His voice doesn’t rise.
It doesn’t need to.
“She stands behind me.”
Four words.
Controlled. Final.
The church goes quiet in a way that feels heavier than shouting. Nobody breathes right. Nobody shifts.
He doesn’t look back at me. He doesn’t reach for me.
He just stands there.
And everyone understands what it means.
Legend sees it. Sophie’s hand tightens on Legend’s knee. Royal’s eyes flick once toward Oaks, then toward the Reverend.
The message has been delivered. Not romantic. Not explosive.
Clear.
After the burial, dirt hitting the casket like dull thunder, people cluster in small, sharp groups. Pearly Gates members linger too long. They watch too closely. They whisper like they’re praying.
The Reverend approaches with a smile that never touches his eyes.
“Tragic,” he says softly. “Such young lives tangled in violence.”
“I defended myself,” I reply evenly.
“Of course,” he says. “The law will decide what that means.”
Oaks appears at my shoulder before I can answer. The Reverend’s smile tightens.
“Vice President,” he greets smoothly.
Oaks doesn’t extend his hand. “Reverend.”
Nothing more. Nothing less.
The Reverend’s gaze slides between us, measuring.
“I pray for clarity,” he says.
“I don’t,” Oaks replies. “I look for truth.”
The Reverend leaves first.
The town doesn’t.
They stare. They speculate. They decide.
Two weeks later, I can’t breathe in Hell anymore.
It ain’t just the stares. It ain’t even the whispers. It’s the weight of being the story. I’m at Lottie’s basement desk, folding a sweater I don’t even like, when I realize I’ve been holding my breath for days.
I’ve become the girl who killed a club officer’s wife.
