“Totally your decision, Monte. Unfortunately, I don’t get a choice.”

IX

Grant had kept going to church each week after his wife passed. At first, he did it out of respect for his better half who was the churchgoer in the family. But as the weeks and months pressed on, he had found deep comfort there. Not wanting to admit that loneliness was settling in, especially with retirement on the horizon, Grant had convinced himself that Sunday mornings at Saint Matthew’s were something he could rely on, a constant in a world that had changed more in the past year than the previous half century.

But on this particular Sunday morning, all of Grant’s synapses were on full alert. Not that he expected chaos to erupt in his very own church, but he spent the majority of the priest’s sermon watching his fellow parishioners’ every movement, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Thankfully, the service concluded without interruption and Father Gill still in one piece.

Afterward, Grant approached the priest, whom he had personally called the previous day to warn him to be extra careful on this Sabbath. Grant had told him that once midnight rolled around, they’d be able to take a communal deep breath.

“If nothing happens, are we supposed to go through the whole thing again next Sunday?” Father Gill had queried.

Grant hadn’t even considered that.

“I think we take this one day at a time,” Grant had replied.

The priest had thanked Grant for coming, then retreated with the other clergy into the church. Grant couldn’t help but admire his calmness, the dedication to his flock and service to God. The commander wished he believed in something so pure—but he’d witnessed too much horror in his three decades of public service.

It was one of the many reasons he was retiring.

He skipped the weekly visit to the cemetery, promising Allison that he would make it up to her. Soon enough, Grant would have plenty of time on his hands. He spent the remainder of the day checking with patrols, churches throughout London, and with any member of clergy he could find.

As each hour passed, Grant could feel his insides churning more, convinced that the killer was torturing him and his brethren, stretching the moment till the last possible second when he would unleash his knife and make his literal mark—throwing Grant and the whole of Scotland Yard into complete chaos.

Eventually, the midnight hour arrived. And nothing came to pass.

“I guess I’m happy to be proved wrong,” said Everett when he phoned Grant shortly after twelve and was told all of London’s clergy were safe and accounted for.

“I feel the same way,” agreed Grant, as he tossed his keys on the hall table of his house in the Maida Vale section of London and locked the front door.