I keep my chin up.
The church doors stand open like a mouth waiting to swallow us whole. The air inside smells like lilies and furniture polish and judgment. Bethany’s casket sits at the front, white and glossy and too clean for the mess she left behind.
She looks small in it.
Perfect.
They did her makeup softer than she ever wore it. No sharp lipstick. No blade-smile. Just a pale, polished version of the woman who tried to cut my eyes out.
My stomach twists.
Pearly Gates fills the left side of the pews. The Reverend sits in the front row, back stiff, Bible positioned on his knee as if it were ammunition. His eyes lift when I enter and they linger, assessing, calculating.
I slide into a pew near the back with Lottie. Holler sits on her other side. Royal is three rows ahead, still as a shadow. Legend and Sophie sit up front with the officers, the weight of leadership pressed into their shoulders.
And then there’s Oaks.
He’s standing near the aisle, not seated, not settled. His suit is black, cut sharp, but it doesn’t make him softer. It makes him look like a storm wearing restraint.
He sees me.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t claim.
It just lands.
And stays.
The murmuring starts up again behind us.
“She stabbed her twice.”
“I heard three.”
“She smiled at the lake when they couldn’t find the body.”
“That girl’s cursed.”
My spine locks. I stare at the back of the pew in front of me and make my breathing slow even though my lungs want to bolt.
The organ starts. The pastor clears his throat. Words about forgiveness and loss and complicated love fill the room like smoke. They don’t stick to me. They slide off.
What sticks are the whispers.
“She’ll kill him too.”
It ain’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.
The sentence hits like a slap.
Before I can even process it, Oaks moves.
He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t search for who said it. He steps backward, one slow, deliberate step, until he’s standing directly in front of my pew.
Between me and them.
Between me and the noise.
His shoulders square.
