Zara: Morning, Gorgeous. Team update in an hour.
At least that was something.
Cory cleared his throat, suddenly looking uncertain. "Would you... I mean, I was thinking… the church streams their service. If you wanted to watch."
Part of her wanted to say no. What was the point of watching their church family gather while she hid in this bunker? But something in his expression—hopeful, almost vulnerable—made her nod.
"Yeah. Sure."
They moved to the operations room, Cory working the controls with surprising ease. The main wall monitor flickered to life, and suddenly she was looking at Hope Landing Community Church in HD clarity. The camera work was pro-level—probably Danny Flores' son, who'd gotten into film school last year.
"Good turnout," Cory observed as the camera panned over familiar faces.
Izzy spotted the Hendersons in their usual third row spot. Mrs. Argyle with her knitting bag. The Murphy twins fidgeting while their mother gave them The Look. Her throat tightened. Their normal pew sat empty—no Luz with her walker, no Chantal swinging her legs during announcements.
"And now our children's choir will practice for next Wednesday’s pageant," Pastor Dan announced.
Izzy's heart stopped.
The kids filed onto the platform in their matching blue robes. Michaela, Chantal's best friend. Little Timothy who always forgot the words. The Nguyen sisters who harmonized everything.
And the gap. Third from the left, where her angel should be standing.
The tears came without warning, hot and sudden. Six years of being strong, of handling everything alone, of never letting anyone see her break—gone in an instant watching that empty space.
"Izzy." Cory's voice came soft, uncertain.
She couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but stare at that gap while tears streamed down her face. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Chantal had practiced for weeks, made up her own harmony parts, designed elaborate wing movements for the chorus of "Angels We Have Heard on High."
A warm hand covered hers. Not grabbing, not demanding, just... there. She should pull away. Should reconstruct her walls. Instead, she turned her palm up and laced their fingers together.
On screen, the children began "Silent Night," their young voices pure and sweet. In the corner of the monitor, she spottedMrs. Patterson dabbing at her eyes—she always cried during children's choir.
"I miss them," Izzy whispered.
Cory squeezed her hand gently. No words, just presence.
Pastor Dan took the pulpit as the children filed off. "This morning, I want to talk about storms. Specifically, Mark chapter 4, when Jesus calmed the storm."
Of course. Because God had a sense of humor like that.
"The disciples were experienced fishermen," Pastor Dan continued. "They knew boats, knew water, knew weather. But this storm terrified them. Why? Because storms don't care about our expertise. They don't respect our plans."
Izzy thought about aircraft falling from the sky, explosions in parking lots, her daughter counting sleeps until the pageant.
"But notice what Jesus asks them: 'Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?' He wasn't scolding them for feeling fear. He was reminding them Who was in the boat with them."
Fresh tears threatened, but these were different. Warmer somehow.
"Faith isn't the absence of storms," Pastor Dan continued. "Faith is trusting Who's in the boat with you when the waves are crashing over the sides."
Beside her, Cory had closed his eyes, lips moving in silent prayer. She studied his profile—the strong jaw, the worry lines that had deepened these past days, the absolute certainty in his expression even with eyes closed.
When had this by-the-book police chief become her anchor?
Pastor Dan led the congregation in closing prayer. "Lord, we lift up those who are weathering storms today. Those separated from loved ones. Those facing impossible circumstances. Remind them that You are in their boat..."
Cory's thumb traced a gentle pattern on her hand. Such a small gesture. So why did it feel like everything?
