Elise’s eyes darted away like she hated the memory.
“They told me she left on her own,” she whispered. “But I saw the sheriff speaking to Father Whitlock that same night.”
Father Whitlock.
The name landed heavy.
Jake knew him by reputation—polished voice, clean collar, a man who could make a crowd lower their heads with a single sentence.
Elise’s voice tightened.
“After that… the sheriff started watching me,” she said. “Following me. Asking where I slept. Where I prayed.”
Jake rubbed a hand across his jaw, thinking of Sheriff Collins.
A man Jake had never trusted.
A man who smelled like trouble even when he tried to look holy.
