“Father,” the voice whispered.

He leaned closer, alarmed by the note of desperation in her tone. Over the years he had learned to recognize real fear.

“It’s Saria,” the voice continued.

He knew Saria, had known her since she was a toddler. Bright. Intelligent. Not given to flights of fantasy. He had always known her to be a cheerful, hardworking girl. Maybe too hardworking. She came from a large family, like many of the Cajuns attending his church, but she had stopped coming to mass and confession years earlier. About six months ago, she had returned to confession—but not to the service—coming faithfully every week, but not confessing anything of importance that might have made her suddenly need to come back to the church. Her whispers made him think perhaps there had been another reason for her once again coming to the confessional.

“Is everything all right, Saria?”

“I need to slip a letter to you. It can’t be mailed from this parish, Father. I’ve tried, and the letter was intercepted. I was threatened. Can you get it out for me some other way?”

Father Gallagher’s heart jumped. Saria had to be in trouble if she was asking such a thing, and he knew from long experience that the people in the bayou as well as up and down the river were hardworking, large clans that often kept troubles to themselves. She had to be desperate to come to him.

“Saria, have you gone to the police?”

“I can’t. Neither can you. Please Father, just do this for me and forget about it. Don’t tell anyone. You can’t trust anyone.”

“Remy is a policeman, isn’t he?” he asked, knowing her eldest brother had joined the force years ago. He didn’t understand her hesitation, but he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His comment was met with silence. He sighed. “Give me the letter.”

“I need your word as a man of God, Father.”

He frowned. Saria wasn’t dramatic either. This strange conversation was completely out of character for her sunny personality. She feared very little. She had five very large brothers who would probably skin someone alive if they tried to hurt her. They’d grown up rough, big strong boys who had turned into formidable men. He couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t go to Remy. He had been head of the family since her father’s death some years earlier.

“Should I be afraid for you, Saria?” he murmured, lowering his voice even more and pressing his ear to the screen. The situation would have seemed surreal and dramatic had it been someone else, but Saria had to be believed.

“Somethin’ bad is happenin’ out in the bayou, Father, but I can’t call the police. We need someone else. If you can get this letter out without anyone from here knowin’, he’ll do something. Please, Father Gallagher, just do this for me.”

“I give you my word I won’t tell anyone, unless,” he emphasized, “I think it is necessary to save your life.”

There was another small silence. A rustle of paper. “That’s fair. Please be careful, Father,” Saria whispered and pushed the flat envelope through the opening. “No one can see you with that. Not in this parish. Not in this ward. You have to take it far from here to mail it.”

Father Gallagher took the envelope, noting it was sealed. “Say three Hail Marys and the Lord’s Prayer,” he whispered, reminding her to keep up the charade of confession if she wasn’t actually going to confess any sins. He waited, but she stayed silent, and he blessed her, tucking the envelope into his robes.

Saria crossed herself and left the confessional, going up to the front pew to kneel before the altar. There were several people in the church and she took a slow, surreptitious look around, trying to see if anyone could have followed her. She didn’t see anyone suspicious, but that didn’t mean anything. Most of the people she knew attended the church and could pretend, as she had done, that they had legitimate business there.

Just a short distance away, the Lanoux twins lit candles. Dion and Robert had recently lost their grandmother, and it stood to reason they might be in church. Both men were stocky with roped muscles and dark, thick curly hair. Handsome men, they had quite the reputation as ladies men in the community. She’d found both of them to be gentlemen beneath their rough-and-tumble ways and she liked them both.

Armande Mercier sat beside his sister, Charisse, fidgeting while she prayed piously in the second-to-last pew. Charisse’s head was bent, eyes closed, lips moving, yet twice when Armande sighed heavily and ran his finger around his shirt collar she sent him a sharp glare. He sent Saria a glance and quickly looked away, unusual for Armande. He was probably the biggest flirt in the ward. She found him selfish but charming, and he definitely protected his sister, whom Saria was quite close to. Saria’s brothers often gave Armande a free beer when he came to their bar, feeling sorry for him having to take care of his tyrant of a mother and his extremely shy sister.

The two elderly women in the back were well known to her as was the older man, Amos Jeanmard, sitting in the corner, his walking stick close. She had gone to school with his daughter, Danae, and knew his son, Elie, who was older by a few years. She knew them all, just as they knew her. They’d always been friends and neighbors—members of one of the seven families on the edge of the swamp where she resided. She’d gone to their homes, attended weddings and funerals with them. They supported her family bait shop and grocery store. Many of them were customers of the small store and bar the Boudreaux family owned. Now, they terrified her. She had even grown to fear her own kin.