Vatican City, Present Day

Father Michael Dominic cherished mornings the way a monastic scribe once revered a well-cut quill: not as luxury, but as necessity. In the hushed corridors beneath the Apostolic Palace, where the sunlight filtered weakly through narrow glass slits and history exhaled dust from every shelf, he found peace in routine.

Each morning began before the bells. Rising at five, he slipped into the worn cassock that had traveled with him from his Jesuit seminary days, now threadbare at the cuffs but softened with memory.

But for his pre-dawn run, the cassock stayed folded on its hook. Michael preferred the quiet streets before sunrise—the echo of his footsteps on cobblestone, the scent of baking bread drifting from Trastevere, the soft hum of Rome preparing to wake. When he circled back toward the Borgo, sweat cooling on his skin, he made his customary stop at Pergamino Caffè just outside the colonnade.

Signora Palazzolo, who had run the tiny shop since her husband’s passing, spotted him through the window before he reached the door. She bustled out from behind the counter with a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Padre Dominic,” she said, wagging a finger at the sight of his running clothes, “the Holy Father may tolerate many things, but not a priest entering the Vatican dressed like a marathoner.”

Michael smiled. “You spoil me, Signora. You know that, don’t you?”

“I preserve your dignity,” she corrected, pressing the parcel into his hands. Inside was a freshly laundered cassock—one of two she kept for him, neatly sewn and ironed, refusing payment beyond a whispered blessing. “The restroom is free. Go, go. Before the guard at Sant’Anna thinks you’ve lost your vocation.”

He thanked her, ducked into the small restroom at the back, and splashed cool water on his face until the last traces of sweat faded. He unwrapped the cassock, slipping into the familiar black fabric and fastening the collar with practiced ease. The transformation was always the same: from runner to priest, from solitude to service.

When he stepped back into the café, Signora Palazzolo handed him a steaming paper cup. “For the road,” she said. “And tell the Swiss Guard I said buongiorno.”

Michael grinned, lifted the coffee in a small salute, and stepped into the crisp morning air. The Porta Sant’Anna gate waited a short walk away, its stone arch flanked by the bright uniforms of the Swiss Guard—his threshold to a world of parchment, secrets, and the quiet weight of history waiting to be unsealed.

Father Michael Dominic did not resemble the image most people carried of a Vatican archivist. Tall and athletically toned, with long black hair often tied back and deep brown eyes that missed little, he moved with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to slipping between worlds—faith and doubt, past and present, obedience and inquiry. Raised in Queens by his devout mother, the housekeeper of the parish rectory, Michael had spent his childhood in the company of priests, altar candles, and shelves of worn theological books. It was Father Enrico Petrini, the parish’s pastor and the closest thing Michael had ever known to a father, who nurtured his restless curiosity and encouraged him toward the priesthood long before Michael understood what such a calling would demand.

He went on to study paleography at the Pontifical Institute at the University of Toronto and theology at the Gregorian University, credentials that earned him a coveted post in the Vatican Apostolic Archives. But what truly distinguished him was not his scholarship—it was his temperament. Michael approached hidden truths with the humility of a believer and the relentlessness of an investigator, guided by a conscience that refused to ignore what others preferred to bury. He possessed an almost unsettling ability to sense when history had been bent or softened for convenience, and he had learned that the Church’s oldest secrets rarely slept quietly. In Rome, that made him invaluable—and, at times, dangerous to those who feared what he might uncover next.

His key—a heavy, iron-forged piece given only to him as Prefect and to two deputies—turned with a low click in the Archives’ bronze door. The great subterranean labyrinth beyond stirred only with the hum of climate controls and the occasional scurry of mice that had somehow defied Swiss Guard extermination efforts for generations.

He always entered alone.

Descending the spiral stone staircase into the belly of the Vatican, Michael would pause briefly before the marble sculpture of St. Lawrence, patron saint of archivists. The statue stood solemn watch in the vestibule, his martyr’s gridiron beside him, eyes uplifted as if still seeking light in the depths. Michael touched the cool marble of its base, murmuring a quiet invocation in Latin: “Custos silentii, ora pro nobis”—Guardian of silence, pray for us.

Then began the work.

Today had begun like any other. He had donned his archivist gloves, retrieved his logbook, and walked the long central corridor toward the restricted manuscript chamber. The hum of dehumidifiers formed a familiar backdrop to his thoughts. A new cataloging project awaited—three fifteenth-century codices donated by the Archdiocese of Seville, each wrapped in cloth and tagged in Vatican gray. He had been preparing a report for the Cardinal Librarian on the authenticity of their bindings. Nothing about the day had suggested interruption.

But at precisely 9:43 a.m., as the daily delivery from the Vatican Post Office arrived via pneumatic tube—a sleek, hissing canister that thudded gently into the brass receptacle near his desk—his day unraveled.

The canister clunked against the metal lip with more force than usual.

Michael turned with mild curiosity. Inside was the usual: interdepartmental memos, two periodicals, and a sealed envelope marked Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana. But below them was something he didn’t recognize: a flat parcel wrapped in vellum, the edges tied neatly with deep burgundy ribbon. It bore no address, only his name—P. Michael Dominic—written in looping script that instantly evoked another age.

He stared at it for a long moment before touching it.

The handwriting was unlike any he had seen in modern routine Vatican correspondence. Ornate, yet disciplined. The capital “P” had a serpentine curl; the “M” was double-looped in the style of Renaissance scribes. Someone had gone to great lengths to mimic or preserve an earlier penmanship, complete with sepia-toned ink. There was no seal, no watermark, no sender’s mark on the reverse. Just a small, embossed Medici crest faintly pressed into the parchment—a shield bearing six spheres and a lily crown.

His pulse stirred.

He turned the envelope in gloved hands. The sender had access to the Vatican’s internal postal network. That narrowed the list considerably—and dangerously. Only a handful of people were authorized to send mail directly to the Secret Archives via internal courier. Which meant one of two things: either a trusted insider had left him a relic—or someone had breached the Vatican’s most secure internal system with cunning precision.

Either way, it would require discretion.

Michael slipped the package into his document satchel and continued his day as if nothing had happened. But the weight of the thing—though barely a few ounces—gnawed at the back of his thoughts like a thread working loose in a tapestry.

Later, after lunch in the Sala Clementina with two fellow scholars, he retreated to his personal workroom. It was a modest chamber tucked off the northeast passage—just large enough for a desk, three chairs, and a carved wood icon of St. Jerome, patron saint of librarians and biblical scholars, in his study—a fitting presence in a place where symbology saturates every hallway, painting, and page, speaking in codes as ancient as the Church itself. The room smelled of old oak, wax polish, and aging paper.

He shut the door, drew the curtains, and sat.

With deliberate calm, Michael untied the ribbon.

Inside was a folded letter on parchment that had yellowed with age but remained pliant, as if it had been lovingly preserved. No brittle edges, no flaking. The ink had faded in parts, but the script remained legible—calligraphic Latin in a bold humanist hand. The opening line read:

Ad futurum pontificem, qui veritatem non timebit… “To the future pontiff who shall not fear the truth…”

Michael leaned forward, his breath shallow.

