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ABIGAIL MANGIN 29
it isn’t. Brother George is a God-fearing man.”
The reporters chuckled at the thought but tried to hold in
their laughter in front of the abbot. Even atheists in the twen- ty-first century respected the monks.
“Murderous Monk will make a good headline,” a reporter said.
A monk exited the chapel, and the reporters made a dash toward him, camera crew clumsily towing their equipment.
Brother George watched as a camera scope zoomed in on Brother Martin’s face, lengthening like a giraffe neck until the camera’s glass stared him in the eye. Brother Martin, small and meek, began to cry, shielding his face from the lights.
“Do you know Cecil LeClaire?” they shouted.
“Has Margaux LeClaire visited the abbey? Has Perdonna?” “I...I don’t know these people,” Brother Martin whispered. Brother George stood in front of him, arms splayed out.
“These are supposed to be silent hours.”
“And what do you think about during silent hours, Cecil? How
many seconds it took to suffocate Annabelle Leigh?” a reporter asked, accompanied by a chorus of naughty laughter, like rats tweeting into the night.
“Come on, Cecil. Where’d you bury her? It’s been ten years. She has to be dead.”
“Get out!” Brother George screamed. His throat rattled, and the veins in his neck squirmed like snakes.
A cameraman pushed toward Brother George and zoomed in on his red face, and he turned, shoving the camera out of the man’s arms. The camera whacked the man in the nose. He stum- bled backward, clutching his mouth, fingertips covered with blood.
“I’ll press charges,” he said, holding his face.
Another shook her head. “Go ahead. Perdonna will bribe him out anyway.”
Red-and-blue police sirens flashed up the gravel road toward the chapel, reflecting off the tree leaves.
“Private property,” the officer said. “Time to leave.”
Brother George looked to the sky to ground himself. The stars millions of miles away felt more concrete than his very own existence.