Two loud bangs from behind us. Someone knocking on the hidden door. The fake priest lets go of my breast. “Time to leave.”

Balaclava man raises a fist and brings it down on the back of Mr. Parker’s head like a hammer. He slumps to the floor.

I scream but my throat is too dry for noise. Mr. Parker’s eyes are still open, but he isn’t looking at anything. He’s like a fish at a market.

“The fuck are you doing?” Father Monastero snaps.

I jump but he’s not talking to me. Balaclava man is unzipping his fly.

I cry out and manage a second of sound before the priest grips my jaw and forces it shut. “Hurry the fuck up.”

I watch as the balaclava man pees all over Mr. Parker, the stream running over his face and soaking his wedding tuxedo. I want to scream again but my body is floating apart like dandelion seeds. The urine stream ends, and I’m left staring at a stranger’s penis.

I’ve only ever seen one penis. Paul DeLuca took his out during science class as a joke. But this penis is nothing like that short pink thing. It’s long and fleshy and covered in tattoos. Balaclava man has tattoos on his penis. He shakes his penis, releasing droplets onto Mr. Parker’s unconscious face. The scream that wouldn’t come before makes another attempt against the priest’s hand.

“Shut up,” he hisses, pressing harder against my mouth.

I want Zia Teresa to snap a tea towel at these disgusting men. I want Margot to swear at them. I would even take my stepmom, her face tight, screaming at me as much as anyone else. I want Theodore and Kurt. The police and the army and the FBI. I want this to stop.

The balaclava man looks from Mr. Parker to me. His eyes are electric green, so bright they look fake. And the way he looks at me. He hates me. No… that’s too personal. He nothings me. He could kill me, crush my throat underneath his foot and it would be like swatting a bug. My knees buckle.

“Shit,” the priest snarls, hauling me up. “She’s gonna faint. Are you done?”

“Yeah,” balaclava man mutters.

The fake priest carries me through the secret door and into the cathedral courtyard. It’s empty though the air is full of sirens and screams.

“Margot,” I mumble. “My brothers. My cousins. Is everyone okay?”

The priest ignores me. “Where’s the van?”

“It’ll be here.” It’s a third man, shorter than the others, but with muscles that are almost bursting through his tight black turtleneck. There is a gap between it and his balaclava, and I can see a tuft of dark brown hair. I wish I couldn’t. I don’t want to be able to identify any of these men.

A white van whips around the corner, driving across the smooth concrete of the churchyard. I want to struggle but my legs are noodles. I try to toss my head against Father Monastero, but he just laughs. “Careful with the veil. I want you wearing it when we get home.”