The salutation alone stirred unease. Not merely because of its boldness—but because of the signature. Faint, in the lower corner, faded but unmistakable:

Clemens VII, Pontifex Maximus

For several long moments, he stared at the name.

Clement VII—Giulio de’ Medici—was one of the most politically embattled popes in Church history. His papacy had spanned the brutal Sack of Rome, the rise of the Protestant Reformation, and desperate diplomatic dances with Francis I and Charles V. The idea that Clement had left behind a secret letter—undocumented, unarchived—was staggering.

But then he read on.

Michael stared at the final lines, reading them again and again, as if repetition might clarify what Clement had deliberately veiled. Follow the ink that weeps gold… The phrase lingered like incense after Mass—haunting, poetic, elusive.

The script was genuine. The watermark faint but distinct. The Medici crest, a subtle impression on the lower corner, sealed the letter’s pedigree like a fingerprint from history. But it wasn’t the external clues that disturbed him. It was the voice.

This wasn’t some elaborate forgery or theological curiosity. It read like a confession. A burdened man on the edge of death writing to posterity—not with pride, but with trembling hope. And if Clement’s words were true, he had held something that defied not only doctrine, but the very foundations of the Church’s authority.

A gospel. Written not by one of the Twelve, but by her. The first witness. The Beloved.

Michael sat motionless for nearly ten minutes. He did not take notes, nor reach for his cataloging software. Instead, he simply absorbed the implications, each one heavier than the last.

Who had brought this to him? Who had waited nearly five centuries to let it breathe? And why now?

At last, he reached for his secure tablet and composed a brief text message to the one person whose instincts he trusted as much as his own: Meet me by the Cortile della Pigna at sunset. We have a ghost from the Renaissance who wants to speak to us.

They met beneath the towering bronze pinecone of the Cortile della Pigna, a relic of pagan Rome now perched like a fossilized thought in the Vatican’s Renaissance courtyard. The hour was shifting, twilight dissolving into dusk, and the last of the sun lay like a fading brushstroke across the travertine walls.

Hana Sinclair was already there, seated near the fountain. She wore a slate-gray linen jacket over her blouse, the soft glow of the courtyard lamps catching in her hair. A reporter’s notepad rested loosely in her lap, more instinct than necessity, like a catechism waiting to be opened. When she saw him approach, she rose and tucked the notebook into her jacket.

Hana had the air of someone who carried her own weather with her, a quiet intensity softened by a quick, discerning intelligence. She carried the poise of someone who had learned to listen before she spoke—a trait that had made her one of Le Monde’s most respected investigative correspondents. Paris had shaped her manner, but Rome had sharpened her instincts, and nothing in the Vatican surprised her anymore. Except, perhaps, the way Michael looked at her now, with the quiet certainty of a man whose life had shifted after a single sealed parchment.

The reforms enacted by the late Pope Ignatius, allowing priests to marry under specific conditions, had changed both their futures. After years of shared danger, whispered trust, and unspoken affection, Michael and Hana were now engaged—a truth they held gently between them, as private and steady as breath. The Church was still adjusting. So were they.

“You sounded… urgent,” she said.

Michael Dominic glanced around, quietly noting the open archways and shadowed windows above. No guards lingered. The clatter of tourists had long since faded. A nun passed quietly to the west, rosary in hand. They were, for the moment, alone.

Only then did he draw the archival sleeve from his satchel and hand it to her.

She took it without a word, her fingertips brushing his for a moment before she stepped aside to read. As the last of the sun poured over the courtyard, she opened the parchment and let her eyes drift down its lines.

Her lips moved silently. Her breath grew shallow. By the time she reached the final passage—“Seek not the treasure first, but the wound that precedes it”—her expression had darkened with something between awe and apprehension.

She looked up slowly.

“Michael… this isn’t just a letter. This is a riddle. A lament.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t name the gospel, doesn’t describe it… but the implications are—”

“Devastating,” he finished. “If they’re true.”

“Clement read something he couldn’t burn. And couldn’t share.” She shook her head. “He wasn’t protecting the Church. He was protecting its image. Its structure.”

Michael nodded. “It shook his confidence in the very thing he was meant to uphold.”

Hana reread a line, eyes narrowing. “‘The one whom Rome later draped in penitence and shame…’ That’s Mary Magdalene. It has to be. He’s all but saying it.”

“And he calls her the first to proclaim the Resurrection.”

She folded the parchment and exhaled slowly. “So the gospel Clement received… if it exists… rewrites apostolic authority. It places her at the center, not Peter. Not the hierarchy. Not the priesthood.”

Michael said nothing.

“And this line here—‘follow the ink that weeps gold’—is he sending the reader to another letter?”

“I think so. There’s a path he’s designed. Breadcrumbs across time.”

Hana frowned. “Why? If he wanted to suppress it, why leave clues at all?”

“Because he didn’t want it lost forever. Only buried until someone was ready.” Michael’s tone was quiet. “And he thought that person might be a future pope.”

“But instead it landed in your hands.” She tilted her head. “Do you think this was meant for you?”

He hesitated. “I think… someone inside the Curia wanted it to be.”

Hana looked sharply at him. “An insider?”

“It came through internal channels. Quietly. Discreetly. That takes access.”

“Then this wasn’t a leak. It was an invitation.” Her brow furrowed. “Or a trap.”

Michael nodded grimly. “That’s what I don’t know. If they wanted to reveal the gospel, they’d go to the media. Or scholars. Not to me. Not like this.”

“You think someone’s testing you.”

“Or baiting me. Either way, it’s calculated.”

She stared at him, her voice now edged with urgency. “If what Clement saw was real… it would shake every theological pillar on which the Vatican rests. Not just women’s roles, but the idea of hierarchical grace, apostolic succession… even priestly absolution.”

“It would democratize the divine.”

“And the moment that idea gains traction…” Hana didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

They sat in silence for a long moment. As the sun dipped behind Rome’s ochre rooftops, a low peal of bells rolled across the city, solemn and resonant. From the dome of St. Peter’s to the shadowed courtyards of Trastevere, the call to Vespers drifted through alleys and over piazzas like a blessing carried on evening air. The sounds were peaceful, but the feeling between them was not. It was the stillness before a fracture.

Finally, Michael rose.

“I’ll scan the letter tonight,” he said. “Privately. No logging. I’ll cross-check Clement’s handwriting and reach out to Florence for ink comparison. Quiet channels only.”

“And I’ll begin pulling every known piece of Clement’s private correspondence from his final year,” Hana said, rising beside him. “Any marginal notes, off-ledger entries, even librarian rosters. If there are more letters, they may already be hidden in plain sight.”

He nodded. “And if this is only the first of eight…”

“Then we’ve barely scratched the surface.”

They walked from the courtyard slowly, side by side, shadows stretching long behind them.

Above, the dome of St. Peter’s loomed in silhouette, serene and immovable. But somewhere beneath its weight, truth had begun to stir. And this time, it would not return to silence easily.

***

Excerpt from The Medici Heresy by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2025 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.

