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“Wait,” he commands. On instinct I want to turn and walk away just to prove to him that I will not follow his commands, but the fact that he just said my name has me doing exactly what he said because my name falling from his lips only means one thing.

He remembers.

And he’s not surprised I’m here.

CHAPTER

FORTY-SIX

The sanctuary empties slowly, people filing out into the cold February afternoon. The air still holds the faint scent of pine and candle wax, mixed with the soft hum of carols drifting from a speaker somewhere outside.

I stand off to the side near the pews, arms crossed tight over my chest, back held straight. The chill from outside clings to me, creeping through my coat, biting at my arms, my neck.

Up at the pulpit, Trent lingers, one hand resting on the open Bible. His smile is steady, practiced, as he shakes hands and nods, slipping easily into whatever small talk they offer him on their way out the door.

When the final parishioner steps out into the late winter afternoon, he turns his gaze to me.

“Stay.”

The word is soft, barely more than a whisper, but somehow it fills the empty room, landing like a command.

I freeze, pulse quickening.

The door is right there, the cold air sneaking in through the cracks, almost pulling me toward it, urging me to leave. But his eyes are locked on mine, steady, unblinking, and my feet stay planted.

He doesn’t wait for me to speak.

Instead, he turns back to the pulpit, fingers adjusting the microphone, closing the Bible with slow, delicate care.

I stand frozen, my breath shallow, as he descends the steps. He moves with the same quiet authority he used in the sermon, his hands folded in front of him, head slightly bowed.

“You can trust me,” he says, voice calm, but there’s something in the way his eyes flicker toward the door. “But if I’m being honest, I’m the one who should be afraid of you.”

The words tighten the air between us, and for a moment, I think he might smile. Instead, he turns his back to me and walks toward the side door without another word.

My jaw tightens. Every instinct screams at me to walk away, to let him disappear into whatever shadows he’s hiding in. But I don’t.

I follow.

The side hallway feels colder than the sanctuary, the chill sneaking through the old walls and into the thin, worn carpet under my boots. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzz softly, casting everything in a pale, yellowish wash.

Trent walks ahead, leading me to a small office at the end of the hall. The door creaks as he pushes it open.

Inside, the room is cramped, the desk buried under stacks of papers and open books. A little electric heater hums weakly in the corner, its faint warmth no match for the frost creeping across the windowpanes.

He gestures toward a chair, but I remain standing, arms still crossed.

Trent sits behind the desk, his movements slow and deliberate. For a moment, he just looks at me, eyes scanning my face like he’s searching for something buried beneath the skin.

“I’ve heard about your father,” he says finally. “About his recovery.”

I stiffen. My fingers dig into the sleeves of my coat.

“I’ve prayed for him,” he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair. “For years.”

“Prayed for him?” The words snap from me, bitter and cold. “Why? So he could get better and keep ruining lives?”

Trent flinches. It’s quick, but it’s real.