“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.”
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