Dolores and Father Kincaid
written by: Lily Finch
@LilyFin46373371
Dolores was wearing a worn white coat. Her long hair was oily and untidy. Every day, dirt was underneath her fingernails as she visited her parents’ gravesite and left flowers there. Afterwards, she attended church and chose to sit in the pew closest to the door and furthest from the altar.
Father Kincaid was consistently sombre. His demeanour was dark and lonely. Father Kincaid desired to get acquainted with Dolores outside of the church.
Due to her shyness, she was unable to talk to the priest, but he persisted. However, she desired solitude, so she declined his advances and ceased answering the door whenever he came to visit.
He believed they shared a deep connection. Dolores wasn’t interested in his advances. Her anger bubbled over. His stubbornness provoked unwelcome thoughts. She attempted to remove him from hers with thoughts filled with darkness and ugliness. She sought solitude to coincide with her darkness.
She arrived late to mass on November 1st. The church was devoid of people, save for an elderly woman occupying the front pew. Dolores arrived just in time to witness the priest collapse; his head hit the marble altar.
What actions should I take? She was filled with wonder. The elderly woman persisted in reciting her rosary.
Dolores hurried to Father Kincaid’s side and checked for a pulse, fully aware that he had passed away. In a hurry, she sprinted towards the rectory and urgently requested that the secretary dial for an ambulance.
“Why? What happened?”
“It’s the priest. He’s collapsed.”
The two women collaborated in their efforts to revive the priest.
After the ambulance and police arrived, Dolores was required to answer numerous questions.
“I hope he’s okay,” she said, her face lighting up with a wide smile. However, the priest was not okay.
The detectives fixed their gazes on her fingernails. She met the detectives’ gaze and smiled confidently. Once she received clearance, she promptly departed.
However, she later returned to eavesdrop on the secretary’s conversation.
There was scarce evidence available, and the only person present in the church was an elderly woman who had no additional information to contribute.
The secretary described the woman who approached her as being shocked and genuinely concerned about assisting Father Kincaid.
Several weeks later, a barrister arrived at Dolores’ door and knocked.
“Hello, is this Dolores Grinder?”
“Yes, that’s me. Who is asking, please?”
“I am Robert Burns, the estate lawyer for Father Kincaid.”
“Please, come in.”
“Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.”
“The death of this individual was a devastating tragedy that deeply impacted our community. I am feeling confused. Why are you here representing him?”
“You are the sole heir to all of Father Kincaid’s possessions. He had a key to a safety deposit box at the local bank and a key to his Porsche.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Burns. Goodbye.”
With a sly grin, she closed the door.
This morning, she woke up early and weeded her flower beds.
She ignited a fire. She threw the last remnants of Queen Anne’s Lace and Nightshade into the flames just as she heard a knock on her door. Filled with fear, she hesitated to answer it; her mind raced with the thought that the police had arrived to apprehend her.
A voice shouted, “Open up, this is the police,” as someone pounded on the door.
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