Nothing.
Good.
I sat back on my heels, rolled my shoulders, and sighed. My shirt was damp with sweat, my jeans smeared with whatever passed for grime under a church sink, and I probably smelled like mildew and despair.
Then I caught my reflection in the window above the sink.
At first, I didn’t recognize the man staring back.
Unshaven. Puffy-eyed. Dark circles like bruises under both eyes.
There was a hollowness in my face that hadn’t been there before. A sharpness to my jaw, not from weight loss, but from tension. I looked like I hadn’t smiled in a year.
And the worst part?
I couldn’t remember the last time I had.
I turned away, swallowing the lump rising in my throat, and packed up my tools in silence.
The walk through the sanctuary felt longer than usual. Every pew stared at me. Every hymnbook felt like a relic from a version of the world that didn’t include me or Ethan or people like us.
Outside, the sun was merciless.
I headed toward my truck, keys in hand, telling myself I’d done enough for today. Sink fixed. Door inspected. Time to go home and resume my scheduled programming of lying in bed and hoping for death.
But then I saw it.
The trailer.
Ethan’s trailer.
That dented-up tin box they’d stuck their preacher in like he was a utility they could just plug in on Sundays.
It was ugly as hell, but now it looked worse. Lifeless. Quiet. Abandoned.
And yet…
I couldn’t stop staring at it.
My feet slowed.
My chest ached.
What if he left something behind?
Something small. A scrap of paper, like a note.
Hell, a piece of his presence.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
Up the narrow metal steps. Across the narrow landing. Hand on the doorknob.
I tried it.
Locked.
Of course it was.
