Cara walked toward the entrance, hyperaware of the sedan behind them. The back of her neck prickled. Every instinct she'd spent six months trying to suppress roared back to life, screaming that she was exposed, vulnerable, being watched.
Gabe positioned himself between her and the parking lot. Not obvious about it, just a subtle shift that put his body in the line of sight.
The gesture shouldn't have affected her.
It did.
They slipped through the side entrance into the familiar corridor. Children's scripture art lined the walls. The smell of sugar cookies drifted from the preschool room. Light pooled golden through windows she'd helped wash last month during the spring-cleaning day.
Lord, I know I'm walking a thin line here. But if David Sawyer left something that could save lives, help us find it. Please.
The prayer felt more desperate than usual.
Annex B sat at the end of a short hallway past the kitchen. The metal door protested when Cara pushed it open. Cool, dusty air slipped past them, carrying the scent of cardboard and cedar.
Gabe pulled a small flashlight from his jacket. The beam cut through shadows, illuminating rows of metal shelving stacked with boxes labeled in thick marker: WINTER COATS, BIBLES, YOUTH MUSICAL, OUTREACH SUPPLIES.
Nothing looked special or suspicious, which was exactly why someone conducting a covert investigation would use it.
Cara stepped between the shelves, letting her eyes adjust. The space felt different than it should, wrong in a way she couldn't immediately identify.
Then she saw it.
Boxes stacked unevenly. Fresh scuff marks on the concrete floor. A donation bin pulled away from the wall at an odd angle. Dust patterns disrupted.
Her pulse spiked. "Gabe."
He moved beside her, following her gaze. His body went still in that way she recognized now, hyperalert and assessing.
"Someone's already been here."
"Yeah." She crouched by the nearest shelf and ran her fingers along the metal frame. "Recently. Look at the dust. These boxes were moved within the last day or two."
Gabe's jaw tightened. "They're searching everywhere."
The implications settled heavy in her chest. The bakery. Ruiz's motel room. Now the church. Whoever killed Marco Ruiz was systematically eliminating any place evidence might be hidden, which meant they were running out of time.
"We need to move fast." Gabe was already pulling boxes down, checking behind them, underneath them. "Whatever they were looking for, maybe they missed it."
Cara started on the opposite shelf. Her hands shook slightly as she lifted lids, checked tape seals, felt along edges for anything out of place. Winter coats yielded nothing. Old hymnals revealed only musty pages. Youth group props held no secrets.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.
Cara froze.
Gabe's hand went to his weapon. He jerked his head toward the back corner where overflow donation bags werepiled high. She followed, squeezing into the narrow space between the bags and the wall.
He pressed in beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through both their jackets. Could hear his controlled breathing. Could smell whatever soap he used mixed with coffee and something distinctly him.
Her heart hammered for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
The door opened.
"I know I left that box of Easter decorations in here somewhere." Carol Ann's voice carried through the annex. "Pastor wants the lilies for tomorrow's service.
Cara heard two sets of light footsteps, then the scrape of cardboard followed by muttered commentary about organization systems.
Gabe's shoulder pressed against hers, his hand hovering near his Glock even though Carol Ann and her helper posed zero threat. Training and instinct that never fully shut off.
