Two months after the Tolliver children vanished, their mother drowned herself in the bayou, just up and walked into it one night. They found what was left of her splayed amongst the stagnant duckweed, appearing more as if the solid earth had attempted to ingest her than as if murky waters lay beneath. There was something of the tragic heroine about the woman's demise, even after the gators and other swamp life had begun to take her apart, likely because of all the rumors she'd blamed her husband for their missing twins, but her husband had hushed it up and silenced the furor. He could do that—money and all. Still, gossip spun webs in small, dark corners of the community, in kitchens and bars, in classrooms and through phones, and the underground story seemed to be she'd not killed herself at all but that David Tolliver had murdered her and the kids and had tried to disguise the fact. Didn't seem too crazy a notion when he shut himself up in his big old house and refused to venture out. The only person he allowed to come in was the priest of Saint Basilio's, the church he'd attended with his family prior to it all.

The priest was new-ish, very young. David hadn't thought much of him when Father Hugh had first arrived; the church had been led by six priests in ten years. So-called holy men seemed unable or unwilling to stay long in Luther. Two of the pastors had fallen ill; one had died; two had moved or been moved to other parishes for reasons unknown; and another had been defrocked in a cloud of scandal for an affair with a local parishioner. So no one thought the man would stick around for long, but when the Tolliver tragedy occurred, the twins' parents had found him invaluable.

Father Hugh had been a constant presence during those first terrible weeks of uncertainty, praying with and for them, attempting to help them find any crumb of hope or peace in "God's plan," whatever that might be, and Stella in particular had attached herself to him, to his words and his consolations. Even David, though skeptical, had appreciated the pastor for the way he'd tried to help his wife when he himself had been unable to comfort her. Once Stella had gone, though, David had little use for the man and his platitude and prayer. What was there left to hope for?

One night in early July, when normal people—people whose children hadn't disappeared and whose wife hadn't been half-eaten by alligators—were sitting on porches and drinking with neighbors or burning sparklers and color bombs or taking evening walks downtown, David took his gun and sequestered himself within the heart of his enormous home, the ancestral house he'd inherited when his parents had moved on, being the only remaining relation interested in the property as his younger sisters had both married and gone off into the world. The building sat back from the road, unlike the others in this wealthiest part of town, which lined Algernon Avenue like massive, sparkling Christmas presents just begging to be opened. David had grown up here, in his own large home nestled in its black and green hollow. He'd been a child when his father had allowed him to help plant the magnolias out front, on either side of the house; those two trees had grown into their prime, now blossomed each spring into summer, their dark waxy leaves giving way to thousands of pinkish-white teacups of flowers. They'd been showering petals when he'd heard of his wife, when he'd woken to find her missing, hastened down the central stairway and caught a glimpse through the windows of Sheriff Andrews approaching the house. The image of the officer moving as a ghost between the drifting flower and damp morning shadow haunted him. It was in that moment David understood his utter abandonment, that even the person who'd promised to be with him through whatever life brought had gone. And now, only a couple of weeks after she'd gone, he'd decided it was his time to go, as well.

A glass of brandy caught the desk lamp's light. Next to it rested a pad of legal paper and a pen. David had considered writing a note for whomever found him, and yet once he'd taken hold of the pen, he'd realized he had nothing to say and no one to say it to. His office was dark even in daylight, the only outside light admitted through a narrow tubular skylight, a late addition to the home after this once-butler's-pantry had been converted into a workspace. The green glass shade of the only lit lamp cast a subterranean glow about the sanctum, this nest where David had spent many hours working and intended to end his life.

He stared at the handgun lying ominously on the desk calendar before him. Something about the inanimate object mocked him, he was sure, laughed at the life plans he'd crafted and built for only to lose. Sure, he'd never been a perfect man, but had he deserved this? This degree of cruelty?

The twins would've been eleven in three days. Perhaps I should wait for their birthdays, David thought, and yet, even the idea of passing another seventy-two excruciating hours overwhelmed him.

Stella . . .