New York State, July 1953

A siren blares through the loudspeaker in the conference room where I sit with the four other new psychiatrists. A staticky voice repeats, “Code 1, East Drive.” Startled, we look to the man at the head of the table.

Tall, dignified, and silver-haired, Superintendent Adrian Van Pelt raises his voice over the siren. “Welcome to your first day as residents at Resurrection Kill Hospital.” His manner is calm, faintly amused, his black suit impeccably tailored. “You might as well see what you’re getting into.”

Beckoning, he strides out the door. We hurry after him along the wide hall, down the grand staircase. In the foyer, one resident catches up with Superintendent Van Pelt and opens the door. With his blond crewcut and conventional handsomeness, he looks like a movie star. The only other woman besides myself trots at his heels. She’s bespectacled, her reddish-brown hair coiled in a bun, and her skirt stretches across wide hips. I lag behind the other men. One is slender and older than the rest of us, his hairline receding; shadows underscore his deep-set eyes. The other looks Japanese, with straight black hair and an upright posture that adds to his less than average height. My colleagues are eager beavers, but I hesitate. I should join the front of the charge because first impressions are lasting, and my career depends on the success of my residency; I mustn’t look timid. But I need to avoid close attention.

This is my colleagues’ first day here. But not mine.

Twelve years ago, when I was fourteen, I was a patient at Resurrection Kill Hospital.

The people with me don’t know. Nobody must ever know.

The heavy carved door set with stained glass starts to swing shut in my face. The others are already outside, and the Japanese-looking man holds it open for me. He’s the only person who noticed that I’ve lagged behind. I take a deep breath, walk through the door, nod my thanks at him, and emerge into bright sunshine. The warm summer air smells of roses and freshly cut grass. I pause on the steps of the mansion that serves as the administration building. Around me as far as I can see spreads the hospital’s campus, located five miles from Resurrection—the town from which it took its name—and about fifty miles upstate from New York City. Kill is the Dutch word for a stream, and the campus nestles in a curve of Resurrection Kill, a tributary of the Hudson River. Founded in 1885, the hospital was built by an architect inspired by Frederick Law Olmstead, designer of Central Park and other landmark sites. Buildings constructed mostly in the nineteenth century, in various styles, cluster together at the middle of a hundred and thirty acres of gently rolling hills landscaped with gardens and surrounded by woods. I don’t recognize anything, which disappoints but doesn’t surprise me.

The five months I spent here in 1941 are a black void in my memory, lit only by occasional, disturbing flashbacks. I returned to complete my training but also to reconstruct my past. I became a psychiatrist because I want to help the mentally ill, but I also need to find out what happened to me here and why I forgot it all.

I catch up with Superintendent Van Pelt and the other residents on the main road that winds through the campus. Red-brick buildings from the Victorian era, separated by lawns and gardens, line the road. People who look to be patients or visitors stroll in the gardens. Yesterday, I had planned to arrive in time to move into my quarters, take a walk before dark, and search for scenes that evoke memories, but the drive from the city took longer than I expected due to heavy traffic, and my car had a flat tire. After getting the car towed and the tire fixed at a garage, I reached the hospital too late to explore the campus. Now I lift my gaze to the treetops, to the slate roofs of other buildings, to the smokestacks that rise from a power plant to the cloudless blue sky. It’s as if I’ve never been here before. I focus on Superintendent Van Pelt, at the head of our little parade. He moves with a rapid, athletic gait, as if the passage of his sixty years has diminished neither his strength nor his energy. I think I remember him, but perhaps my mind is filling the void with false memories.

The sounds of automobile horns and racing engines interrupt my thoughts. A male voice shouts through a megaphone: “Stop!” We round a curve in the road. A dark green pickup truck speeds toward us, followed by a white sedan. A second white sedan comes from the opposite direction, on a collision course with the truck. I gasp, bracing myself for the crash. The other residents exclaim in alarm. Brakes screech as the second sedan slews around to block the road. The green truck veers to avoid hitting the sedan and comes straight at us. We scatter out of its way. The truck jumps the curb, rolls over grass, and crunches to a halt. Rakes, shovels, and buckets rattle in its bed. On the road, the first sedan stops near the second. Both have the hospital’s insignia—an oak tree spreading limbs over the letters RKH—and the word “Security” printed in green on the doors. The drivers, men clad in dark green uniforms, spring from the cars. They rush to the truck, whose front wheels have plowed over a ring of stones and low bushes that surround a flowerbed. The truck’s back wheels spin, churning up grass and dirt as its driver guns the engine. The flowerbed, bright with pink, mauve, and blue hydrangeas, is set in the lawn in the curve of a semicircular drive. The drive fronts a building, three stories of red brick and white-framed windows, the roof ornate with gables, dormers, and chimneys. A sign outside reads, “Serenity House.”

Could it be where I lived when I was a patient?

Nurses in white dresses and caps and orderlies in blue uniforms run out of the building and flock around the truck. The security guards are trying to open the truck’s doors, which are locked. One guard says, “It’s Rosemary Kirkpatrick. She sneaked out of Haven House and stole a groundskeeper’s truck.”

“Rosemary is a problem patient,” Superintendent Van Pelt informs our band of residents.

A guard strikes the truck’s passenger side window with his truncheon. The glass breaks. A shrill voice screams from inside the vehicle: “Go away, you bastards!”

The truck’s engine revs; the wheels spin faster, in vain. The guard reaches through the broken window, unlocks and opens the door. The engine dies as he turns the key in the ignition. He and his partner reach inside the truck and pull Rosemary Kirkpatrick out. She flails so wildly that all I can see of her is a tangle of thin limbs, pink garment, and long, dark hair. Shrieking curses that would put a sailor to shame, she kicks one guard in the groin. He howls and doubles over. She pulls free of the other guard, leaving the ripped sleeve of her dress in his hands, and runs . . . straight to me.

My heart clenches. Rosemary’s face is small, her features delicate, her complexion pale within the frame of unruly black hair. She’s just a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen.

Everyone else is in motion—guards, nurses, and orderlies chasing Rosemary; the other residents backing away from her; Superintendent Van Pelt raising his hand, opening his mouth to issue commands. But Rosemary’s gaze snares mine, and I’m rooted to the spot. It’s as if she’s singled me out of the crowd, with some primal instinct that sensed—what? A sympathetic ally? A fellow mental case? She clutches my arms, her fingers hard against the gabardine of my suit jacket, digging into my flesh. Her eyes are wide, startlingly green, and fringed with long black lashes.

“Help me!” she cries.

I instinctively grasp her arms—whether to break her hold on me or to try to soothe her, I don’t know. Her arms are thin but strong. Her anguish strikes a deep chord in me.

“Get me out of here!” she begs. “Please!”

My lips move involuntarily, and my mind echoes with the sound of my own voice crying out the same words. An eerie shiver ripples through me. The scene around me blurs, and my heart drums hard and fast through a tide of vertigo. Locked together, Rosemary and I seem to spin a hundred and eighty degrees, switching places. The nurses and orderlies are after me, not her. I see us from a vantage point high above—her dark-haired and half-naked in the tatters of her pink dress; myself with a brown pageboy, trim gray suit, and black pumps. I forget which of us is the doctor, which is the fugitive inmate. A flash of memory like a lightning bolt illuminates the dark void.

