“What’s that supposed to mean?” Linda raised her voice.
Father noticed that the few remaining mourners, including Linda’s new husband, had turned their attention in his direction.
His hand went to his forehead, and he rubbed at the creases. “Forgive me. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He tried to walk away but she stepped in front of him. “I demand to know what you meant.”
His eyes moved to hers. “I’m talking about what happened to Raven and Cara when they were children.”
Linda reddened. “Raven is unbalanced. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Why would you dismiss her claims before I told you what she said?”
Linda mumbled a vague response.
The priest’s expression grew severe. “Your ex-husband’s recent arrest in California for child molestation corroborates Raven’s account of what happened to Cara.”
Mrs. Shannon began to protest vehemently, but he lifted his hand. “You can lie to yourself, and you can lie to everyone else, including your children. But you cannot lie to me. You knew.”
Something in her eyes shifted.
She adjusted her very expensive handbag. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He leaned closer. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You knew what was going on, and you did nothing. So Jane, your twelve-year-old daughter, took matters into her own hands. And she paid for it with her leg.”
“You don’t know what he was like!” she shouted. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.” His voice grew quiet once again. “I’m listening.”
The woman hesitated, something working behind her eyes.
She glanced around and saw the remaining mourners watching the exchange.
“Thank you for performing the service, Father. Please tell Raven I hope she feels better soon.” Linda spun on her heel, and marched away.
Father Kavanaugh watched her departing form. He watched her take the arm of her husband and walk toward the long black limousine that waited nearby.
He lifted his eyes heavenward.
He’d tried to help Raven and her family for many years. Cracking Linda’s denial for the first time should have felt like a victory. But he felt far from victorious.
She needed healing and love as much as her daughters. And he’d been harsh with her.
“Forgive me,” he whispered.
His thoughts strayed to Raven, and he reflected on her character and intelligence, her bravery and compassion.
Standing in the cemetery, with the hot Miami sun streaming down on him, the Jesuit felt something move in his heart.
He knew what Raven encountered at the hands of the fiend who claimed to own her. He would not turn a blind eye. He wouldn’t abandon her to her fate as a vampyre’s pet, even if that meant the sin of disobedience and expulsion from the Curia.
The infinite worth of one soul far outweighed any responsibility he had to the Curia or to the Jesuits. He knew in his heart that God agreed.
“Help me,” he prayed. “Show me what to do.”
As if in a whisper, a germ of an idea took root in his mind.
Chapter Thirty-Three
LATE ONE EVENING the following week, William and Raven exited the Mercedes under the cover of darkness and entered the Accademia Gallery.
“How did you manage this?” Raven peered past the security guard into an empty hall.
William smiled, his gray eyes gleaming. “The Gallery is available for private tours after hours. At a price.”
He led her downstairs to a private garden that opened out from the Gallery’s book shop. The garden was lit with candles and small lamps. A table shrouded in linen stood with a champagne bucket atop it.
Raven covered her mouth in surprise. “This is so beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever been out here.”
William’s hand spanned her lower back as he whispered, “Your beauty puts the garden to shame.”
Raven lowered her head and fussed with her gown. It was black and overlaid with crimson roses, almost reaching her knees. The dress dipped low in the front, drawing attention to her generous cleavage, and bared most of her back, as well as her arms.
Her cheeks flushed under William’s unabashed appraisal.
For his part, William had shocked her by donning a white shirt, rather than his usual black, with a black suit. He’d shunned a tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest to great effect.
“This dress is short.” She pulled at the hem, vainly attempting to lengthen it.
William retreated a few feet in order to gaze at her. “I have observed you in much, much less.”
“In bed, yes.”
“Not just in bed.” He smiled. “In the shower, in my library, on the terrace, in my garden—”
“Point taken,” she interrupted, the flush heightening in her cheeks.
He stood in front of her and looped his arms around her waist. “I wanted to see you happy.”
“Thank you.”
He squeezed her backside. “My pleasure.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it. They explored the garden briefly before William led Raven to a low stone bench so she could rest her leg.
She patted the space next to her. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about the Renaissance?”
William joined her on the bench. “Not at all.”
“What was Beatrice like?”
William looked off into space. “She was beautiful. She was regal. She had many admirers, but Dante was probably the most obsessive.”