I never considered myself the most holy person. My family didn’t regularly attend church, nor did we proclaim ourselves of one single religion. So it sort of struck me as odd when I discovered the next murder victim.
Ophelia was being held in custody. Or so I heard. And unless she magically escaped, I somehow doubted she killed this person.
A part of me really wanted to go visit her. Even though we didn’t know each other that well, I still felt obligated to do so; even if only to assure her that I belived she was innocent.
And that’s how I found myself redirecting the now daily walk I took towards where Ophelia was being kept. I was so caught up in thoughts of what I would say to her, when suddenly I saw it.
A house should’ve been there. I recognized that immediately, and for a moment, that was about all that processed for me. It was the charred remains, the burnt structure of what was once a home. I knew immediately from the close proximity it shared with the nearby church that it was the priest’s home. It had been burned to the ground.
The priest was dead. Even he wasn’t safe from these horrific attacks.
And I was pretty sure that unless Ophelia magically escaped, she did not commit this one.
I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. I couldn’t even bear being in the same vicinity of this.
I didn’t even bother going to see Ophelia now. I ran and ran and didn’t stop until I safely reached home again.