CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He loved God, he loved his church and he loved the people of his church. But man, oh man, did he hate sitting in the confessional booth.
Wade Coyle arched his back and checked his watch. It was 7:05. Technically, he could have left for home five minutes ago. But he knew that some people liked to straggle in a little late, in a rush to confess their sins either directly before or after dinner with their families.
Of all of his duties as a priest, taking confession was the only part he truly did not like. He’d heard some deplorable things behind his screen and the worst part of it was that he could recognize voices some of the time. He could place a face with the voice and, as a result, knew which of the men in the pews during service had confessed to downloading pre-tee
