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Summary
“No - Beverly,” his hand grasps for her forearm, his protestation grunted - but the damage is, of course, already done. The cut is already made.
His grip tightens.
And then the blood blooms at her parted skin, pulsing beautifully upwards, like a firework bursting at the peaks of the wound and trickling a velvet river down her arm.
A peacefulness has come across his face.
“Come, Father,” she demands, forcing her voice to steady action. “You must see this is the best way.”
She has him.When Beverly Keane sees an opportunity to twist Father John back under her thumb, she isn't going to pass it up.