Sunday morning Mass began exactly at 10:00 a.m.
The church was nearly full. Elderly parishioners, young families, and a handful of curious visitors filled the pews. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting colorful patterns across the marble floor. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air as the opening hymn ended and Father Elias stepped up to the altar in his crisp white alb and green chasuble.
Timothy knelt in his usual place to the right of the altar, dressed in his black cassock and white surplice, hands folded piously. From the outside he looked like the perfect, innocent altar boy, head bowed, eyes downcast, ready to ring the bells at the right moments.
No one could see what was really happening beneath the heavy white altar cloth.
Timothy’s heart hammered