I once accosted some stranger in my own desperate attempt to escape this hospital.

The orderlies yank Rosemary away from me, and our hands cling together for one last instant. Mouth wide with terror, she looks like she’s drowning and a riptide is pulling her away from her rescuer. I feel the same expression on my own face, as if we are mirror images. Please don’t let them take me back there! I don’t want to go!

“Calm down, Rosemary, that’s a good girl,” Superintendent Van Pelt says, his gentle, firm tone laced with condescending tolerance.

Rosemary screams as the orderlies wrestle her to the ground. A guard speaks into a walkie-talkie. The other residents look on with stoic expressions that mask whatever excitement or alarm they may be feeling. I rearrange my own face to match theirs as I take deep breaths to quell my panic.

The superintendent walks over to the fray, confident as a zookeeper accustomed to wild beasts. A nurse places a hypodermic syringe in his hand. While the orderlies hold Rosemary down, he stabs the needle into her thigh and pushes the plunger. Her screams dwindle to whimpers; the fight goes out of her. Her eyes roll up inside her head, and her body relaxes into drugged sleep. The orderlies step back, panting and wiping sweat off their brows. Superintendent Van Pelt gives the syringe back to the nurse and dusts off his hands. An ambulance arrives. The attendants bring a gurney, lift the unconscious Rosemary onto it, strap her down, and load her into the ambulance.

“I’ll see her back to the ward,” Superintendent Van Pelt tells our group of residents. “Wait for me in the conference room.”

He climbs into the passenger seat of the ambulance and rides away. We retrace our steps to the administration building, the handsome blond man first, the other woman a step behind him; then the thin older man; then the Japanese-looking man and me, walking together.

“Are you all right?” My companion sounds concerned; he noticed my distress.

My cheeks warm. The other residents seem oblivious, and I’m glad he spoke quietly and didn’t call their attention to me. “I’m fine.”

I’m shaken and trembling inside, but my voice is cool, calm, the product of training and discipline. I can’t afford to seem weak, lest the others shun me out of contempt. Triumph revives my strength. I’ve started to remember. Just as I’d hoped, coming back to Resurrection Kill Hospital has cracked open the void. After twelve years, light is shining through. I look from side to side and backward, eager to see what else might be revealed.

In the flowerbed that Rosemary Kirkpatrick drove the truck into is a statue of a woman. Her stone skin is green with moss, her face hidden by ivy. What would she see if the ivy were torn away? Would she rather remain blind and ignorant?

***

Excerpt from Resurrection Kill: A Novel by Laura Joh Rowland. Copyright 2026 by Laura Joh Rowland. Reproduced with permission from Laura Joh Rowland. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

EVERY MARRIAGE EVENTUALLY reaches a decision point. A moment of truth when you either need to trust your partner completely or believe you will be better off on your own.

For Rachel Farrell, that moment is now.

As she lowers her eye to the scope of her rifle, this untimely realization hits her with sudden clarity. Those familiar vows, recited almost two decades ago, constrict her lungs now with the full weight of their significance. To have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health—they all amount to being there, always, no matter what. Doing whatever it takes. Even if that means putting a bullet in someone’s head.

The last week has put those vows to the test. Revealed the cracks that have been growing for years in her marriage to Caleb. After the euphoric whirlwind of falling in love, their relationship survived the trials of parenthood, the stresses of two high-powered jobs, the financial burdens of raising a family. But instead of pulling closer together, they’ve been drifting apart without even knowing it. Differences that once seemed so small have come to feel irreconcilable. Rhetoric that was once so supportive has become laden with microaggressions, harbored grievances, mutual suspicion, strained silence. And yet, their marriage has endured, adapted. They have kept their family together.

Rachel wishes these thoughts weren’t running through her head, not now when she needs to concentrate. But isn’t that what this moment is really about? Does she trust her husband? She knows she must decide. Knows she has put it off. Dreaded the implications, especially for her children. But marriages can’t survive in stasis. They need affirmation, renewed commitment, reinvigoration. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Maybe what seemed like a final straw is actually a newfound spark. Maybe she won’t know what she has until it’s gone.

With tears blurring her vision, she squints through the eyepiece and locates her target. At this close range, his head takes up most of the viewfinder. He’s sitting still, exposed, facing away from her. Then she sees the gun pointed at Caleb’s head. She can’t wait any longer or the decision will be made for her. She has to take the shot. But what if she misses? What will happen next? Whatever it is, she knows her life will never be the same after this moment.

Rachel suppresses her inner dialogue of self-doubt and steadies her breath. Chest pressed into the dirt along the ridge. Elbows propped against a rock. Hands clenched on the stock and grip. Shoulder nuzzled against the butt, braced for the recoil. Beads of sweat streak down her face, but she lets them drip onto the dry ground. Her hand stops trembling as she aligns the back of his head in the crosshairs. Then, she counts her exhale, holds her breath, and squeezes the trigger.

CHAPTER 1

Seven Days Earlier

“I KNOW IT’S HARD, but you have to tell him how you feel,” Rachel says into the screen of her laptop.

Easier said than done, she thinks to herself as she adjusts her camera angle. She has been sitting here all afternoon, parked in the same chair at her dining table, holding back-to-back Zoom sessions. Carrie, her last client of the day, is running up against the end of the hour, but Rachel’s best efforts to politely steer their session to a logical conclusion are proving too subtle.

Part of her feels sorry for Carrie. Her husband stopped attending long ago. It’s not a good sign when the husband—or either spouse, but usually the husband in Rachel’s experience—refuses to participate. That’s the whole idea of couples therapy, that it requires with both partners. That it’s a safe, supportive environment for discussing and resolving issues in a constructive manner. When one spouse taps out of the therapy, it usually means they are tapping out of the marriage. The next step is the domain of Rachel’s previous ten-year profession as a divorce attorney, before she found her calling as a couples therapist.

Rachel can tell that, on some level, Carrie knows her marriage may be over, despite complaining about her husband’s lack of affection, short temper, long absences as if those are root problems rather than symptoms. The fact of the matter is, once again this week, her husband isn’t here. Clear evidence that he’s done trying to save the marriage, if that was ever his intention.

Rachel glances at the clock in the upper corner of her screen, hoping Carrie won’t notice—or maybe that she will and finally realize their time is up. Rachel’s butt is getting numb. She’s running out of time to make anything for dinner. Another night of carryout is the likely solution. Without breaking sympathetic eye contact, Rachel slides her phone just underneath the camera’s view and composes a text message to Caleb.

“Last session running long. Can you pick up dinner at Lost Dog? The usual.”

The Old Town Alexandria restaurant isn’t exactly on Caleb’s way home to the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC, but close enough. Plus, Rachel has a low-grade obsession with their bacon-feta pizza that always overrides her latest attempt at a diet. She’ll kick herself later for gorging on carbs, but screw it—it’s been a long day. Hopefully, Caleb won’t be taking clients out to dinner tonight. She knows he spent the day doing the lobbying rounds on Capitol Hill with one of them, some polyethylene manufacturers’ association or something. She needs that pizza. Rachel notes the time on her phone, 6:04 p.m., then covertly places it face down so she won’t be distracted by it again.

