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solemn, lower tone than the others. “He, the judge of the nations, will heap high the bodies; heads will be shattered far and wide.”
Billy gasped and avoided Brother George’s gaze. “Why would you say that?” he whispered.
“God punishes the wicked. It’s His judgment.”
Billy’s hand quickly covered his face, pretending to rub his forehead. “Can I tell you a secret?”
The monks stared at Billy with angry scowls, upset over the whispering. Brother George pretended not to hear him.
“I don’t think I believe in God,” Billy whispered. “So, I’m defi- nitely going to hell.” Billy huffed and again hid his face in his elbows.
Brother George patted his back. “I’m probably going to hell too. So don’t feel bad.”
“But you’re a monk.”
Before Brother George could respond, he was called upon to give the incense and thurible, a golden incense burner suspended from chains, to the abbot. He chose the incense and burned it, dispersing sweet-smelling smoke into the air. The wispy smolder danced toward the ceiling where the sun shone, twirling like silk, like the breath of the monks.
It was the scent of the chapel that brought Brother George to St. Joseph’s Abbey. It was a perfume that clung to the weathered woods. It mixed melted sugar with the musky scent of rose petals, melting candles with worshippers’ Chanel No. 5 and Visage per- fumes to make a distinctly comforting scent.
But that peace was quickly shattered by a loud knock. The monks ignored it, as Abbot Joseph continued to swing the incense around the room. But the knocks came louder, like bullets shell- ing the wood.
The chapel door burst open. Four cameramen and three reporters walked inside. They barreled forward with gelled hair and tired, caffeine-addled eyes. All of the peace and magic of the moment was sucked into their camera lenses.
The reporters shouted over each other:
“Cecil! Cecil, are you a suspect in the murder investigation?” “How much did you enjoy making the skin coat?”