Why'd she gone? Why hadn't she trusted they'd weather this impossible tragedy together? He knew . . . David knew the town suspected he'd had something to do with her death, with his children's disappearance. Always the husband—he knew what they said. He'd thrown enough money at the media to keep such speculation out of their mouths and papers, and yet rumors were impossible to control. David had never been particularly liked in the community, not after his parents had spent years cultivating an aura of division between themselves and the rest of the town. The Tollivers had thrown exclusive parties, made high connections, paid a lot (along with the families around them) to make sure they influenced local politics in their favor. Though David hadn't had the drive of his parents, much of Luther still operated in a manner set up by their precedent, and he benefited from it. His children had received special treatment in school; his wife had been accepted effortlessly into social circles; his opinion was sought and respected on everything from replacing residents' waste bins to the hiring and firing of those at City Hall.

But his position of power—one which he'd never quite asked for or desired—had been all the more reason the citizens of Luther had enjoyed tearing him off his pedestal with their gossip.

Well, let them go at it. Let them flap their stinking mouths for eternity; he'd be dead.

Determined, his fingers uncurled to reach for the weapon before him, but before flesh met metal, the doorbell rang multiple times, followed by rapid and forceful knocking.

Fear flickered through David's chest. He wasn't so ready to be discovered. No, he wanted to have been dead for days before they found him, and whoever was banging down there was insistent, probably was ready to break into the house if David didn't show up in a moment. Indeed, muffled shouting indicated the visitor knew he was in there and wasn't giving up.

David's right hand, the hand reaching toward his demise, was possessed of a tremor, and he gripped it with his left in order to still the shaking. A shudder threatened to overwhelm him, so rather than stay where he was and allow panic to set in he shoved back his chair and rose, making for the open office door.

It was the priest. He could see the man's outline, his black cassock, silhouetted through the glass doors. Flicking on the foyer light, a pendant behind red panes that cast the entryway in a hellish glow (funny how David had always considered the lighting warm, welcoming until recently) the man breathed deeply in attempt to still the wild thumping behind his ribs. Then he opened the door.

"Father. I didn't expect—"

"I know," the priest interrupted, pushing his way into the house. "I didn't have time to call first."

David gazed into the night, toward the street, saw the wind beginning to rustle the leaves of his magnolias, before shutting the door and turning to his visitor. Father Hugh was drenched in crimson light; his eyes reflected a reddish gleam. "What can I help you with?" was all David could muster, his interior having emptied itself of all sensation.

"We have to talk. It's about—about the children."

Slitting his eyes, David considered the younger man. Father Hugh couldn't have been older than twenty-five or twenty six, a good two decades younger than himself. The priest's intensity tired him, now. It'd given him purpose, hope in the early days after the twins' disappearance, but now he found even the holy man's voice exhausting. Still, David was too weary to argue. Let the priest say his piece, suspect nothing, and then he could get back to the task of shooting out his own brains.

With a wafture of his hand, David indicated they head to one of the sitting rooms. Father Hugh took the lead, unaware that the moment he turned his back, his host contemplated wedging a blade between his shoulder blades before remembering he did not wield such a weapon.

They reached a room draped in shadow, as all the interior lights had been turned off, and Father Hugh pulled a cord on a standing lamp. Plastic-covered sofas and chairs were illuminated, as were end tables stacked with magazines that hadn't been touched in weeks at least. Moonlight streamed through the slatted blinds, mingling with the warm glow of the floor lamp. Two worlds of light—white and gold—to frame the two men.

"I—I have to tell you something," Father Hugh hesitated to say the moment they'd reached and lit their destination, his former vigor somewhat dampened. His features, sharp and pinched, those of a man who'd spent hours over books and with God rather than over beers and with women, conspired against him to show his anxiety. The inch of skin between his eyebrows tightened; his thin lips quivered.

David waited, grew irritated. "Well, out with it, then!"

"You must promise me—no. No, I can't ask for that. What I'm doing, it's . . ."

