I spotted a confessional booth near the front of the church. An alcove, larger than the others, was set into the wall nearby. In it stood a shadow-shrouded statue. A wrought iron rack for votive candles stood in front of the alcove, but the red glass cups that once held the candles lay on the floor beneath it, broken. The shards glittered with the same hue as freshly spilled blood in the flickering illumination of the lighter. I hoped that wasn’t an omen.