“I just really don’t know what else he expects me to do,” Carrie says, abruptly ending her monologue with an expectant look. Rachel snaps out of her pizza lust and forces a compassionate smile.

“Look, Carrie . . .” Rachel begins, choosing her words carefully. “We’ve been working together a long time, so I feel like I can be honest with you. I’m never going to tell you what to do, but the behaviors you’ve talked about just . . . don’t seem to be getting better. In fact, they seem ingrained. It’s very hard to change another person. And the fact Todd is no longer attending these sessions isn’t a good sign of his commitment to making this marriage work.”

Carrie doesn’t respond, but her expression is the definition of despair. Rachel immediately worries that she’s gone too far. “I’m sorry, I’m probably overstepping my bounds as your therapist, but I . . . Carrie?” Mid-apology, Rachel realizes it isn’t Carrie’s expression that is frozen; it is the entire screen. “Carrie? Hello? Can you hear me?”

That’s perfectn, Rachel thinks, pushing a strand of hair aside as she clicks around in aggravation. Just when she finally delivers her tough-love message, their connection drops. The internet service at their suburban house has been so spotty lately, and calling customer service is a joke. Did Carrie hear any of that? Rachel types into the chat feature: “You froze on me. I think we lost our connection.” But nothing happens. Everything is frozen.

“Crap,” Rachel says, drumming her fingers on the table. Hopefully, a bad connection is all it is. Not Carrie getting so offended by Rachel’s candor that she left the meeting. Maybe Carrie’s phone number is in her contacts, Rachel thinks. Just as she picks up her phone to check, it buzzes—most likely with Caleb’s reply, telling her why he can’t pick up dinner, that he’ll be home late again, that they shouldn’t wait up for him. Anticipating her aggravation, she flips the phone over to see the screen, but it isn’t the message from Caleb she expects. Instead, it’s just one simple notification. “Message failed to send.”

***

Excerpt from Outage by Mike Trigg. Copyright 2026 by Mike Trigg. Reproduced with permission from Mike Trigg. All rights reserved.

Prologue

Southern France – March 1244

The relentless siege of the last surviving Cathar fortress, perched strategically on the majestic peak of Montségur in the French Pyrenees, entered its tenth month.

The massive army of crusaders dispatched from Rome, thirty thousand strong, were garbed in distinctive white tunics, their mantles emblazoned with the scarlet Latin cross. Knights commanders led hordes of common foot soldiers, some seeking personal salvation, others simply out for adventure and the promise of plunder. They had already devastated most of the Languedoc region of southern France in the years preceding. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children had been slain, regardless of age, sex or religious belief. Entire villages were burned, rich crops destroyed, and the fertile land which yielded them was poisoned in a cruel, single-minded quest to root out and extinguish a small and peaceful, yet influential mystic order known as the Cathars.

The defeat of the impregnable Montségur remained the ultimate prize for the Church’s troops. Rumors of a vast treasure had reached the ears of every soldier, stirring up the passion with which these feared European mercenaries carried out their holy mission. As was the customary practice during a crusade, whatever pillage remained after the plundering—spolia opima, the richest spoils for supreme achievement—could be claimed by the victor. That temptation, bonded by the personal assurance of the pope that all sins would be forgiven and their paths to heaven assured, was enough to seduce anyone, nobleman or peasant, to take up cudgel, pike, or arrow in the name of God.

In 1209, Pope Innocent III had ordered a Holy Crusade to crush the spirit and, if necessary, the life of each and every dissident in the Languedoc region bordering France and Spain.

This independent principality had distinguished itself by fostering an artistic and intellectual populace well beyond that of most northern European societies at the time. The people of the Languedoc practiced a religious tolerance that encouraged spiritual and secular diversity. Schools teaching Greek, Hebrew and Arabic languages and the customs which accompanied them flourished, as did those espousing the Kabbalah, an occult form of Judaism that dated from the second century.

Most settlers in the Languedoc viewed Christianity with the utmost repugnance; at the very least its practices were perceived as being more materialistic than godly in nature. The irreligious of the region passed over Christianity in large part due to the scandalous corruption exhibited by its local priests and bishops who, unable to influence the heathens within their provinces, came to prefer the rewards of commerce and land ownership over the tending of a meager flock.

Consequently, the authorities in Rome felt compelled to deal with this unforgivable heresy once and for all, in towns such as Toulouse and Albi within the Languedoc area.

Consigning his troops to their commanders, Pope Innocent III invoked a special benediction to all, lauding the divinity of their mission. Asked how they might distinguish their Christian brethren from the heretics, the crusaders were simply told, “Kill them all. God will spare His own.”

And so the Albigensian Crusade began.

The new moon cast no light over Montségur as night fell on the first day of March 1244, obscuring not only the hastened activities of its occupants, but the lingering threat conspiring outside its walls. A dense alpine fog had settled over the mountain, and the castle that straddled its inaccessible peak had withstood nearly a year of unceasing battle.

Weakened by the tenacity of their predators and yielding to the hopelessness of their situation, Raymond de Péreille, Lord of Château du Montségur and leader of the remaining four hundred defenders, commanded his troops to lay down their arms, and descended the mountain to negotiate terms of their capitulation.

Though offered lenient conditions in return for their surrender, de Péreille requested a fourteen-day truce, ostensibly to consider the terms, and handed over hostages as an assurance of good faith. Knowing there was no alternative for their captives—nearly half of whom were priest-knights, or parfaits, sworn to do God’s work—the commanders of the pope’s regiment agreed to the truce.

Over the next two weeks, reprieved from the constant threat of attack they had been enduring for months, the inhabitants of Montségur resolved to fulfill their own destiny before relinquishing their fortress—and their lives—to the Inquisition.

On the last day of the truce, as if guided collectively by a single will on a predestined course, the surviving members of the last Cathar settlement made special preparations for their departure.

Four of the strongest and most loyal of the parfaits were led by Bishop Bertrand Marty, the senior abbé of the fortress, as they descended deep within the mountain down a long, stepped passageway carved into alternating layers of earth and limestone. The end of the passage appeared to be just that, as if the original tunnelers had simply stopped work and retreated without finishing the job. But, while the others held torches, Abbé Marty withdrew a large rusted key-like wedge from beneath his cassock, and thrust it into a hidden cavity near the low ceiling.

The abbé manipulated the key for a few moments. A muffled sound of grating metal from beyond the stone wall echoed through the tunnel, and the seemingly impenetrable granite slid inward slightly, revealing a door.

Aided by the parfaits, the door swung open into a small dank chamber filled with an enormous cache of riches—gold and silver in varied forms, gilded chalices and bejeweled crosses, an abundance of gems and precious stones, overflowing bags of coins from many lands.

And, in a far corner removed from the bulk of the treasure itself, stood a wide granite pedestal on which rested an ornately carved wooden reliquary, crafted to hold the most holy of relics, next to which sat a large book wrapped in brown sackcloth.

