1
Amelia.
If there’s a particular way to breathe in church, I never learned it, but I learned how to fake it.
The hymnbook in my hands felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the way every sound in the empty sanctuary echoed—my nervous laughter, the low hum of the organ, the shuffle of worn choir robes. Or maybe it was just him, stalking the aisles, one sharp look making everyone stand straighter.
Mr. Carter—“Nathan” to the adults, “sir” to everyone else—was everything my father warned me about without ever saying a word. Ruthless. Intense. Charismatic in that way that made you want to please him, or at least not disappoint him. He’d only been here a year, but the choir would have followed him straight into the flames.
And tonight, for some reason, his eyes kept landing on me.
Maybe it
