Page 33 of The Queen's Box

He was flanked by two men in neatly pressed shirts and bolo ties. One wore a silver cross on his belt buckle. The other carried a well-worn Bible in the crook of his arm.

Willow drew up short.

“Miss Braselton,” said the older man, his voice smooth with authority. “I’m Deacon Cotter. This here is Deacon Moore.”

Moore nodded, polite as a knife.

Willow’s stomach dropped. “I—hi.”

“We’re from Heaven’s Gate Revival,” Cotter said. “We understand you might be related to Lem and Elizabeth Whitmire.”

Willow blinked. “I don’t—I mean, I know the name. That’s all.”

Moore smiled. “Your mother’s Mercy? Mercy Braselton?”

“That makes you the Whitmires’ granddaughter,” said Cotter.

“They’re dead,” Willow said. Her heart was a kick drum, desperate to burst free.

“Their family is still here,” said Cotter.

Moore chuckled expansively. “We’reallfamily here.”

“And we look after our own. Especially when one of them—a lost sheep, you might say—comes wandering home.”

Willow took a step back.

Jefferson looked down.

“They’re worried about you, Miss Braselton,” Moore said gently. “We all are.”

Willow forced a smile. “That’s really kind, but I’m fine. Just... passing through.”

“Passing through Hemridge without telling anyone? Folks don’t do that,” Cotter said. He narrowed the gap between them. “And the things you’ve been asking about—Wrenna Bratton, that old box—it’s stirred up concern.”

“It’s research. That’s all.”

Moore gave her a sympathetic look. “You know, sometimes when young people dig too deep, they get... unbalanced. Overwrought. We’ve seen it before.”

Willow’s pulse skittered.

“That’s why we’d like you to come with us,” Cotter suggested. “Just to talk. To make sure everything’s all right.”

Willow felt small and scared, the way she’d felt too many times before. Powerless. Cornered. Her feet didn’t move, her breath wouldn’t come. But this time, in the instant where fear should have taken hold, something inside her shifted—no, opened, like a hinge creaking wide, no longer afraid of the noise it made.

“No,” she said.

She heard her own voice—low, certain—and knew it wasn’t just her voice that had changed. It was her.

She squared her shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Jefferson opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Miss Braselton,” Moore said. “It’s not a request.”

She turned to bolt, but Cotter was already there, barring the path. Moore moved to her left. Her exit points collapsed like snapped matchsticks.

“You can’t do this,” she said, the words hot with fury.

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