Standing before the legendary treasure of the Cathars—glittering and hypnotic in the dim torchlight—would prove seductive for most men. But the Albigensians held little regard for earthly goods, other than as a useful political means to achieve their spiritual destiny. Ignoring the abundant wealth spread before them, the abbé fetched the sackcloth while the other four parfaits hoisted the ancient reliquary to their shoulders, then they left the room and solemnly proceeded back up the granite stairway. In the thousand-year history of the Cathars, these would be the last of the order ever to see the treasure.

But the most sacred relic of the Christian world would never, they vowed, fall into the unholy hands of the Inquisition.

Emerging from the stone passage, Abbé Marty led the parfaits and their venerable cargo through the hundreds of waiting Cathars who had assembled outside, forming a candlelit gauntlet leading to the sanctuary. All were dressed in traditional black tunics, all wearing shoulder-length hair covered by round taqiyah caps as was the custom of the sect.

Once inside, the parfaits lowered the reliquary onto the stone altar. The abbé removed the ancient book from the sackcloth and began the sacred Consolamentum, a ritual of consecration, while the four appointed guardians prepared themselves for their special mission.

Armed with short blades and truncheons, the parfaits carefully secured the reliquary in the safety of a rope sling, then fastened taut harnesses around themselves.

“Go with God, my sons,” Abbé Marty intoned as he gave them his blessing, “and in His name ensure this sacred reliquary be protected for generations to come.”

The four men climbed over the precipice and, assisted by their brothers gripping the ropes tied to their harnesses, gently and silently rappelled hundreds of meters down the escarpment. Sympathizers waiting at the base of the mountain assisted the parfaits in liberating their holy treasure, guiding them away from the danger of other troops and hiding them and the reliquary deep in one of many nearby caves.

Throughout the night, those remaining at Montségur celebrated their brotherhood, their holy calling, and their last hours alive. Descending the mountain the next morning, in a state of pure spiritual release from the material world, Abbé Marty led the last of the Cathars as they willingly marched into the blazing pyres awaiting them, martyrs to their cause.

The holy reliquary of the Cathars has never since been found.

Chapter 1

Present Day

Rounding the northern wall of the Colosseum with a measured stride, a tall young man with longish black hair glanced at the Tag Heuer chronometer strapped to his left wrist. Noting the elapsed time of his eighth mile, he wiped away the sweat that was now stinging his eyes.

Damn this Roman heat. Not even sunrise, and it’s already a scorcher.

Approaching the wide crosswalks flanking the west side of the immense Colosseum, he wondered if this was the morning he would meet God. Dodging the murderous, unrestrained traffic circling the stadium became a daily act of supreme faith, as the blur of steel subcompacts, one after another, careened around the massive structure on their way, no doubt, to some less hostile place. Since his arrival here he had discovered that this was the way with Italian motorists in general, though Roman drivers excelled at the sport. Veteran observers could always tell the difference between natives and visitors: a local would cross the road seemingly ambivalent to the rush of oncoming traffic. Non-Romans, who could as likely be from Milan as from Boston or Paris, approached the threat of each curb-to-curb confrontation with a trepidation bordering on mortal terror.

Crossing the broad Via dei Fori Imperiali, his route took him through the Suburra, the most ancient inhabited area of Rome and off the beaten path of most tourists. As a newcomer to a city whose normal pulse was barely evident beneath the confusing ambiguities of new and old, the runner felt most comfortable here in the Suburra, a semi-industrial working-class neighborhood, much like the one he only recently left in New York. In the summer, people got up early to tend their gardens before the real heat forced them indoors. The early morning air was thick with alternating scents of Chilean jasmine, honeysuckle and petrol fumes.

He ran another ten kilometers, long blooms of sweat accentuating a lean, muscular frame beneath a gauzy white t-shirt as he burst into a sprint up the final few blocks, past the empty trattorias and shuttered shops whose merchants were just beginning their morning rituals.

Slowing to a cool-down pace as he crossed the Sant’Angelo bridge spanning the Tiber River, he turned left up Via della Conciliazione as the massive dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica loomed suddenly ahead. Though it could be seen from almost anywhere in Rome, this approach always gave him the impression that the dome seemed to tip backwards, being swallowed up by the grand facade of the church the closer he got to it.

“Buongiorno, padre.” Several female voices, almost in unison, broke the cobblestone pattern of his reverie.

Father Michael Dominic looked up and smiled politely, lifting his hand in a slight wave as he swiftly passed a small cluster of nuns, some of whom he recognized as Vatican employees. The younger women blushed, leaning their hooded heads toward each other in hushed gossip as their eyes followed the handsome priest; the older women simply bobbed a chilly nod to the young cleric, dutifully herding their novitiates into obedient silence on their way to morning Mass.

Though he had only been in Rome a couple of weeks, Michael Dominic’s youthful exuberance and keen intellect had become known quickly throughout the cloistered population of Vatican City, setting him apart from the more monastic attitudes prevalent since the Middle Ages.

But despite the fusty parochialism and an atmosphere of suspended time he found within its walls, Dominic still felt the intoxication of privilege at having been assigned to Rome so early in his religious career. It had not been even two years since he lay prostrate at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, to be ordained by his family friend and mentor Cardinal Enrico Petrini.

It was no secret to Vatican insiders that the eminent cardinal’s influence was chiefly responsible for Dominic’s swift rise to the marbled corridors of ecclesiastical power now surrounding him. The young priest’s scholarly achievements as a classical medievalist were essential to the work being done in the Vatican Library. But the progressive cardinal also was grateful for the vitality Dominic brought to his vocation, not to mention the charismatic ways in which he could get things accomplished in an otherwise plodding bureaucracy. Though Dominic could not account for his mentor’s vigorous inducement that he come to Rome—and knowing this particular prince of the Church so well, it was surely more than a familial gesture—he had trusted Enrico Petrini completely, and simply accepted the fact that this powerful man had believed in him strongly enough to give him an opportunity which he most certainly would not have had otherwise.

Pacing slower now, Dominic drew in rhythmic gulps of searing air as he neared the Vatican. A block or so before reaching the gate, he stepped inside the Pergamino Caffè on the Piazza del Risorgimento. Later in the day the cramped room would be filled with tourists seeking postcards and gelato, but mornings found it crowded with locals, most nibbling on small, sticky cakes washed down with a demitasse of thick, sweet coffee.

Across the room Dominic spotted Signora Palazzolo, the ample wife of the proprietor, whose wisps of white hair were already damp with perspiration. Seeing the priest approach, the older woman’s face broke into a broad, gap-toothed smile as she reached beneath the counter and withdrew a neatly folded black cassock that Dominic had dropped off earlier, which she handed to him with deliberate satisfaction.

“Buongiorno, padre,” she said. “And will you take caffè this morning?”

“Molto grazie, signora,” Dominic said, accepting the cassock graciously. “Not today. I’m already late as it is.”

“Okay this time,” she said with a gently scolding tone, “but it is not healthy for a strong young man to skip his breakfast, especially after making his heart work so hard in this unforgiving heat.” Her hand reached up to wipe away the dampness as she spoke, coifing what little hair she had left in a vain attempt to make herself more attractive.

