored it.
Then, David’s phone—which David had accidentally left on the small table behind the altar—began to ring. Loudly.
The priest stopped. The guests shifted uncomfortably, murmuring.
Michael glanced at the table. The phone screen was flashing with a text message from David. Because the text preview was turned on, the words were glaringly visible in bold, black letters:
“MICHAEL. CELLAR IS BLOOD. SHE’S NOT ALIVE. RUN.”
Michael felt the air leave his lungs. His gaze snapped back to Sarah.
The sweet, loving expression on Sarah’s face didn’t change, but she slowly reached into the pocket of her dress. She didn’t pull out the keycard. Instead, her fingers wrapped around something else—something long, thin, and silver that glinted under the altar lights.
A surgical scalpel.
She squeezed Michael’s hands tighter, her nails digging into his skin until it bled. She leaned in close, as if to give him a loving whisper before their vows.
“I told you not to look behind the curtains, Michael,” she breathed against his ear, her voice devoid of any human emotion. “Now, you are going to say ‘I do,’ or the little girl in the bathroom joins her mother. Smile for the cameras, darling.”
See more on the next page