The priest began to clasp and unclasp his hands, to pace. He was unable to remain seated, in spite of David's suggestion he make himself comfortable. But David had little patience. The task he'd set for himself weighed heavily on his mind. "My wife is dead, Father. My children are probably dead, too. If you can't say what you want to say, then I ask you to leave—"

"No, no. I can do it. It's unorthodox, surely," the priest fumbled, "but it must be said. I've held it too long." He met David's eye, and a wild light shone from within him. "The confessional, you understand—it's sacred. I—I'm unable to say any of what takes place within it. I . . . I can't speak to the police on such matters, and, and as they never asked me, I hadn't any reason to—but now, with Stella . . . dead . . . and with the rumors spreading about you . . . oh, my conscience. It's in crisis, David. I can't bear to keep back what I know. But I—I hope—" and here he took hold of David's right hand with both of his own, "—I hope you can understand why I held back, why even now I I hesitate—"

David's hand hung limp. His body went cold. "Say what you need to say, Father, or go."

Father Hugh released David's hand, nodded in resolution. He turned away as if in fear but turned back and spoke decidedly: "Hardly two weeks before Davey and Jennifer vanished, I had a bizarre encounter in the confessional." The priest's forehead had begun to glisten; his widow's peak dipped like ink above the bridge of his nose; his nostrils flared as he determined to continue. "Someone confessed to . . . to wanting to do harm, to children."

For a moment, David could only stare as he processed what the priest was saying to him.

"I—I don't know who it was; they left before I could get any glimpse or understanding. But—but David, he (I'm sure it was a man, though the voice was strange), he was troubled. So very, very troubled, and fearful of giving in to some terrible desire. What exactly it was, I cannot say—he didn't tell me! I hardly knew—"

David suddenly took hold of the priest's collar, tugged at both sides of his neck, and the priest fell silent as shock overcame him. "You withheld this from the police?"

"Y-yes! David, I—I had to—!" Father Hugh struggled to speak, but he was just as quickly released. He stumbled backward, coughing. None of what had transpired entirely surprised him; he'd not expected his parishioner to take the news well. "You can't understand my crisis of conscience!" he cried. "I wanted to say something after—after the children—but I didn't have a choice, and even now I'm breaking a vow of silence—"

"Breaking a vow?" David had been staring at the floor, but he lifted his eyes ominously toward the priest. "My wife and children are dead, and you worry about a vow?"

Father Hugh was more perturbed at the controlled rage with which David delivered his words than at the words themselves. "Th-the children aren't necessarily—they may be alive, still. It's why—why I believe this is the right thing, now, to risk my position—"

"Damn your position. God damn you and your position!"

The anger, the righteous anger—that was what Father had expected, what he'd prepared himself for. "David, you have every right to be angry, but your anger doesn't change anything. We have to talk about what it meant, what it might mean for the children—"

"My wife is gone! You don't think you could've told us about your deviant in the confessional before—"

"I could not! I've told you, the vow is sacred!"

"Well, you seem ready to break it now, don't you?"

"Yes, I—I thought you deserved some grain of hope, something to cling to. I'm unable to discuss it with the police; my superior would surely know if I did, and I can't risk it. But if we can find a way to work together, we might be able to—"

"Stop." David lifted both hands, ending the priest's plea. He stood hovering in uncertainty for a moment, closing his eyes while he attempted to think.

Father Hugh waited in blissful silence, prayed for logic to prevail, prayed for his own soul, for forgiveness for the sin he'd committed in coming here, in breaking his silence.

"I thank you, Father," David at last said, having curtailed and stifled his fury. "I agree that we can work together. I—I've been so lost, you understand, so alone."

"I do, David. I understand completely. I take no offense."

"Give me just one moment. I'll get my wallet. We can—we can talk somewhere else. Anywhere else but here."

Father Hugh didn't quite know what he thought of speaking somewhere less secluded, but as David ascended the stairs to presumably gather his things, the priest considered how, overall, this conversation had gone better than he'd expected. Sure, he'd known David would be upset, and yet the man had understood, ultimately, and they'd work together, now. There was still hope for the children, for Davey and Jennifer. Stella, well, she was gone, but the children! If only they could discover whoever had been in the confessional that day! David's footsteps sounded on the stairs. Perhaps they could go to the pub, or even to the rectory! Yes, that would offer them privacy. Father was so concerned about having broken his promise to keep the confessional between himself and the confessor—

But Father's thoughts were cut short when David rounded the doorframe with a gun in his hand.

Two shots later—one for the priest and one for himself—and David Tolliver had completed his task as planned, only with one unexpected hiccup along the way.