Deacon Paul Hendricks, who has resented Marcus’s popularity since he arrived.
Sarah Chen, whose teenage crush has become increasingly uncomfortable.
Charlie suggests we’re being paranoid, that the stress is making us see threats everywhere.
But even as she says it, I see the fear in her eyes.
She knows we’re right to be worried.
“We could feed different false information to each suspect,” Marcus suggests, his voice rough. “See what reaches the Bishop.”
Adrian nods slowly, though his expression suggests he hates the deception. “It’s manipulative.”
“It’s survival,” I counter. “We need to know who’s hunting us.”
Charlie reaches across the desk, her hand finding mine.
The touch sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I watch her fingers thread through Marcus’s, then Adrian’s, connecting us in a chain of solidarity and desperation.
For a moment, we’re united against the world, a family fighting for survival.
Late that night, we meet in the church basement.
The stone walls and lack of windows offer privacy we can’t find anywhere else.
A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting dancing shadows across our faces as we huddle around an old table like conspirators.
Charlie sits across from me, and the dim light makes her look younger, more vulnerable.
Her dress has been replaced by jeans and one of Marcus’s shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame.
I imagine peeling it off her shoulders, discovering what she’s wearing underneath.
The thought makes my body respond despite the danger surrounding us.
“We need to be smarter,” Adrian says, his voice low and controlled. “More careful about when and where we’re together.”
“We’re always careful,” Marcus argues, but his dark eyes find Charlie, and I see the hunger there. The same hunger burning through my own veins.
Charlie’s hand rests on the table, and I cover it with mine before I can stop myself.
Her skin is warm and soft, and I feel her pulse racing beneath my palm.
Adrian watches the gesture, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t tell me to stop.
“What if we’re wrong?” Charlie asks quietly. “What if no one’s actually watching, and we’re destroying ourselves over nothing?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I want to believe she’s right, that the paranoia is just guilt manifesting as external threats.
But I’ve seen Mrs. Delacroix’s notebook, the camera phone, the way people watch us with calculating eyes.
“We can’t afford to be wrong,” I tell her, my thumb tracing circles on her palm.
The gesture is innocent enough, but the heat in her eyes tells me she’s remembering other times my hands have touched her, other places my fingers have explored.
Marcus shifts against the wall, and I notice the way his gaze drops to where Charlie’s shirt gapes at the neck, revealing the curve of her breast.
His hands flex at his sides, and I know he’s fighting the same battle I am.
