It was the first Sunday since the accidents. The chapel stood as a symbol of light, hope, and purity for those groping in the dark. By nine in the morning, the sun was already brutal, and the cicadas screamed in protest. Eden sat at the front of the church, fanning her sweating face with the paper program, her dress clinging damply to her skin. The windows were cracked, but the air inside was thick and muggy.
No one would look Eden in the face. She'd aligned herself with the town's Judah, and to them, it was mutiny. They nodded, prayed, and murmured—but not one would meet her eyes. That was the way of Saint Lillian: all bark, no bite. Your name could move through the breeze like smoke, but no one dared spark confrontation. Eden was under scrutiny. Her family scrambled for damage control.
Her father preached about temptation, sacrifice, and the lamb left to slaughter. His voice trembled as he spoke—but only Eden could hear it. To everyone else, he remained a statue of virtue, solid and unshaken. Nowhere would he crack.
Lila sat beside her, her lipstick a little too red for a Sunday morning. She leaned in, voice low and sweet like venom.
"They think you brought the devil to the party, you know."
Eden swallowed, unable to look up from the sermon. It was ridiculous. The Virgin Mary and the devil himself? No way.
When the congregation rose to leave, she could feel eyes tracing her every move. Her father gripped her arm and pulled her into a hug—an image of comfort, even when it was anything but.
Saint Lillian's summer Bible camp had just begun. The younger members of the church remained to gather and praise the Lord. Ceiling fans spun lazily above them. Everyone clutched lukewarm lemonade in sweaty hands. Lila knew better than to stay—she lingered at the back of the pews, only there to support Eden.
As Eden moved past the circles of kids sitting cross-legged on the marble floor, she caught whispers—not just about her, but about Rowan. About how he'd been brought in for questioning again the night before. He was a murderer, they said. Evil.
It didn't surprise her that Rowan was the scapegoat. What did surprise her was how quickly the town had turned on her.
The archangel himself—Micah—stood at the front of the room, leading the group in prayer. He was gentle and precise. Just like her father—he knew how to say the right thing, to keep people calm. He approached Eden with a damp rag in hand. She moved her long hair aside, and he gently placed it against the back of her neck, cooling her flushed skin.
"You're strong, Eden. You always have been," he said. "This is just the devil's way of testing what's holy."
Micah was too good for this world. He never lost hope, never slipped, never strayed. His face was always clean-shaven. His eyes always kind. Eden couldn't help but stare, her cheeks burning.
"It's all so much, Micah," she whispered, tears pricking her eyes.
He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"God will never give you more than you can handle," he murmured, his voice soft and lush.
He touched her shoulder. Her stomach twisted. She felt like she might vomit right there on the floor. He was the town's beloved.
He was her beloved.
But Rowan's absence screamed louder than any hymn. Everyone whispered about him—again.
"That boy shouldn't be around young girls," one girl said, shaking her head.
Eden found it ironic. The same girls who acted so "holier-than-thou" were the ones who lost their clothes in midnight drunken afterthoughts behind this very church. Wolves in borrowed wool. She could only shake her head.
Eden slipped out to the back of the church, toward the small barn that housed the animals used in the youth lessons—"God's creatures," as the staff called them. It was her job to feed them. She carried the heavy bucket of oats, sweat dripping down her forehead.
Under the shade of the old oak tree, something was lying still. She squinted, the sun sharp in her eyes—and then the bucket slipped from her hands, oats spilling across the damp grass.
A lamb.
Not just dead—posed.
Just like the girls.
Its glassy eyes were filled with blood, its jaw gaped unnaturally wide, as if sliced. Its body curled in on itself.
Above it, scrawled on the barn wall in red paint—or blood—were the words:
Psalm 51
"Have mercy upon me, O God..."
Eden stumbled back. Her scream cut through the church like a blade. Staff came running. Her legs shook beneath her. She could hardly breathe.
One staff member knelt beside her while others rushed toward the lamb.
"Some twisted prank," someone muttered.
But Eden knew better.
The lamb was innocence. The lamb was sacrifice.
The lamb was her.
She stayed after everyone had gone, scrubbing the red letters from the barn wall until her arms ached. She sobbed as she worked, the scarlet dye soaking into her white dress. The sun finally began to set, crickets chirping and frogs croaking in the distance. Her entire body was coated in sweat and grime.
She set the cleaning pail down and stepped back toward the church.
Rowan was waiting for her.
He leaned against a tree, cigarette smoke curling from his lips. She felt a surge of fury rise in her chest. She stormed toward him, pointing toward the barn with trembling fingers.
"You think this is funny?" she snapped. "Someone left a lamb posed like one of those girls—Psalm 51 carved above it."
Rowan's brow furrowed. His dark hair fell across his eyes.
"But you still think it was me, don't you?" he said bitterly.
Sweat shimmered on both of them. The summer heat was relentless—like a pressure cooker. Nothing stayed buried for long. The air between them crackled.
"You look at me like I'm the devil," he said coldly.
"Because you make it so damn easy." Her chest rose and fell with rage.
Rowan's hands twitched—like he wanted to grab her or shove her away. But he did neither. He just stood there, eyes narrowed.
Eden knew she wasn't simply involved anymore. She was being targeted.
Rowan always looked like he was holding something back. Their eyes stayed locked, tension drawn taut between them.
Her lips curled.
God, how she hated him.
He'd soiled her reputation. Took pleasure in her pain. She knew if he saw the way they talked about her, he'd just lean back and smile—like it was exactly what she deserved.