The church smelled the same as it did in her childhood—aged wood, faint incense, and the kind of silence that pressed down on your chest like guilt.

Mara hadn’t been in here in years. Not since she was seventeen and still believed in salvation. Back when she thought confession could cleanse anything if you just cried hard enough. But she wasn’t here for God. Not anymore.

She slipped into the cool building like a thief, her heels muffled against the worn, cracked tiles. A chill ...