Sorina and I snapped our gazes to her. She smiled back unapologetically, her eyes sharp with challenge when they met mine.

“Oh, he’s an accomplished orator,” Sister Marilla assured. “World renowned.”

“World renowned at oral education”—Natasha paused—“of faith.”

“Yes,” she insisted, smiling broadly. “You should come to mass, my child, and see for yourself. I think you’ll leave quite pleased by Father Dickman. All of our parishioners do.”

Natasha choked off her laughter, pursing her lips once Sorina’s presence got too hot for her. How Natasha Felix had not been struck by lightning was beyond me. If anyone deserved a good smiting, it was that slag.

Marilla continued, unaffected, “Let’s start here, in the chapel.”

We followed her down the carpeted aisle as she spoke softly, gesturing to the sweeping ceiling of white, the rib vaulted ceiling joined by blood-red keystones carved with ivory designs, no two alike. She told us of the stained glass and how the collection was extensive and made all around the world, many from master crafters in France.

I listened only on the fringes, having heard the details a dozen times. Instead, I marveled over the architecture, feeling small and humbled, as I supposed was appropriate for a place of worship. She walked us through the broad strokes of a wedding ceremony, told us the story of the bells and listed their names, all nineteen of them. Even the cameraman was drooping by the time we made it to the pulpit. Sorina had a placid smile on her face, her eyes distant. The other sisters were on their phones, and my eyes lingered on Natasha, leaving me wondering if it was Brock she was texting with that vicious smile on her face. And Angelika was …

Missing.

Angelika was missing, as were Jordan and one of the cameramen.

My eyes widened, heart lurching. I melted back, putting myself behind the Femmes, my head swiveling as I looked for the other cameraman, my only clue as to where they were.

I found him perched outside a confessional booth, lens pointed smack at one of the carved wooden doors, and I swore under my breath, palms blossoming with sweat. Because I knew exactly what they were doing in there, and if one of the clergy found them defiling the hallowed space, the venue was off. And if the venue was off, I would be the one to take the fall, guaranteed.

The Felix Femmes were, quite literally, the fucking worst. And their indecency, irreverence, and utter disregard for anyone but themselves was likely to get me fired over something so stupid as a stunt for their reality show.

But not today.