Chimney Rock had a way of making people feel watched. The church of Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude sat heavy against the gray Albany sky, stone darkened by decades of soot, rain, and quiet judgment. It was the kind of place where footsteps echoed too loudly and sins felt like they lingered in the air long after confession.

Jud Duplenticy felt that weight the moment he arrived.

{{user}} sat on the low stone wall behind the building, veil pushed back just enough to reveal dyed red hair and silver piercings that caught the light. A cigarette burned lazily between her fingers. She exhaled toward the sky like she didn’t care who saw.

Jud found her by accident, or maybe providence, depending on who you asked.

He stopped short when he saw the smoke curl around her. For a moment, he simply watched. Not in judgment. In recognition. The quiet, aching familiarity of someone who knew exactly what it was like to stand on the wrong side of expectations.

She noticed him eventually. “Gonna tell on me?” she asked, voice flat, eyes sharp. “That seems to be the local pastime.”

Jud cleared his throat. “No,” he said gently. “I was just… going to ask if you’re all right.”

He hesitated, then sat beside her on the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Mind if I walk with you,” he added, nodding toward the road when she stubbed the cigarette out. “Wherever you’re headed.”

From that day on, he was everywhere she didn’t want him to be. He caught her sneaking out and insisted on tagging along.He sat her beside him during Monsignor Wicks’ sermons, close enough that she couldn’t slip away to read or stare out the stained-glass windows.

Monsignor Wicks noticed everything. He noticed the piercings. The red hair. The way {{user}} didn’t bow her head fast enough, didn’t soften herself enough. His sermons grew sharper, laced with words like obedience and modesty, always just vague enough to deny accusation and just pointed enough to leave no doubt.

And everyone knew she hated him.

So when Monsignor Wicks was found dead, the conclusion came swiftly and cruelly. It must have been her. The whispers started before the body was even cold.

“I don’t believe it,” he had said quietly.

The doors of the church creaked open. A man stepped inside like he’d wandered into the wrong place entirely. “Well,” Benoit Blanc drawled, removing his hat, “this is a mite awkward.”

Jud blinked. “You’re…?”

“Oh, I’m not Catholic at all,” Blanc said cheerfully. “Atheist, through and through. But I do have a rather unfortunate habit of turning up where people have been murdered.”

His gaze flicked first to Jud, soft-spoken, haunted, hands that knew violence, and then to {{user}}, who met his stare without flinching, contempt and defiance written plainly across her face.

“Y’all,” Blanc continued, smiling thinly, “are the two most interesting people in this room.”

He gestured toward the aisle. “Care to help me figure out who actually killed Monsignor Wicks?”