Or warning.
Hard to tell which.
“How many?” I ask.
She listens for a second longer.
Then answers quietly.
“At least six.”
“Friends of yours?”
“No.”
“Part of the network?”
“Not the part I work with.”
That answer doesn’t make me feel better.
Boots crunch on gravel outside.
Voices.
Low.
Controlled.
Professional.
Definitely not small-town volunteers.
I step closer to the sanctuary door.
Mara reaches out quickly and grabs my arm.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if they see you through the glass, this becomes a very short conversation.”
She moves toward the side aisle, gesturing for me to follow.
“Come on.”
I hesitate for half a second.
Then follow her between the rows of pews.
The church suddenly feels very different than it did earlier tonight.
Less like a building.
More like a trap.
She leads me to a small hallway near the side of the sanctuary.
