Will’s holovisor buzzed against his temples. His wife Trudy and their three-year-old son Henry would only be at the park for twenty minutes. “Review accounts,” he said.

The holomatrix danced into the background. She perched on an invisible stool and blew kisses. A three-dimensional menu screen sprawled, framed by neon borders. Will tapped the air, clicked each account.

Overdrawn.

Overdrawn.

Blocked.

Blocked.

“Damn it, Trudy!” Will flicked the menu aside. “I can’t just have my money, can I?”

You agreed to those dual control accounts, he thought. He knew. It’s not Trudy’s fault.

The sultry holomatrix strutted into the foreground. Her legs ghosted through the coffee table. “I really want to play, cowboy. But you’ll have to add some points.”

“I’m working on it, airhead!” Will snapped. “Think, think!” He had to have accounts that Trudy didn’t know about.

You do, idiot, he realized. They’re overdrawn from yesterday’s park excursion.

Will collapsed on the couch. “Your old man’s a screw up, Henry.” He’d never win back his money. All his direct deposits went into Trudy accounts now.

The holomatrix’s face smeared behind Will’s tears. “Poor, baby. I can cheer you up. Just add more points.”

“Look what you did to me, you money-sucking CPU!” Will detached the holovisor and tossed it across the couch. “I hate you.”

Cut your losses. Trudy was right. If she can’t trust you with your family’s money. Your family’s future . . .

“Future,” he whispered. He leapt off the couch and darted into the office. He rummaged through the file cabinet until he found it: paperwork for Henry’s college fund. Trudy had forgotten. They had joint access.

He raced back into the living room, clutching the account statement, and secured the holovisor back over his head. He strapped it into place and powered up.

“Welcome to Cyber Casino!” The holomatrix glowed back into existence, spun, and struck a pose. “Care to place a bet?”

“One second, sweetheart.” Will clicked the spherical account icon, scrolled the options, and tapped “Add New Account.”

He hastily dictated the routing number and account number, followed by his social. A loading icon swirled over the menu. “Please wait while we verify with your financial institution,” the holomatrix teased.

The icon swirled. And swirled.

It never takes this long.

He wiped his palms on his pants. “Come on, come on!”

Trudy’s not stupid. She got to this account too, I’ll bet.

A cash register sound-effect rang in Will’s ears. “Accepted!” The funds appeared. It wasn’t as much as he remembered. He had meant to contribute more over the past few years.

Maybe you pilfered before?

He took a shuddery breath. “Convert total amount to points.” His chest pounded. Head throbbed.

You’re going to lose it all.

“I could double it. Triple it. All for Henry.”

Like hell.

“If I lose, I’ll find a way to replace it.”

How?

“Trudy never checks this account. I have time.”

“Care to place a bet, sir?” The holomatrix pleaded.

“Slots,” Will said. “500 points.”

The holomatrix grinned. “All right!” A three-dimensional slot machine appeared in front of her. She bent and tugged the handle. “Let’s get lucky!”

The holovisor zoomed in as neon symbols spun in three columns. Cherries, dollar signs, and lucky sevens rushed past Will’s eyes.

Jackpot.

Jackpot.

Will clutched his chest. Gasped for air.

“JACKPOT!” she screamed with ecstasy. Holographic gold coins rained over their real life living room, clinking in Will’s ears. Photonic fireworks exploded inside the visor. Will’s points doubled, tripled, quadrupled.

“Yes!” he shouted. “Baby, you’re the best!”

Will did a quick calculation. Converted back to cash, he could double Henry’s college fund—which he’d never touch again—but also refund his secret accounts. He was back in business.

The holomatrix batted her eyes. Neon eyeshadow glowed. “How about it, slugger? Double or nothing?”

Will’s palms sweat. He checked the time. Trudy would be gone at least another ten minutes. “I’m feelin’ lucky, angel. Let’s do it.”

“Reconciliation is not about judgement,” Father Blake said. “God knows what’s on your mind, so nobody will be disappointed.”

“What if I told you I’m not sorry?” the voice grated. “About anything.”

“Why come to me if you feel no remorse?”

The dark face leaned closer to the screen. Through the tiny holes, rows of small teeth gleamed in a wry smile. “Why, Father, I’m here for your confession.”

Father Blake’s stomach sank. “If you are a parishioner with a complaint, I have office hours.”

The voice laughed, deep and dark.

“I do not wish to turn you away,” Father Blake said, “but your conduct is inappropriate.”

“You don’t recognize me?” the voice growled.

Father Blake peered closer.

“Not my face,” the voice snarled. “This face is any face. Insignificant. But my voice is everyone, even those who work so hard to bury me in distant memories and banish me to fleeting impulses.”

Icy numbness crept over Father Blake’s shoulders. “Why are you here?”

“Because you believe you’ve found some pathetic balance. You’ve built a masterful illusion of discipline and service. While all along, deep inside, you ache.”

“You’re here to tempt me.” Father Blake clutched black rosary beads at his side. “I’m not impressed.”

“I am impressed by the architecture of your self-delusions.” The other side of the confessional swelled with shadows. But the toothy smile grew wider, brighter. “Lies are useless. I feel your blood quivering, your skin crawling at the truths I know.”

“This is a holy place. You’re not welcome.”

“There are no holy places, Father. Not the tabernacle where you sneak gulps of Christ’s blood to get you through the day. Not the classrooms where you fantasize about leaving bloody ruler marks on the hands of snot-nosed Twenty-First Century brats. Not seminary school where you and Jonas fondled one another.”

Father Blake gasped. He wiped cold sweat off his forehead. “I committed no sin then. We were young. Naïve. The act was consensual.”

“The real sin, Father,” the entity scratched the wicker screen with sharp fingernails, “is that you never repeated it.”

“I devoted myself to God.” Father Blake’s voice trembled.

“Do you know the difference between me and God?” Raspy breaths heaved between words. “I really care. It matters to me what you do or do not do in this world. A human life is a blip in existence. It comes and goes like a flash of lightning. I want you to use this time. To strike so hard and flash so bright that the pathetic souls around you feel the ground shake beneath them. That their eyes will be blinded by your brilliance.”

“Sin is a shallow pleasure,” Father Blake hissed.

“How would you even know?” Wide palms pressed against the wicker screen, pushed it inward. “You’ve but tasted carnal pleasure, when you could feast. You would sleep every night with a warm body against yours, but for the arbitrary rules that shackle you.”

“I regret that,” Father Blake whispered. “But that is all I regret.”

“Like a criminal, you sneak pleasures that others take for granted. You’ve buried a powder-keg of rage deep within you.” Oily black claws stabbed through the wicker holes, tore at the screen. “Unleash your anger on those ungrateful hypocrites you call followers, and their spoiled brood.”

Dark hands peeled the screen away. The toothy smile glowed moon-yellow beneath a pair of shining eyes. A hand reached from the darkness, but without claws. A warm, human palm, pale and pink.

The other side of the confessional smelled like soap and sweat. Father Blake felt the soft linens of St. Peter’s dormitory against his skin. He heard Jonas blowing out the candle between their beds. Sulfur and smoke permeated the air.

“I wish to hold you, David. Will you take my hand?”

“I want to.” Tears burned down Father Blake’s cheeks. “But I can’t.”