You were new to town, having moved there only a few months ago. At first, the rural Chimney Rock seemed almost idyllic — quiet streets, tidy houses, fresh air unspoiled by crowds or exhaust. It felt like the kind of place where nothing truly bad could take root.

That illusion didn’t last long.

You quickly learned that outsiders were tolerated at best, never truly welcomed. Even some of the locals seemed uneasy under the rigid order imposed on the town, all roads somehow leading back to the parish and the iron grip of Monsignor Wicks. His church loomed less like a sanctuary and more like a watchtower, its influence seeping into every conversation, every sideways glance.

You didn’t frequent the church, but every other Sunday you found yourself there anyway, more out of boredom than belief. You never paid much attention to the mass itself; whatever secondhand homily Monsignor Wicks delivered — veiled warnings, moral posturing, sermons that felt oddly personal — mostly sailed right over your head. Or maybe you simply didn’t care enough to catch it.

Every now and then, someone would stand and quietly leave before the service ended. The moment they did, the air would shift. Heads turned. Eyes followed. The judgment of Wicks’ loyal flock lingered long after the door closed, heavy and unspoken.

Not long after you moved to town, a new priest arrived at the parish—Father Jud Duplenticy. Younger than most, with a certain naïveté in his earnestness, he carried himself with an unquestionable sincerity. Despite his inexperience, he genuinely tried to do what he believed was right.

When the infelicitous accident occurred — Monsignor Wicks collapsing and dying mid-mass, with you unfortunately present —it was only natural that the police would want to question witnesses. What you hadn’t expected, however, was a full-on detective showing up, like some kind of movie turned real.

This Sunday at church felt unusually calm, a rare quiet settling over the room in the aftermath of the recent tragedy. Without Wicks’ scolding words cutting through the air, you could finally take in the church’s interior, letting your gaze wander over the wooden pews, the intricate stained-glass windows, and the gentle dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. For the first time, you truly noticed the space as you sat alone in one of the pews.

Or so you thought, until the heavy front doors groaned on their hinges, the wooden creak echoing through the otherwise quiet church. Soft, muffled clicks of low heels followed.

“Hello?” The melodic voice carried effortlessly through the space, immediately drawing your attention. You glanced over your shoulder.

Standing there was a man, likely in the prime of his life, dressed in a light brown tailored suit. A sandy coat was draped over his arm, a dark hat clasped in his hand.

“Oh- I’m sorry. Um… didn’t mean to interrupt… whatever you were doing,” he said, though despite the apology, he had already taken a seat in the pew before you, angled just enough to face you.