Heading toward the back of the shop, Dominic slipped into the restroom, quickly washed his face and raked his hair into some semblance of order, then drew the cassock over his head and buttoned it to the starched white collar now encircling his neck. Emerging from the restroom minutes later and making for the door, he glanced back to see the signora waving to him, now with a different look on her face—one beaming with respect for the clergyman he had suddenly become, as if she herself had had a role in the transformation.

Of the three official entrances to the Vatican, Porta Sant’Anna, or Saint Anne’s Gate, is the one generally used by employees, visitors and tradesmen, situated on the east side of the frontier just north of Saint Peter’s Square. Although duties of security come first, guards at all gates also are responsible for monitoring the encroachment of dishabille into the city. Dominic learned from an earlier orientation that casual attire of any sort worn by employees or official visitors was not permitted past the border. Jeans and T-shirts were barely tolerated on tourists, but the careless informality of shorts, sweatpants or other lounging attire on anyone else was strictly forbidden. An atmosphere of respect and reverence was to be observed at all times.

Vatican City maintains an actual live-in population of fewer than a thousand souls, but each workday nearly five thousand people report for duty within the diminutive confines of its imposing walls—walls originally built to defend against the invading Saracens a thousand years before—and the Swiss Guards at each gate either recognize or authenticate every person coming or going by face and by name.

One of the Guards whom Dominic had recognized from previous occasions, dressed in the less formal blue and black doublet and beret of the corps, waved him through with a courteous smile as Dominic reached for his ID card.

“It is no longer necessary to present your credentials now that you are recognized at this gate, Father Dominic,” the solidly built young guard said in English. “But it is a good idea to keep it with you just in case.”

“Grazie,” Dominic responded, continuing in Italian, “and it would be helpful to me if we could speak the local language. I haven’t used it fluently since I was younger, and I am outnumbered here by those who have an obvious preference. You know, ‘When in Rome….’”

The guard’s smile faded instantly, replaced by a slight but obvious discomfort as he attempted to translate, then respond to Dominic’s rapid Italian.

“Yes, it would be pleasure for me, padre,” the young soldier said in halting Italian, “but only if we speak slowly. German is native tongue of my own home, Zurich, and though I speak good English, my Italian learning have only just started; but I understand much more than I speak.”

Dominic smiled at the younger man’s well-intended phrasing. “It’s a deal then. I’m Michael Dominic,” he said formally, offering a sweaty palm.

“It is an honor meeting you, Father Michael. I am Corporal Dengler. Karl Dengler.” The guard’s face brightened at the unusual respect he was accorded, as he extended his own white-gloved hand in a firm grip. Recently recruited into the prestigious Pontificia Cohors Helvetica, the elite corps of papal security forces more commonly known as the Swiss Guard, Dengler had found that most people in the Vatican—indeed, most Romans—were inclined to keep to themselves. It was never this difficult to make friends in Switzerland, and he welcomed the opportunity to meet new people. He also knew, as did everyone by now, that this particular priest had a powerful ally close to the Holy Father.

“An honor for me as well, Corporal,” Dominic said a bit more slowly, yet not enough to cause the young man further embarrassment. “And my apologies for soiling your glove.”

“No problem,” Dengler said as he smiled. “With this heat it will be dry in no time. And if you ever want a running partner, let me know.”

“I’ll take you up on that!” Michael said with a wave as he passed through the gate.

Already the Vatican grounds were bustling with activity. Throngs of workers, shopkeepers and official visitors with global diversities of purpose made their way along the Via di Belvedere to the myriad offices, shops and museums—any indoor or shaded haven, in fact, that might offer escape from the heat of the rising sun.

Another Swiss Guard stood commandingly in the center of the street—looking remarkably dry and cool, Dominic thought, despite the obvious burden of his red-plumed steel helmet and the traditional billowy gala uniform of orange, red and blue stripes—directing foot and vehicular traffic while smartly saluting the occasional dignitaries passing by.

To any observer, Vatican City appears to be in a state of perpetual reconstruction. Comprising little more than a hundred acres, the ancient city state is in constant need of repair and maintenance. Architectural face-lifts, general structural reinforcement and contained expansion take place at most any time and in various stages, manifested in the skeletal maze of scaffolding surrounding portions of the basilica and adjoining buildings. Sampietrini, the uniquely skilled maintenance workers responsible for the upkeep of Saint Peter’s, are ever-present throughout the grottoes, corridors, and courtyards as they practice time-honored skills of the artisans who have gone before them, traditionally their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. It was quite probable, in fact, that a given sampietrino working on, say, a crumbling cornerstone of the basilica itself, could very well be shoring up work that was originally performed by his great-great-grandfather more than a century before him.

Dominic walked to the end of the Belvedere, then turned right up the Stradone dei Giardini and alongside the buildings housing the Vatican Museums, until he reached the northern wall of the city.

A priest learns early that his life will suffer many rituals, and in at least one secular aspect, Michael Dominic’s was no different. Every day he ended his morning run with a meditative walk along the inner walls surrounding the immaculately maintained papal gardens. The fact that many of the same trees that lined the paths have been rooted here for centuries—serving the contemplative needs of whichever pope might be ruling at the time—gave Dominic a more natural feeling of historical connectedness, in subtle contrast to other abundant yet more imposing, reminders of where he now happened to be living and working.

“Ah! Good morning, Miguel.” It was a gentle breeze of a voice, yet Dominic recognized it clearly in the early, warm quiescence of the Vatican gardens.

“Buongiorno, Cal!” Dominic said brightly. Brother Calvino Mendoza, prefect of the Vatican Archives and Dominic’s superior, was approaching the entrance to the building. Clad in the characteristic brown robe and leather sandals of his Franciscan order, Mendoza was a round, timorous man in his seventies—quite pleasant to work with, Dominic thought, if a little indiscreet in his obvious affection for men.

“You are up early today,” Mendoza said in heavily-accented English, furtively appraising Dominic’s form beneath the cassock. “But then, defying the wicked heat and traffic of Rome is best done before sunrise, no?”

“It is, yes,” Dominic laughed easily, his damp hair glistening in the sun as he shook his head in amusement, “but in another hour or so I expect the pavement to start buckling.”

Dominic had come to enjoy Mendoza’s fey demeanor and playful flirting. Nearly everyone he had met here seemed overly stern and impassive to be really likable, and Dominic was naturally drawn to people he found more hospitable anyway. This gentle man had a quick mind for humor and was never, Dominic found, lacking for a proverb appropriate to the moment. It was also common for Mendoza to call many on his staff by the Portuguese equivalent of their name, maintaining an affectionate cultural touchstone to his native home of Brazil. As for the subtle intimations, Mendoza grasped early on that Dominic’s vow of chastity was not likely to be compromised, and particularly not by another man.

“You’ll get used to it,” Mendoza nodded, smiling. “It is worse in the mornings, to be sure, but come late afternoon we are blessed by the ponentino, a cool wind off the Tyrrhenian Sea.

