An hour before he received the call that would eventually send him spiralling into malfeasance and murder, Father Frank had been pacing around St Mary’s, boozing and brooding about his lot in life. Self-medicating with the moonshine that he bought on the sly from Jed, St Mary’s monosyllabic grounds-man, had become a nightly ritual. Frank was past caring if Jed judged him for it. He was past caring if anyone judged him for it.
He couldn’t decide if it was the town itself or its people that sucked the energy out of him, dulling his mind and weakening his limbs as if he were being slowly poisoned. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t in Shallow Creek to spread evangelical zeal or save souls. In fact, he suspected the souls of his congregation were long past saving. Among them were Chelsea Sanders
