The whiteboard gleams under the overhead lights.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
One name written in fresh black marker.
Boone Grant.
I stop walking.
For a moment I just stare at it.
Because there’s no mistaking what this is.
Not a coincidence.
Not a joke.
A message.
They know I came back.
Which means they expected me to.
Behind me the church door creaks softly.
I turn immediately.
A woman steps into the sanctuary.
Not Pastor Eli.
Not a volunteer.
She looks mid-thirties.
Dark hair tied back.
Calm posture.
Eyes that scan the room the way trained operators do.
She closes the door behind her without looking away from me.
“Well,” she says.
“I was wondering how long it would take.”
I glance back at the board.
Then at her.
“You write that?”
She follows my gaze.
A small smile touches her lips.