“And besides,” he quipped, “’To slip upon a pavement is better than to slip with the tongue—so the fall of the wicked shall come speedily.’” He finished by glancing around the garden with mock suspicion, as if every word were prey to overcurious but unseen ears.

“‘Ecclesiastes,’” Dominic responded. “And thanks for the admonition.”

Pleased that the young priest indulged his occasional whimsy, Mendoza shuffled up the few steps of the entrance to the Archives.

“Now, come Miguel, your days of orientation are over. Let’s get on with the real work,” he said dramatically, his arms nearly flapping as his large body moved up the steps into the Archives. “Today is a very special day.”

“I’ll catch up with you shortly, Cal. I’ve got to take a quick shower first. But why is today so special?”

From the top of the steps, Mendoza turned around to face Dominic and, like a child with a tantalizing secret, whispered with barely contained excitement, “The treasures we are about to exhume have not been seen by any living soul for several hundred years.”

Clearly a man who enjoyed his work, Calvino Mendoza’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he lifted one heavy eyebrow in an arch, then spun as quickly as his heavy frame would allow and disappeared through the heavy wooden door.

As Dominic walked back to his apartment at the Domus Santa Marta, the resident guesthouse just south of Saint Peter’s Basilica, two men in a golf cart were heading in his direction, both dressed in the familiar black and red garb of cardinals. The cart stopped directly in his path and one of the men stepped out, approaching him.

“Father Dominic, I presume?” The heavyset man had a thick Balkan accent, with an intelligent face bearing an inscrutable mask of expression.

“Yes, Eminence? How can I help you?” Dominic said.

“I am Cardinal Sokolov, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. I simply wanted to extend a hand of welcome on behalf of those of us who have been expecting you.”

Dominic recognized the cardinal’s department, better known as the infamous Office of the Holy Inquisition before someone had come up with a less diabolical name.

“Good to meet you, Your Eminence,” he said, surprised by the comment. “I didn’t realize anyone was actually expecting me, though.”

“Oh, yes,” Sokolov said, holding Dominic’s hand in an uncomfortably firm grip as they shook. “Having Cardinal Petrini’s endorsement carries a great deal of influence here. But it also comes with certain expectations. First and foremost, keep to yourself. Do not expect to make many friends here. One is surrounded by vipers masquerading as pious souls.

“Secondly, know that you are being watched at all times. Conduct yourself appropriately and you may survive your time here. There are many who were vying for your job as scrittore in the Secret Archives, and they will seek any opportunity to displace you.

“Lastly,” the cardinal said scowling, his eyebrows a black bar across his fleshy face, “come to me directly if you witness or suspect anyone of illicit or unbecoming activities. Such careful scrutiny will be viewed with admiration by His Holiness, for whom I speak in this regard.”

Dominic was dumbfounded by the audacity of the man’s welcome, hardly the tone he would have imagined and one that shed a darker light on his exhilaration at now working and living in the Vatican.

“I will keep all that in mind, Eminence,” he said, forcibly pulling back his hand from the cardinal’s cloying grasp.

Sokolov stood a moment longer appraising Dominic’s face, then turned and shuffled himself back into the golf cart, which pulled away with a mounting whine as it headed into the papal gardens.

Troubled by the encounter, Dominic returned to his apartment, the fresh burdens expected of him weighing on his mind. What have I gotten myself into? he thought, stepping into the shower.

***

Excerpt from The Magdalene Deception by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2020 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.

A World of Two

I picture my mother lying on her hospital bed, the same one she has occupied for the last twelve days. The space is in shadow, the only light coming from the hallway. The room smells empty. No flowers or scented candles—she wouldn’t have wanted those. The sound of retreating footfalls in the corridor or a muffled voice from another part of the hospital occasionally interrupts the silence. Her breathing is shallow, until the moment it stops altogether. It happens so quietly, no one notices at first.

When my mother died in Concord, I was an ocean away, in a Paris hotel. Another day had already started. That remove feels familiar—geography and time following an established pattern.

In the morning’s early hours, I lay next to my husband, Tom, on a king-sized bed in a room of marble-inlaid tables and still-life paintings in gilded frames, the walls covered in red-and-gold-striped paper. I heard only the sounds of the night, a faint breeze moving through the magnolia trees in the courtyard and an occasional car gliding along the boulevard. While Tom slept, I lay awake, thinking about my mother. I had started to understand that we wouldn’t make it back in time. My mother would either be dead or so unresponsive that there could be no last words between us.

Tom read my brother Billy’s email while I was taking a shower. I knew from the way he walked into the bathroom, but he still had to say the words: “Your mother is dead.” Years from now, I thought, I will be able to replay this moment in my mind. He stood there, naked, looking both vulnerable and strong, his hand on the shower wall ready to reach for me.

My brothers and sister wanted to touch our mother after she died because she had not welcomed that while living. She would allow a hug or a kiss in greeting or farewell but shrugged you off if you lingered in the embrace.

Henry would have stroked her sparse hair, cut short after she could no longer shape it into a twist. He might have teased her about finally being able to touch her hair, something she loathed. Lydia might have rubbed her feet, those odd feet, with such high arches her toes curled to reach the ground. Her feet shaped by childhood polio and old age, missing the little toe on one foot, removed because of frostbite suffered during the Second World War. She could never find comfortable shoes, so she wore Birkenstock sandals year-round, donning socks with them in winter.

Billy would have rested his hand on her shoulder, let his fingers travel the length of her arm. He might have held her hand, bent at strange angles by arthritis and with the bones loose under the skin. Had I been there, I would also have been drawn to her hands, so small that they reminded me of a child’s. She kept her nails short and immaculate, a habit she’d adopted in medical school, and one I try to emulate. I might have traced the line of her aquiline nose and the contour of her jaw, fondled her cheek and pressed my fingers to her high cheekbones, a sign of her Slavic heritage, she once told me.

Her sandals and the pair of socks she last wore with them are mine now, safeguarded in a box in the back of my closet. Those Birkenstocks, the insoles shaped over time by the pressure of her feet, her navy-blue socks. I wanted the last of her clothing, something that had touched her. I run my hands over the smooth cork, hold the socks to my cheek, the much-washed cotton soft. I thought the socks might retain the cool, dry scent of her.

Our plane to Massachusetts departed in the afternoon, so Tom and I filled the morning with small errands—the purchase of a journal of good paper with a red ribbon to mark my place—and one last view of Notre-Dame. Each gesture, every step I made, accompanied by a voice in my head repeating, Your mother is dead.

The air smelled of diesel fuel and wet earth. My left arm entwined with Tom’s right, I rested my hand on his steady forearm, eavesdropped on the conversations around me, catching only phrases. I thought how these strangers knew nothing of my grief and I nothing of theirs. A rare winter’s morning, fresh with rain-washed skies, and sunlight bathing the bone-colored stone of centuries-old buildings. I noticed the quality of the light, its unusual clarity. Tom and I had introduced my mother to Paris on a trip years before. She will never see it again, I thought, trying to absorb its beauty on her behalf.

***

Excerpt from THE HISTORY WE CARRY by Margaret Whitford. Copyright 2026 by Margaret Whitford. Reproduced with permission from Margaret Whitford. All rights reserved.