A Killer’s Reckoning

Archie Dillion was the sort of man who believed himself to be smarter than the law, the kind that figured he could slip a knife between a child’s ribs and walk away clean. But most murder cops know a truth as old as crime itself—killers come back. Whether guilt or arrogance, they find their way to the scene again, like wolves circling a campfire.

After the killing, Dillion drifted into St. Anthony’s, where the townsfolk had gathered for a novena, their prayers rising like smoke for the lost child. He slipped through the crowd, just another face among the mourners.

He strode up the aisle, knelt before the altar, and struck a match. The flame flickered in his fingers as he touched it to the novena candle. He made the sign of the cross, his lips barely moving.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmured, pushing himself up as he whispered, “Amen.”

The glass shattered like a gunshot. Red shards flew, and one found its mark, slicing deep into the side of his neck.

Hot blood spilled fast, running down his collar as his fingers clutched at the wound. The church gasped as he staggered forward, but no hand reached out to catch him. Archie Dillion fell hard on the chancel, his breath rattling once before he went still.

Justice had come, swift and unrelenting, in the house of the Lord.